The Perilous Journey (12 page)

“Not right now,” he said, with a significant look at a portly company owner who had just appeared on deck. “Sorry, but that fellow might be displeased to see something so irregular as a girl with a trained falcon. We’ll call her down later, if you don’t mind. At any rate, it would be uncivil of us to interrupt her meal, don’t you think?”

Kate was disappointed, but she followed obligingly enough when Cannonball led them belowdecks, where the howl of the wind abruptly ceased and they were able to speak in normal voices. (Or, for Cannonball, what passed as a normal voice.) “Care to see the security hold?” he asked. “Cargo containers are awfully dull stuff for a tour, I know. But the security hold’s something special!”

The children did, of course, want to see the security hold, so Cannonball took them down into the depths of the ship. They passed several scurrying crew members and a phalanx of security guards before coming to a thick metal door with a round, spoked handle on it like that of a bank vault. At a word from Cannonball, one of the guards rather begrudgingly opened the door to let them enter, then positioned himself in the doorway to watch their every movement. The security hold was surprisingly large, almost the size of a tennis court. Its walls were lined with lockers, chests, and safes.

“The great thing about the security hold,” Cannonball told them, “is that it can be locked from the inside, and it’s big enough that we could cram the whole crew in here if necessary.”

“Why would you do that?” asked Reynie.

“In case of attack,” said Cannonball in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s just an added measure of protection. That’s one reason the company owners are so pleased about the
Shortcut.
With a ship this fast and a security hold like this, there’s no chance of losing your precious cargo to pirates.”

“Pirates!” Constance exclaimed. “You must be joking!”

Kate laughed. “I think you have your centuries mixed up, Cannonball.”

“Wrong you are!” said Cannonball. “Of course modern pirates don’t hoist the skull and crossbones, and it’s not as common as it used to be, but there’s still a good bit of piracy around the world. Costs companies a pretty penny.”

“In fact,” Sticky interjected, “last year, piracy cost the global economy over thirty billion dollars.”

Cannonball’s eyes bulged with delight, and once again he grabbed Sticky and hugged him. “Listen to him talk about piracy and global economy! Now how in the world did you know that?”

“Sticky reads a lot,” Reynie said.

“And it all sticks in his head,” Kate said. “That’s why he has the nickname.”

“You don’t say!” said Cannonball, chuckling. “Why, I’ve never met —”

The guard in the doorway cleared his throat impatiently. “How long is this going to take, Cannonball?”

“Hard to say,” Cannonball said, giving the guard a withering look. “And you can call me Officer Shooter.” He turned away from the man and crossed his eyes at the children, who tried not to laugh. “At any rate, you don’t have to worry about pirates. These shipping lanes never see any attacks. But the bul — that is, the company owners want to know they can ship things overseas with absolute security.”

“Like those diamonds,” Constance said.

Cannonball stole a nervous glance at the guard, who was speaking into his radio and seemed not to have heard. “Yes, well, ahem. Let’s not discuss those in present company, all right? I’m not entirely sure you’re supposed to know about them, if you see what I mean.”

“I’ll tell them,” the guard muttered into his radio. He put it away and said, “Tour’s over, people. Everyone out.”

“Well, since you ask so nicely,” said Cannonball, and with a wink at the children he led them out.

After the tour, the children returned to their cabin to eat their suppers, which Cannonball went to fetch for them. He’d thought they might join the crew for their meals, he said. But the owners had already expressed irritation at the presence of children on the ship, and Captain Noland, with apologies, had sent word for them to keep to their quarters.

“I can’t believe the nerve of those people,” Constance said as they waited. “They treat the captain like their servant — and us like rats. We’re starving down here!”

“That’s probably what they’re hoping for,” said Reynie.

“As long as we’re waiting,” Kate said, going to the door, “I’m off to the head.”

Constance looked confused. “The head?”

“Ship-talk for ‘bathroom,’” said Kate as she went out.

“Why not call it what it is?” Constance grumbled. “Just keep it a toilet, no grand names to spoil it.”

“You think ‘the head’ is a grand name?” Reynie asked.

“Poetic license,” Constance said haughtily, as Sticky smirked and rolled his eyes. “If you boys can come up with a better rhyme to express my annoyance, feel free.”

The boys were still trying to come up with better rhymes when Cannonball returned from the galley. “I’m afraid Kate hasn’t found her sea legs,” he said, handing out sandwiches and bottles of soda. “I overheard her in the head as I passed by. Sick as a dog, poor thing. Retching and gagging for all she’s worth.”

“That can’t be Kate,” Sticky said. “She wasn’t sick at all when she left.”

Reynie masked a smile. He thought he knew what Kate had been up to. “I’ll check on her, just in case,” he said, going out. He met Kate in the narrow passageway outside the cabin. Sure enough, her face was flushed and sweaty, and she was stomping along in obvious frustration. She saw Reynie and tried to look natural, but it was too late. His amusement was too plain.

“Not a word,” she said, brushing past him.

“Still no luck?” Reynie said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kate said without looking back.

As Cannonball had other duties to attend to, the children ate their supper alone. Afterward Kate placed her bucket beneath the porthole so that Reynie and Sticky could stand on it and look out. A nearly full moon had risen over the ocean, its reflection shimmering on the water. It was a lovely sight, and Kate offered to lift Constance up to see for herself. But Constance was lying on her bunk, gazing at her pendant, and said she wasn’t in the mood.

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.”

Partly out of curiosity, and partly because she loved Mr. Benedict even though she was furious with him, Constance looked up. Mr. Benedict had removed his spectacles and was looking steadily at her with his bright green eyes. Constance’s first reaction was to wonder if he was about to fall asleep; her second was to wonder why she’d wondered that.

“You often pretend not to know certain things,” said Mr. Benedict, “because you don’t see how you possibly could know them, and this disturbs you. But you do know things, Constance, and right now I want you to pay attention to that fact. When you looked up at me just now, I saw a question in your eyes. You formed an opinion, did you not, about what I was feeling or thinking?”