The truth was that Constance was suffering a great deal. Ever since that morning, when the dreadful message was delivered, she had felt caught up in a whirlwind of emotions, and there was no sign of her coming down anytime soon. It was no wonder. For the last year of her life she had relied completely upon Mr. Benedict — and a year was a very long time indeed to Constance, who had been around for so few to begin with.
Now Mr. Benedict was gone, perhaps never to be seen again, and Constance found herself anguishing over his disappearance as much for what he had not been to her as for what he had. What Mr. Benedict had been was Constance’s affectionate guardian and emotional anchor. What he had not been was her father — not yet, at least, and Constance keenly felt the lack. She could never express why this was so, not even to herself, but she had long believed that becoming Mr. Benedict’s adopted daughter would transform her world, would make her something other than a lost and wandering oddity of a girl. Now she may well have lost her chance.
As it often did, this line of thinking brought to Constance’s mind a particular early morning discussion that had occurred a few months prior. The memory was quite vivid, not least for how it began, with Mr. Benedict and Number Two entering the dining room just as Constance was sleepily finishing her cereal. Their appearance made for a striking combination of green, yellow, and red — Mr. Benedict wore his green plaid suit as usual; and Number Two’s rusty red hair was set off, also as usual, by a yellow outfit — and to Constance’s bleary eyes the two of them together looked like a traffic light painted by Picasso.
“I don’t even like Picasso,” she muttered by way of greeting.
“Good morning to you, too!” Mr. Benedict said as Number Two began to lay out a variety of charts and folders.
“Not again,” Constance protested. “It’s too early.” She didn’t feel like speaking yet, much less submitting to another of Mr. Benedict’s curious exercises. He’d given her some kind of odd task almost every day since she’d moved in.
Mr. Benedict grinned and slid his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. “I’m afraid now is the best time, my dear.”
“I’m eating breakfast.”
“Your cereal bowl is empty,” Number Two pointed out. “There’s only milk left.”
Constance wanted to argue with this, but finding she could not she said, “Why do I have to keep doing these exercises, anyway? Is there some stupid law that requires it?”
“Forgive me, I thought we’d discussed this,” said Mr. Benedict, feigning surprise, for of course they had discussed this before, and more than once. He took a seat at the table, and then — only then — the watchful Number Two sat down. Looking a bit faint, she took a handful of almonds from her pocket and popped them into her mouth.
“As your unofficial guardian,” said Mr. Benedict, “I consider myself responsible for your education. That is the reason for all these tiresome exercises. Legally we’re obligated to do nothing. The law does not yet figure in.”
“Because I’m not legally adopted yet?” Constance said.
“That’s part of it,” said Mr. Benedict. “It’s actually rather complicated.”
Constance looked away. She had never openly expressed any special desire to be adopted by Mr. Benedict, and she always felt embarrassed to discuss it. Her impatience was finally winning out over her embarrassment, however. She happened to know that Reynie’s adoption by Miss Perumal had been made official two months ago, but for some reason her own situation hadn’t changed, and Constance had begun to suspect that Mr. Benedict was reconsidering. “What do you mean by ‘complicated,’ exactly?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “I mean, why haven’t I been adopted yet?”
Running a hand through his rumpled white hair (which as usual looked as though it had been groomed with a toothless comb), Mr. Benedict sighed and said, “Technicalities, Constance. You see, according to official records, you do not exist. Oh, I know you probably think you do — and I, for one, agree — but officially you do not. My challenge, then, is to prove your existence to the proper authorities, who apparently are unconvinced by the actual fact of your living, breathing body. Perhaps this is because there is so little of you to offer as evidence. I can’t say for sure.”
Here Mr. Benedict paused, searching Constance’s expression for signs of mirth. They often enjoyed jokes no one else found funny, and Mr. Benedict tended to use humor to defuse Constance’s explosive moods. But this time she only frowned, and Mr. Benedict cleared his throat and quickly continued. “At any rate, the authorities wish to see official paperwork — paperwork which, like yourself, appears not to exist. So you see we face certain obstacles. I’m confident, however, that once your existence has been established, the adoption process will go smoothly. In the meantime, you should consider yourself part of this family whether the law does or not.”
But this did not satisfy Constance at all. “What about the Whisperer?”
Mr. Benedict raised an eyebrow. “The Whisperer?”
“You can use it on me to figure out where I came from! You redesigned it so it can retrieve memories, right? So do that with me! We can find out where I was born, who my parents were —”
Mr. Benedict shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that right now.”
Constance was growing extremely agitated. “Why? Because the officials won’t let you? What about hypnosis, then? Milligan said you’re good at it. So hypnotize me! We could find out . . . we could really find out . . .”
She trailed off, discouraged by Mr. Benedict’s expression. She could tell he was going to refuse her. She could also tell he hated to do so, but her impatience prevented her from focusing on this, and she crossed her arms and glared at him. Number Two was looking back and forth between them, shifting uneasily in her seat and trying to chew her almonds without making too much noise.
“Constance,” Mr. Benedict said gently, “I have doubts about whether hypnosis — or even the Whisperer — would work in your case. The minds of most two-year-olds are incapable of creating long-term memories. They simply haven’t developed enough yet. Most people remember nothing about their toddler years.”
“I’m three and a half,” Constance said indignantly, “and besides, my mind is hardly typical. Isn’t that the point of all these stupid exercises?”
“You were two when you came to me,” Mr. Benedict reminded her. “And yes, it’s possible your gifts reflect development that would enable you — with assistance — to recall your past. But I don’t believe you’re prepared for what you might learn. In fact I cannot allow it. There is every indication, Constance, that whatever circumstances led you to find yourself alone at such a young age will be traumatic for you to remember. When you’re older, perhaps. At the moment I feel compelled to protect you from any such trauma. You and your friends have been through quite enough already, and lest you forget, you are still very young indeed.”
“Fine, so you can’t adopt me, and you won’t do anything to make it happen,” Constance growled. She felt deeply wounded. “Sorry I brought it up. Let’s just get on with your dumb tests.”
“Look at me, Constance,” Mr. Benedict said.
Constance averted her eyes.
“My dear,” said Mr. Benedict softly, almost in a whisper, “one of your gifts is abundantly clear to me, if not to yourself, and I am going to help you call upon it now. I wouldn’t ask it of you if it weren’t important, for I know very well how unnerving you find all this. It is important, though. So please, Constance. Look at me.”