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All in all, these last few days at Mr. Benedict’s house had turned out to be more than he’d ever dreamed of. When the horde of agents had arrived at the prison to haul Mr. Curtain away, SQ had tried to follow too. He had declared that he was turning himself in with Mr. Curtain, after all, and he intended to stick to his word. But Mr. Benedict had placed a hand on his shoulder with a gentle, weary Let him go, SQ. And SQ, who was quite weary himself, had allowed the older man to lead him away.
Mr. Benedict’s firm hand on his shoulder had led him through the destroyed prison, through the cluttered courtyard, where various Ten Men as well as that agent they were always grumbling about—what was his name, again? Mulligan? Million?—were being loaded onto stretchers. Mr. Benedict led him all the way to a waiting van. The children climbed in after him: Sticky carrying Constance, Reynie with a very thoughtful and serious expression, and a disgruntled Kate Wetherall, who had failed to leap into the ambulance with her father.
Then, the doors slid shut, and the van rolled away from Third Island Prison.
The drive back to Stonetown was relatively short, made shorter only by the fact that SQ dozed off halfway through. He assumed they’d be dropping him off Stonetown Prison before the van brought the kids back to Mr. Benedict’s house. It was certainly nice of Mr. Benedict to offer him a ride. Perhaps he wanted to spare SQ the discomfort of Mr. Curtain glowering at him the whole way if he had rode back with the agents.
But no—when SQ opened his eyes, they were in front of a charming old house with sprawling ivy and a twisting iron fence dotted with roses. This building did not resemble any prison SQ had ever seen—though admittedly, he had only seen one, and a deserted one at that. And from the way the other occupants climbed out of the van as if they belonged there, SQ concluded that this must be Mr. Benedict’s house.
The first few hours at Mr. Benedict’s house were nothing like he expected, and SQ still did not know what to make of it. He’d been one of Mr. Curtain’s most loyal associates, the last of the Executives. And yet he was received with nothing but warmth. After fussing over and hugging and kissing their own children, the crowd of shakily relieved parents immediately began to fuss over SQ as well. SQ blinked in confusion as a short older woman pinched his cheeks, as a tall man who was the spitting image of Sticky quietly ruffled his hair, as a muscular man with a flowery apron and a most impressive mustache set snack after snack on his plate. It was all very odd.
The next few days were much the same. No one snapped or snarled at him, even when he tripped over a stack of books and broke a vase in the sitting room. No one side-eyed him when he snuck an extra helping of lasagna. Several times one of the adults would ask him how he was doing, as if they actually wanted to know the answer. SQ replied each time that he was faring quite well, thank you, and ever so gratitudeful that they were allowing him to stay here, it was quite nice to have a roof over his shoulders again. But that always seemed to make the adults look distressed and upset for some reason, so perhaps it was the wrong answer.
And SQ—as much as he loved it here, in Mr. Benedict’s home, he considered it his own personal sort of tragedy. Now he knew what he could’ve had, and now he knew what he was going to sorely miss. It was temporary, after all. SQ wondered whether he’d reflect on these days once he was in his prison cell with joyfulness or with grief.
It ended long before SQ was ready.
One fine sunny morning less than a week after he’d arrived, Mr. Benedict called him into his study and informed him that he and Number Two would be making a trip to the prison.
SQ’s attention checked out at this. So, that was that. He had known this was coming, and now, he mentally scolded himself for his surprise.
You promised, he reminded himself. You told Mr. Curtain you would turn yourself in together. Now it’s time to face the bed and lie in it.
“SQ?”
SQ blinked. Mr. Benedict had been speaking, and he hadn’t remembered to pay attention. Mr. Curtain hated when he did that.
“Sorry, sir, I—”
“No need to be sorry, my dear boy. I only asked if you were ready to come to the prison now, or if you’d prefer to wait a while longer.”
SQ preferred to wait forever.
But—no. It was nice that Mr. Benedict was giving him a bit of a choice. But the longer he waited, SQ knew that the inevitable would become insurmountiful. He needed to go before he still had the resolve, before he had the chance to fall in love with this paradise of a home too much. It was now or never.
“I’m ready, sir.”
“SQ, are you sure?” Mr. Benedict looked concerned. “There’s no need to rush. You’ve only just gotten out of a very trying situation, if I do say so myself. You can take as long as you need. In fact, you have no obligation at all to—”
SQ wished desperately that Mr. Benedict could be a bit less kind.
“I’m sure of it, sir.”
“Very well, my dear,” Mr. Benedict sighed. “Would you like to meet us at the top of the maze in a half hour?”
A half hour seemed short, but it was plenty of time for SQ. He didn’t have much to pack; just a little sack filled with a worn jacket, some snacks he’d stashed away for later, and, of course, his Executive’s sash. He’d carried it with pride since the day he’d earned it. Now he carried it with a sense … of what, SQ wasn’t sure exactly. It felt a bit like loss. But he wasn’t quite ready to stop carrying the sash just yet.
Bag packed, all that was left to do was to say goodbye to the people that had treated him so kindly over the past few days.
He ran into Kate at the bottom of the staircase. Or, more accurately, Kate ran into him—well, slid. Down the bannister, to be precise. She eyed the sack in his hand. Kate, of course, carried most of her belongings in her bucket, so the addition of a sack signaled the start of some grand adventure, the type that required supplies that could not fit into her bucket. And so Kate immediately demanded to know where SQ was off to.
“The prison,” he replied at once, stunned at her perceptivity.
Kate blinked. Then she shrugged.
“The prison? Already? Good grief. Good luck, pal!”
And, with a smarting pat to SQ’s shoulder—not intended to be harsh, of course, that was simply how Kate was—she was gone.
SQ tried to quench the bubbling hurt in his belly. Kate was naturally breezy. Perhaps she simply wasn’t a fan of goodbyes. Besides, he’d see her again, when she visited him in prison. He sure hoped she’d visit. Kate was very conversationative. It would be something to pass the time.
Sticky and Reynie received the news with a tad more seriousness.
“Are you sure?” Reynie asked him. “So soon?”
SQ nodded. “I’m rea—yeah. It’s time.”
Sticky looked anxious. Then again, Sticky always looked anxious. The boys both gave him hugs. They were short-lasting, but Reynie squeezed nice and tight around his shoulders, and that was everything SQ could have asked for, really. Then they, too, went on their way.
Constance stuck her tongue out at him. He gave her a cheerful wave.
The adults received the news in much the same way as Reynie and Sticky—concerned, mildly upset, worried—but ultimately, they too gave SQ quick pats and went back to their various tasks. Moocho’s hug was the longest—he actually swept SQ off his feet—but then again, Moocho always seemed to express affection like that. He’d hugged SQ like this many times in the few days he’d been at the Benedict household. He even promised to bake a pie for SQ when he got back, which was incredibly kind of him. (He had no idea if Moocho would even remember him by the time he got out—or if he would be getting out at all. He’d neglected to ask Mr. Benedict how long his sentence would be. But SQ wasn’t sure if he could handle that information today, if he wanted to keep his nerve. Perhaps another time.)
Then, SQ’s oversized, clumsy feet tripped their way to the top of the maze, where Mr. Benedict and Number Two were waiting.
And then, with a last long look back at the rose-covered fence, at the ivy—they were off.
Once again, SQ was silent throughout most of the car ride, although he was far too jittery to doze off. Instead, he sat straight upright, jerking forward each time his head bumped the headrest, as if he would be able to make a more favorable first impression by not slouching. Mr. Benedict and Number Two chattered throughout the journey, which felt far longer than the trip into Stonetown. Although whether that was due to SQ dozing off last time, the fact that they were navigating snarled city streets instead of open highway, or simply due to his dread of what would happen when they arrived at their destination, SQ wasn’t sure.
Eventually he gathered himself and piped up to ask Mr. Benedict a question that had been bouncing around his mind for the last few days. “Will the other Executives be there at the prison, sir?”
“Hm?”
“You know,” SQ said, fiddling with a hangnail on his ring finger before catching himself. “Jackson, Jillson, Martina—”
“Oh! No, dear boy—did no one fill you in?” Mr. Benedict glanced over his shoulder at SQ, who gave a tiny shake of the head. “No, the other Executives were released as soon as we were certain that my brother and his men were secure. We’ve found housing for them now—with as much support as we can give them, and in secret locations to protect them, of course. I would have had them released earlier, but …”
Here Mr. Benedict gave a long, heavy sigh, as if this was something that had been weighing on his mind for ages, but he was only able to speak of it now. “I gave them as many chances as I could. I offered to restore their memories with the Whisperer; they refused that. I offered them the opportunity to live under house arrest with some of Milligan’s agents—well trained ones, of course, that Milligan deemed to be good with teenagers and yet had no family that could be endangered. They said they preferred to stay in juvenile prison. I’ve done my best to respect their wishes—on everything but their therapy sessions, of course, that was mandatory by court order, but …” Here Mr. Benedict paused and ran a hand through his hair. “I must admit, it has been rather difficult to watch so helplessly.”
Number Two reached over from the driver’s seat and gently slapped his elbow. “Enough of that. You did all you could.”
In the backseat, SQ thought of his own discovery mere days ago that Mr. Curtain had meddled with his mind a bit, manipulated and erased some of his memories. Who knows how many.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly. “Perhaps they didn’t want you to restore their memories because they were afraid of what you might uncover. Sir.”
Mr. Benedict looked intently at him in the rearview mirror for a long moment.
Then he tapped his nose and pointed. “Very astute, SQ. I think you might be onto something there.”
Silence fell again. In the backseat, SQ resumed picking at the hangnail on his ring finger. He had hoped that he might run into the other Executives in prison—not as allies of course, he doubted that they’d step in if someone else decided to harass him; simply as familiar faces—but it was nice to hear that they seemed to be getting back on their feet.
A small, jealous part of SQ trembled at the fact that the other Executives seemed to be released as soon as Mr. Curtain was under control, as if they were only being held for their own safety; whereas SQ was about to be locked up for an indeterminate amount of time even though he had surrendered, in a way that clearly signaled that this was meant to be a punishment.
SQ quickly pushed that jealous part down with a small internal frown. Yes, this was meant to be a punishment. He’d made a fair amount of mistakes. The Executives had done their time; now it was his turn.
And with that final thought, the car rolled up at the prison.
The building could not have made for a less welcoming sight. Every visible surface was painted some monotony of grey, broken up only by bricks smeared with whitewash. Mr. Benedict led them into a stark waiting room, where SQ resumed picking at his nails for some time, shifting about on the stiff wooden benches.
This prison, as Mr. Benedict had explained earlier, was the highest security establishment in Stonetown, although there were plans to transfer Mr. Curtain and his men to the even more fortified Citadel up in Brig City after the rest of the Ten Men were released from the hospital. (It seemed as though Milligan had done quite a number on them.) The thought of the Ten Men made SQ nervous—he wasn’t quite sure how prisons worked, but he sorely hoped they wouldn’t be allowed to wander around the cells as they pleased. He didn’t think the Ten Men would take too kindly to his last-minute dissertation from Mr. Curtain.
The thought of moving to Brig City … well, that didn’t quite make SQ nervous, exactly, just rather … adrift. He hoped against hope he wouldn’t be transferred away with the rest of Curtain’s men. He wanted to stay here, anchored in Stonetown, where Mr. Benedict and the others could easily visit him. If they wanted to visit him, of course. The thought of being brought far away, away out into the big world where he knew no one and nobody, brought back the familiar anxious uncertainty he’d felt when a disheveled Mr. Curtain had first snapped at the Executives to pack their bags, they’d be fleeing from the Institute in five minutes.
Before SQ could spiral down memory lane, a bored-looking uniformed official came out to greet them. SQ instantly curled his picked-raw fingernails into his palms and straightened his shoulders. Best to make a favorable first impression.
The next few minutes were a flurry of security checks and verbal questionnaires. The official posed the majority of her questions to Mr. Benedict and Number Two; indeed, she only gave SQ a perfunctory polite nod, as though she didn’t mean to be unkind but simply had too many security checks to get through to spend time exchanging pleasantries with a teenager. The official sent them through a metal detector as she poked through SQ’s sack. He couldn’t quite suppress a frown as she tossed his snacks into a nearby garbage bin. They weren’t fancy snacks or anything—just some crackers—but SQ had learned early on during his fugitive travels that snacks must be stockpiled and guarded.
Then, as though she had recited her spiel thousands of times before then, the official ran through the visiting policies. SQ perked up his ears at this. Explaining the visiting policies the moment he arrived at the prison? This could be a good sign. Perhaps it signaled that Mr. Benedict intended to visit him relatively soon. And, even if not, at least he and Number Two knew how it was done and could plan a visit later if they wanted.
Then, the uniformed official herded the trio down a few winding whitewashed hallways into a modestly sized room. It was rather plain: tile floors, two doors (one at each opposing end of the room), three plastic chairs closest to the door they’d entered from; another, sturdier chair facing the three. SQ wondered who the extra chair was for. Perhaps there was some sort of intake warden who would direct them through the process?
Another long wait in silence, broken only by the sound of Number Two taking an apple out of her pocket and crunching on it as she chewed—she had spent several minutes haggling with the uniformed official for a medical exemption to bring her snacks into the prison. SQ, having picked all the nails on his right hand clean until they stung, moved onto his left hand. He kept his gaze firmly on a spot on the tile, trying to make out shapes in the swirling floor patterns—that dark blob there could be a flower; another one, Kate’s bucket. He glanced up only once to side-eye Mr. Benedict. The man wore a thoughtful, almost somber expression; his usual cheery jollity was quite subdued.
At long last, just when the tension was becoming unbearable—the door on the opposite side of the room creaked open. Two more uniformed officials stepped over the threshold. Once again, SQ straightened automatically, curling his stinging nails tight into his palms—
And behind the guards came Mr. Curtain.
He looked relatively the same as when SQ had seen him last week, although perhaps a bit more tired, a bit more worn. Most notable were the addition of handcuffs binding his arms in front of his chest. But the man still wore the same green plaid suit—SQ wondered why he’d been allowed to keep it instead of being compelled to change into some sort of prison uniform. His shock of white hair was neatly combed as always; his face clean-shaven.
SQ’s mind whirled, trying to make sense of everything. Why on earth would Mr. Curtain be here, when SQ was being dropped off to serve his prison sentence?
His immediate thought—indeed, his immediate hope—was that perhaps Mr. Curtain wished to visit him before SQ was escorted to his cell. Mr. Curtain was a high-security prisoner, right? Perhaps he wasn’t allowed to visit other prisoners and wished to take the chance to see SQ now?
But SQ immediately dismissed the thought as preposterful. Mr. Curtain would never take time out of his day to chit-chat with SQ. There must be some other reason the man was here.
Then, Mr. Benedict spoke—”Ah, good to see you, Ledroptha. I trust you are well under the circumstances?”—and the reason clicked. Mr. Benedict wished to visit his brother (and, of course, Number Two was here to tag along by extension); it was simply convenient to do so while he was already here at the prison dropping SQ off. It was nice of Mr. Benedict to arrange the visit before SQ was to be taken away. (Although SQ knew that Mr. Curtain would never say the same.)
Indeed, the man fixed Mr. Benedict with such a venomous glare that SQ could not help but shrink away. Mr. Curtain’s glare passed over Number Two—she took another resounding bite of her apple without breaking eye contact—and, finally, landed on SQ. He offered a half-hearted attempt at a wave before his gaze dropped to the floor.
(But in that moment, SQ thought he glimpsed in Mr. Curtain’s glare something very curious indeed. Something not quite like wrath, something he’d only seen once before—seen only once as the children dragged him and Mr. Curtain out from under the crushed crane at Third Island Prison.)
Then the guards guided Mr. Curtain into the single empty chair, and the visit began.
It went about as well as SQ would’ve expected. Mr. Curtain snapped and snarled at Mr. Benedict; though he did eventually answer his inquiries into his health, if only to complain about the deplorable conditions within the prison. He completely ignored Number Two altogether, who seemed content to ignore him right back, focused as she was on her apple. Mr. Curtain called SQ several names, including a “blundering fool” more than once. SQ hardly even registered the insult; he was so used to it by now.
Barely registered, that is, until Number Two hissed—actually hissed—at Mr. Curtain. SQ swore he saw her eyes flash red for a second.
Mr. Benedict’s reaction was much more reserved, yet somehow far more frightening for the contained fury that hummed in his steady voice.
“That wasn’t a very kind thing to say to SQ, now, was it, Ledroptha?”
Mr. Curtain heard it too, underneath the overtone of a gently chiding schoolteacher. SQ saw him freeze, blink for a moment before he snarled at Mr. Benedict.
The insults did not disappear completely, although they did lessen as the visit went on.
But, of course, the fragile peace could only last so long, and the conversation between Mr. Curtain and his twin soon dissolved into an argument.
“Work together?” Mr. Curtain all but screeched. “Work—”
“Yes, Ledroptha, as I’ve said several times before,” Mr. Benedict responded wearily. “If you had given my offer even the slightest modicum of thought back on that island, you may not have ended up in this position now.”
“You dare to suggest that you put your grubby hands all over my precious inventions, let alone take credit for my—” Mr. Curtain’s face was an ugly shade of puce. He took a deep breath, took another, before whipping his head back to glare at the guards. “Take them away. I want them out of my sight right this instant.”
One of the guards let out a rather drained sigh. The other stepped forward to unfasten Mr. Curtain from his chair. “My apologies, sir, but I’m afraid we’ll have to cut the visit short. We can’t allow this to continue if the inmate no longer consents to—”
“Oh, by all means,” Mr. Benedict said mildly. “Of course I would never dream of holding my brother here against his will.”
SQ had no idea whether that was meant to be an insult of some sort—if so, Mr. Benedict’s placid expression wasn’t giving anything away—but either way, Mr. Curtain certainly interpreted it as one. Mr. Benedict’s statement released fresh torrents of shouting and cursing before he slumped to the ground, unconscious. As it turned out, it was much easier to remove Mr. Curtain from the room while he was asleep, and the guards quickly took advantage of this, offering tight nods to the trio as they backed out of the visiting room.
Mr. Benedict’s eyes followed them with a pained sort of expression. Then, he ran a hand through his rumpled white hair. “Well. That certainly went better than I expected.”
SQ blinked at him.
Number Two crunched the last bite of her apple and snorted. “About as well as we could hope for, really.”
“What did—how did you expect it to go?” SQ asked.
“Oh, well, I expected him to attempt to wring my neck, at the very least. Come, SQ. Let’s get out of here.”
And with that, the reality of why they were at the prison in the first place came roaring back. It had been all too easy to forget when he’d been attempting to make conversation with Mr. Curtain. SQ snatched his sack from underneath the chair and stood up, proud when his knees trembled but did not buckle. Then he followed Mr. Benedict and Number Two out of the visiting room.
He trailed a few paces behind the two adults. Though couldn’t quite seem to lift his gaze from the tiled floor, the pattern of the hallways seemed familiar; they were heading back the way they’d come.
Finally, they arrived back in the waiting room by the entrance to the prison. SQ shuffled his feet. Should he go up to the lady at the front desk? Would the uniformed officials come back for him? Was there some sort of check-in process?
He forced himself to raise his head, look Mr. Benedict in the eye, as the dreaded question of What now? —only to freeze in the middle of the waiting room with his mouth open. The lady at the front desk had not even glanced in his direction, and Mr. Benedict—Mr. Benedict was headed out the front door, Number Two right at his side.
SQ’s heart dropped like a stone, fell and splashed somewhere down by his clumsy feet.
They weren't—they weren’t even going to say goodbye?
He jammed his nails into his palms so tightly he knew they’d leave impressions hours later. That was—that was alright, SQ scolded himself, steadfastly ignoring the stinging he could already feel gathering under his eyelashes. That was alright. Mr. Benedict had done enough for him—giving him a ride home from Third Island Prison, giving him a safe place to stay these last few days, allowing him to visit Mr. Curtain before he went to his cell. The man had done enough. Besides, goodbyes were hard. Perhaps Mr. Benedict thought that having to say goodbye would be too difficult for SQ and was choosing to spare him that. He was a very kind man, after all.
Or perhaps, SQ wondered, blinking his eyes a bit more rapidly, perhaps not unlike Mr. Curtain, Mr. Benedict simply had more important things to—
No, said a new voice, so firmly it almost startled SQ. The voice came from somewhere unfamiliar—and yet, not completely alien. Yes, he’d heard this voice before, heard it out of his own mouth, in fact; not even a week ago, when he’d first looked Mr. Curtain in the eye and told the man No, no I won’t hurt these children, Mr. Curtain—
No, said the voice again. No, Mr. Benedict is not his twin. He would never leave you alone here without making sure you were all settled, without even saying goodbye to you. Then, still more firmly, gaining strength: Something is wrong.
And when Mr. Benedict turned in the vestibule to fix SQ with a puzzled expression, when Number Two (having held the door open for the last five seconds, expecting SQ to be right behind her, to no avail) followed suit, SQ knew that the firm, unfamiliar voice in his head was correct.
“SQ?” called Mr. Benedict gently.
He shifted his sack from one hand to another. “Should I go up to the front desk or … or should I just take a seat on one of these benches?”
Mr. Benedict and Number Two peered at him some more.
“Don’t you want to go home now, SQ?” Number Two asked him.
“Oh, of course I want to,” SQ admitted, all but forgetting that perhaps he shouldn’t co-opt the term home so casually. “More than—more than anything.”
Mr. Benedict squinted at him, perplexed. Then his eyebrows drew up tight. He settled a steadying hand on the door Number Two was still holding open, closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. SQ was startled by the expression he saw there—it seemed almost fearful, if Mr. Benedict could feel afraid.
(Dread? Yes, that seemed more accurate.)
“SQ,” Mr. Benedict said very slowly, dragging out every word as if that could delay his arrival at the end of the sentence, “Why do you think we’re here, at the prison, SQ?”
Number Two let out a quiet gasp. She brought a fist up to her mouth.
SQ blinked. “Why, you’re dropping me off, of course,” he said, confused. “So I can be—in order to be … what’s that word … incapacitated?”
“Incarcerated,” Number Two offered robotically.
“Right.” SQ swallowed hard. “Right. To be incarcerated.” He gave a tight, decisive nod to seal it.
Mr. Benedict looked heartbroken.
That was the only way SQ could describe it. Absolutely, completely devastated.
“You thought—” he began, voice small, “You thought we brought you here today to …”
He wobbled dangerously. Number Two let go of the door to steady him by the elbows—
But there was no need. Mr. Benedict straightened at once. He ran a hand through his hair. The exhaustion dragging across his face was plain.
“No,” he sighed, “I thank you for your caution, Number Two, but I must stay awake a little while longer. I sense there is a very serious conversation to be had at once that requires my fullest attention.”
“You can’t just decide not to fall a—” Number Two hissed, but Mr. Benedict waved her off. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he called, “SQ, won’t you come out to the car? I do believe that might be a more appropriate setting for this conversation.”
SQ glanced around. The lady at the front desk was peeking at the trio over her computer screen; a couple of officers were shooting them curious glances.
“Will that—” SQ caught himself, took a few hurried steps forward until he was within whispering range of Mr. Benedict, then tried again. “Will that be allowed? They’ll just let me walk out to the car for a few minutes?”
“I promise you, my dear boy, not one of these officials will raise the least complaint if you come out to the car with me,” Mr. Benedict reassured him.
SQ took a few more tentative steps towards the door, still half-convinced that the moment he crossed the threshold the officers would rush over and tackle him. But, as he took the door from the waiting Number Two and crossed into the vestibule, still nothing of the sort happened. SQ’s strides grew stronger, surer. He followed Mr. Benedict across the parking lot back to the car; Number Two brought up the rear, as if she were afraid he would try to turn around and run away. This puzzled SQ, for there really was nowhere to go behind him—except for back into the prison, where he would be returning in a few short minutes anyway.
Soon, they arrived at the car. Number Two climbed into her place in the driver’s seat. To SQ’s surprise, Mr. Benedict clambered to sit across from him in the backseat.
“There,” he sighed, taking off his spectacles and scrubbing both hands over his eyes. He looked older than SQ had ever seen him. “This is much more private.”
Then he resettled his spectacles and turned to face SQ. “SQ, my boy. It seems as though there has been a grave misunderstanding. I hope to clear it up at once—and, I hope once the confusion has been resolved, to offer my most heartfelt apologies for failing to recognize and address this misunderstanding before now. I can’t begin to imagine how stressful these last few days have been for you.”
“I must say, I’ve been on pins and tenterhooks. Sir.”
“No doubt you have,” Mr. Benedict sighed again. Still looking SQ directly in the eye, he continued: “Well, I suppose there’s no better way than to say it plainly, and say it all at once. SQ, we did not come here today to bring you to prison.”
SQ blinked.
“You—you didn’t? Then what—”
“Today’s visit was made with the purpose of visiting my brother,” Mr. Benedict continued. “When I called you into my office this morning, it was to invite you to come along on the visit, should you wish to see Mr. Curtain as well. I was operating on the assumption that you were on the same page. I see now that I neglected to explain the purpose of the visit, and for that I truly apologize.”
SQ scratched at a spot behind his ear. “Oh—uh, I’m quite sure you did explain quite thoroughfully, Mr. Benedict. Only I sort of zoned out as soon as I heard the word “prison,” so I believe I missed everything you said after that …”
Mr. Benedict nodded. “That makes perfect sense, SQ—and you have nothing to be sorry for, before you try to apologize. And, as one of the things I attempted to emphasize during that rather one-sided conversation was the fact that you bear no obligation to visit Mr. Curtain now—or ever, should you never wish to see the man again—I wish to offer another apology. I understand that you felt compelled to come along on this trip, thinking you were about to be taken into custody. I shudder to think that I may have inadvertently forced you to face my brother long before you felt ready—”
SQ was shaking his head before Mr. Benedict could finish his sentence. “I—that’s very nice of you to say, Mr. Benedict. But it’s unnecessary; I would have come anyways, had I known. Not that I could have known, of course—but see here,” he said, shifting tracks now. “If I’m not becoming incorporated today, then when am I—”
“Never,” Number Two piped up sharply from the driver’s seat.
SQ blinked at her. She met his gaze steadily in the rearview mirror.
Bewildered, he turned back to Mr. Benedict. The older man held eye contact, just as intent.
“Never,” Mr. Benedict echoed; softer, but firm.
SQ’s mouth tried to form around the syllables of the word. “N .. Ne …” He couldn’t quite manage it. With a rising horror, he registered the hope bubbling up in his chest, and he attempted in vain to shove it back down. If this turned out to be a trick, or another sort of misunderstanding, and he lost his grim resolve now … “What do you mean, ‘never?’”
“I mean,” Mr. Benedict said, still softly. “That with my brother and his men in custody, you now have the safety and the space and a chance at a second start. You are no longer an Executive. You owe duty and allegiance to no one, and—oh, SQ, I can’t wait to see what you do with this newfound freedom.” Mr. Benedict paused and swallowed, obviously deeply emotional about what he had to say. Then he went on: “Of course, we’d never dream of entrapping you in any way, but we’re here for guidance and support, in any form you should need it. Our home is your home, should you choose to call it that. Or, if not, we can help you find some other place you wish to call home.”
“Or something in between,” offered Number Two. “You’ll never have to choose one or the other, SQ.”
“Indeed, and you won’t need to make any decisions before you’re ready,” Mr. Benedict added. “I can only hope that our home will be adequate until that time.”
“But—but,” SQ gasped out, scarcely daring to believe what he was hearing, “but— why?”
“Why aren’t you going to prison?” Mr. Benedict interpreted correctly, and SQ nodded, almost frantic. “My dear boy, why would you?”
“I was an Executive—”
“So were Jackson, Jillson, and Martina,” Mr. Benedict said mildly. “And you’ll recall that they were released as soon as we felt we could guarantee their safety, with my brother behind bars—”
“—I was loyal right until the very end,” SQ continued, as if he couldn’t register Mr. Benedict’s words. “I helped Mr. Curtain with so many plans, ones that directly hurt people, ones you don’t even know about—even though I knew, deep down, that it was wrong—”
“—And yet I seem to remember you taking a most courageous stand in the eleventh hour, and telling Mr. Curtain just that,” Mr. Benedict interrupted. He held up a hand when SQ went to protest further. “Will you listen to what I have to say for just one moment, dear boy? I promise you’ll be able to ask all the further questions you may have afterward.”
SQ, stunned, shut his mouth with a snap and nodded.
“Thank you,” Mr. Benedict said, and strangely it felt as though he really meant that. “SQ, there are several reasons why you won’t be going to prison, in addition to the fact that you chose to do the right thing when it mattered most. Not the least of these is the fact that you were stolen and brought up under my brother’s influence from the time you were very, very young. I daresay it’s all you’ve ever known—it is no surprise to anyone that Mr. Curtain held your loyalty so, especially given the recent revelation that he manipulated some of your memories in order to maintain that loyalty.”
“But most importantly,” Mr. Benedict went on, placing a hand solemnly to his chest, “is the fact that you are one of the kindest and bravest people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. During my time in captivity you risked my brother’s wrath time and time again to make me more comfortable, and the children reported similar selfless and warm treatment from every time they’ve been in your company. Indeed, the difference between you and the rest of the company my brother keeps is night and day, SQ. It is a great shame that a soul as bright as yours ended up in the harsh clutches of my brother, instead of in an environment where you could shine and flourish.”
“But,” SQ said, weakly, on the verge of giving in to what he so badly wanted—”But I promised.”
“Promised?”
“I promised Mr. Curtain that I would turn myself in alongside him,” SQ gasped. “I can’t give my word and then—”
“You did turn yourself in, SQ,” Mr. Benedict said plainly. “Here you are, in our car. Could you be here if you were still operating for my brother?”
Numbly, SQ shook his head.
“No, you could not. You did a very brave thing, by turning yourself in to face whatever punishment might lay ahead of you. It just so happens that in this case, the punishment is none at all.” Mr. Benedict offered a tiny smile, as if he found some small sort of amusement in the words. Then he grew serious once more. “You are no more responsible for my brother’s actions than I am, SQ. He has made his own choices. You are the victim in this situation, and a survivor of it. Never the villain. Do you understand?”
It was all too much. He couldn’t hold back the rising tide of hope anymore, flooding through every pore in his body.
SQ nodded.
“So—just to make absolutely sure—”
“SQ Pedalian, you will not set foot behind bars as long as I live,” Mr. Benedict declared, with a ringing finality.
“Nor will you as long as I’m alive,” Number Two added. At some point she had pulled out another apple; she fixed SQ with a firm gaze and took another bite. Then she pointed a stern finger at him in the rearview mirror. “Same goes for the rest of the adults. And the children. Including Constance. And seeing as how she’s far younger than you are, and will likely live past you, you’ll never have to worry about setting foot behind bars for the rest of your lifetime. And that’s that.” She crunched on another bite of her apple.
So. That was that.
The stinging behind his eyelids welled up again.
“Oh,” said SQ. “That’s—that’s very—Mr. Benedict, can we go home now?”
“A fine idea, dear boy,” Mr. Benedict agreed. “Number Two, can you handle the navigation from here? I do believe I’ll remain here in the backseat for a while.”
And with that, Mr. Benedict slumped, limp, against the seat. Number Two tsked, produced a box of tissues from some indeterminate location, and passed them back to SQ.
Mr. Benedict’s head lolled close to SQ’s shoulder all the way home.