“As you see, I’ve designed an excellent remote control,” said Mr. Curtain, showing them a tiny control box he’d been hiding behind his back. “S.Q., put him with the others. Be careful, now — I’m convinced he sometimes only pretends to be asleep.”
S.Q. removed Mr. Benedict from the wheelchair, propped him gently against the stalagmite, and handcuffed one of his wrists to the other metal loop. As S.Q. worked, Mr. Curtain was taking his accustomed place in the wheelchair, which appeared to be his old one — a complicated machine with multiple knobs, buttons, and pedals — but which obviously had undergone certain alarming modifications.
“I imagine he worked himself into a sleeping fit trying to warn you,” Mr. Curtain said in an amused tone. “He’s been in a sorry state of distress ever since Martina reported you were on the island, and his distress only increased when S.Q. spotted you coming up the mountain and I arranged to take advantage of your foolishness. Oh, he protested at the top of his lungs! Or I should say he appeared to. I had activated my new device by then, so his annoying cries went unheard.”
“Noise cancellation?” murmured Sticky in surprise. “But no one’s ever achieved it on such a scale . . .” He fell silent, not having meant to speak in the first place.
Mr. Curtain had overheard him, though, and he raised his eyebrows. “I see you’ve kept up with your reading, George! Yes, I’ve installed a brand new device — one of my own invention and thus vastly superior to anything else of its kind — that nullifies all sound in its immediate vicinity. I’m well-versed in the manipulation of invisible waveforms, as you know. Indeed, compared to my Whisperer, this project was no more challenging than . . .” Mr. Curtain trailed off with a chuckle. “But I digress. The point is, you couldn’t hear Benedict shouting, and I’ve no doubt he upset himself to sleep.”
“How come we can hear you talking?” Constance said. “It would be nice if we couldn’t.”
Mr. Curtain twitched, which was the first sign of annoyance he had shown. “I deactivated the device, Constance, with the push of a button. If you were more attentive, you would know that.”
“I’m attentive enough to see you’re as nasty as ever,” Constance retorted. Her long-anticipated reunion with Mr. Benedict, occurring under such upsetting circumstances, had produced in her a very agitating mix of relief, concern, and fear — emotions she naturally expressed with angry defiance. In fact she was about to deliver an insulting rhyme when Mr. Curtain silenced her with a threatening look.
“S.Q.,” Mr. Curtain said, “be a good fellow — by which I mean not quite such a blundering fool — and take a few steps away from Miss Wetherall. I dislike the way she’s eyeing the key in your hand.”
Having locked Mr. Benedict near the children, S.Q. had lingered unthinkingly close by. At Mr. Curtain’s warning, he shoved the key deep into his pocket and backed away from Kate with a look of disbelief. At the Institute he’d been fond of the children, and despite all that had happened, S.Q. found that he was comfortable with them — and far too trusting. He shook his head angrily. “You should be ashamed!”
“I was only admiring how well you handled that key,” Kate said. “I think you’ve gotten less clumsy, S.Q.!”
S.Q. brightened. “Do you think so?”
“S.Q.!” Mr. Curtain snapped. “Be silent, and bring the smelling salts from the table.”
“Should I bring the serum, too?” S.Q. asked, hurrying to the table.
“Absolutely not. As I’ve told you repeatedly, you are never to touch it. The serum’s too precious to trust in your awkward paws, S.Q. You should know that.”
“I was just thinking about what Kate said, about how I seem to be —”
Mr. Curtain rubbed his forehead. “She was lying to you, S.Q. It was the key she was admiring, not your skill with it. Now wake up Benedict, move away, and for the last time, be silent.”
S.Q. obediently passed the smelling salts beneath Mr. Benedict’s nose. Mr. Benedict sniffed, started, and suddenly looked up. His green eyes, normally so clear and bright, were terribly bloodshot and rimmed with red — he seemed exhausted beyond measure — but they flashed with joy when they fell upon the children, only to grow troubled when he perceived their predicament. “Ah,” Mr. Benedict said ruefully, pushing up his spectacles with his free hand. “How good it is to see you, my friends, and how I wish you hadn’t come.”
“They’ve come to save you, Benedict!” cried Mr. Curtain. “They sneaked into my Salamander and raced to your rescue! Aren’t they doing a fine job?”
“I think they’ve done admirably,” Mr. Benedict said; then turning to S.Q., he added, “S.Q., you know I don’t mind having you close by, but I imagine my brother would prefer you to stand a bit farther away from his prisoners.”
“I’ve told you never to call me that!” Mr. Curtain snarled as S.Q. hastily retreated. “You are not my brother! A brother would not have ruined years of my work! A brother would not have taken away that which I prized most! My brother? No, Benedict, you are decidedly not my brother!”
“And yet we do look rather alike,” Mr. Benedict pointed out.
Mr. Curtain pressed his lips so tightly together the color left them; and his knuckles, too, went white from clenching the arms of his wheelchair. Spinning around so that his back was to Mr. Benedict — the chair moved noiselessly; he must have triggered its silencing device — Mr. Curtain took several deep breaths. (No one could hear him, but his shoulders rose and fell dramatically with each breath.) The fact of his kinship to Mr. Benedict was clearly upsetting to him, just as it once had been — and perhaps still was — to Mr. Benedict. A year had passed since each had discovered a long-lost brother and a formidable enemy at the exact same time, and Mr. Curtain had evidently spent every moment of it cultivating his bitterness.
Regaining his composure, he turned back to face Mr. Benedict. His mouth began to move, but no sound came out. With an irritated grimace, he pressed a button on the controller in his hand and started again. “Very well,” he said. “I will acknowledge that you are my brother — a brother who ruined my ambitions and is thus the very worst kind of traitor. Are you satisfied?”
Mr. Benedict opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Curtain cut him off.
“That was a rhetorical question, Benedict. I do not care in the least if you are satisfied or not.” He rolled his eyes and moved a little closer in his wheelchair. “And now to business. Since you have slept through recent developments, Benedict, allow me to apprise you of the situation. I had hoped these children would know about the duskwort, but by their own account they do not. Therefore —”
Mr. Benedict interrupted him. “I’ve told you repeatedly, Ledroptha, that if you’d only release Number Two and me, I would make sure you were informed about the duskwort. That offer still stands. Once my friends and I are safely out of reach, I promise to have the information sent to you.”
“I know what you offered,” Mr. Curtain said irritably. “And yet even if I trusted you, Benedict, the offer wouldn’t exactly suit my plans. I am not going to let you go. I am not ever going to let you go.”
“Won’t I grow awfully cumbersome?” Mr. Benedict said. “I hate to be a burden.”
Mr. Curtain sneered. “You joke, but the jokes will soon end. No, you will not be cumbersome. I don’t intend to let you go, but I don’t intend to keep you around, either. I intend to replace you.”