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pieces, as if he considered their capture an unfortunate necessity.) “It’s a common nightmare, and I’ve had it many times, as well as a great many others that are more rare. Part of my condition, I’m afraid.”
    “What do you mean?” Reynie had always known that Mr. Benedict’s narcolepsy made him prone to unpredictable episodes of sleep; beyond this, he realized now, he knew almost nothing.
    For a moment Mr. Benedict didn’t speak, only gazed contemplatively at his fingers as if considering them for the first time. It seemed to Reynie that for some reason he was reluctant to answer, but that he didn’t wish to dismiss Reynie’s question, either. The latter impulse won out, apparently, for at length Mr. Benedict looked up and said, “For someone like me, Reynie, nighttime can be just as trying as daytime. It’s always a relief to give over to sleep, of course — to stop fighting against it, as I must do during the day — but I am often beset by nightmares, strange fits of waking paralysis, and even hallucinations, which can be quite terrifying.”
    “That’s awful!” Reynie said. “I had no idea.”
    “Well,” Mr. Benedict said, “I am long since used to it. I’ve even made friends with the Old Hag.”
    “The Old Hag?”
    “An ancient name for one of the more common hallucinations. I sometimes awake to the vision of a hunched figure at the end of my bed. Sadly, this hallucination is usually accompanied by paralysis.”
    Reynie was aghast. “You mean to say there’s a strange person lurking by your bed — in the darkness — and you’re not able to move?”
    “Nor even to cry out,” said Mr. Benedict. “It’s rather inconvenient.”
    Reynie shuddered, imagining it. “I’d be scared out of my mind!”
    “That
is
the most common reaction,” Mr. Benedict said with a smile. “And I admit I’m only joking when I say I’ve befriended her. Let’s just say I recover more quickly from our encounters than I used to. At any rate, the hallucinations and the paralysis rarely last more than a minute.”
    That minute must seem like an eternity, Reynie thought. Then something occurred to him. “What about Mr. Curtain? Do you think that happens to him, too? Do you think it might be why he’s so obsessed with controlling things?”
    Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “Very astute, Reynie. I’ve often wondered that myself. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that my brother’s nightly torments and daily struggles have contributed to his obsession. Though I’ve long since come to terms with my
own
spells of helplessness, it did take years before I stopped feeling ashamed of them. Evidently my brother has taken a different tack and has achieved no such resolution.”
    This was an understatement, to say the least. Reynie recalled with frightening clarity Mr. Curtain’s eerie silver glasses and his high-powered, customized wheelchair — props he used to conceal his condition. The man might look exactly like Mr. Benedict, and he might possess a similar degree of genius, but his approach to the world couldn’t have been more different.
    For a minute Reynie was lost in the uncomfortable memory of his encounters with Mr. Curtain. (The memory was uncomfortable not just because of the danger he’d been in, but also because Reynie himself, in a terrible moment, had once doubted which of the two brothers he was more like.) Thankfully, however, he was soon snapped from his reflections by the sound of soft snoring. Mr. Benedict’s head had dropped forward, his hands twitched at his side, and he appeared on the verge of slumping over onto the chessboard. Reynie’s impulse was to slip out and let him sleep, but Mr. Benedict had repeatedly instructed Reynie to wake him whenever such episodes occurred. Or
try
to wake him, at least — it wasn’t always possible.
    “Mr. Benedict!” Reynie said. “Mr. Benedict, sir!”
    Mr. Benedict came to with a start. Then, yawning, he ran his hands through his rumpled hair