Kate snickered. “‘Inclined to accept.’ What gumption. Hey, you’re making those too big. Try to make them about this size.” She displayed one of her perfectly formed spheres to Reynie, then scooped up more snow with her new bucket (a gift from Milligan — it was exactly like her old one).
“Kate! Reynie! Are you ready for ignominious defeat?” shouted Rhonda from across the courtyard.
“Defeat? We know not the word!” Kate shouted back, then whispered to Reynie, “Actually, ‘ignominious’ is the word I don’t know.”
“Shameful,” Reynie said.
“Hey, I can’t know every word, Mr. Smarty. For crying out loud, how —”
“No, ‘ignominious’ means shameful.”
“It does?” Kate said. She frowned with passionate defiance. She was as happy as she had ever been. “The beasts! We’ll see about that. Do you remember our strategy?”
Reynie rolled his eyes. “How could I forget? You barrage them with snowballs while I run out and gather all the ones they’ve thrown, so as to keep our pile from running low.”
“Yes, and repack them to the proper size while you’re at it,” Kate said.
“Would you mind terribly if I threw an occasional snowball myself? That is part of the fun, you know.”
Kate sighed. “I hate to waste a snowball, but I suppose there’s always the chance you’ll hit something. Fine, you can throw some.”
“Much obliged,” Reynie said.
Moments later the courtyard erupted into a melee of flung snowballs, scurrying children, and peals of laughter. More laughter sounded from behind the windows of the house, where all the adults, including Miss Perumal and the Washingtons, sipped apple cider and watched the gleeful battle below. Mr. Benedict laughed so hard, in fact — a great, long, series that sounded like an entire school of dolphins — that Number Two hurried over to snatch the hot cider just as he went limp in sleep. He awoke minutes later only to laugh himself to sleep again, and so he continued, laughing and sleeping and laughing again, all afternoon, until at last he slipped into a prolonged slumber. When he awoke a final time to Number Two’s gentle shaking of his shoulder, Mr. Benedict saw that the day had grown noticeably darker.
“It’s dusk and we’ve called them in twice already,” Number Two told him. “Can’t you urge them to come inside at once? Dinner’s growing cold.”
“Soon, Number Two, soon,” said Mr. Benedict, casting an affectionate look first at her, then at the giddy, happy children beyond the window. “Have a snack, why don’t you? Sneak a bowl of the stew — I won’t tell anyone — but let’s give them a few minutes more. They’ll be so cold that even lukewarm victuals will seem piping hot to them. Just a few minutes more, Number Two. Let them play. They are children, after all.”
And this was certainly true, if only for the moment.
Dear Reader,
It has come to my attention that certain individuals wish to know my first name. If you are one of these, and if you are acquainted with the code, then I assure you the answer lies within your grasp.
Best regards,
Mr. Benedict
Acknowledgments
Many good people helped this book along the way (in not a few cases by buoying its author), and they deserve far more than an expression of my gratitude, but here they shall have at least that: I would like to thank Sara Curtis, for encouraging me before I began; Mark Barr, Todd Kimm, and Lisa Taggart, for their thoughtful and valuable comments on early drafts; Eric Simonoff and Kate Schafer, for spectacular agentry; Megan Tingley, Nancy Conescu, and Noel De La Rosa, for their faith in the book and dedication to making it better; Mary O’Connell, Chris Adrian, Diane Perry, Nicola Mason, Michael Griffith, Brock Clarke, Kenner Estes, and Shannon and David Collier-Tenison, for their generosity of spirit; Elaine Price, for minding the front while I minded the books; my wife, Sarah Beth Estes, for her helpful opinions on multiple drafts, not to mention braving fire and rain; and my son Elliot, for being Elliot—which is to say, for making everything fine.