Enid and Wednesday stepped out after changing into their Puritan costumes.
Both wore the same black-and-white outfits—severe dresses with stiff collars and starched bonnets meant to drain all traces of personality.
On Wednesday, the costume looked almost natural, as if it had been designed with her in mind. On Enid, it looked like a cruel joke. Her colorful hair struggled visibly against the bonnet, refusing to stay hidden.
"Well, you two look cute," Ethan said, pulling a camera out of his bag with far too much enthusiasm. "Let me take a picture—give a sweet pose."
Enid immediately brightened, adjusting her bonnet and leaning closer to Wednesday. "Oh my gosh, yes! This is totally going on my wall."
Wednesday did not move.
She stared at the camera as though it were a weapon. "I don't do sweet," she said flatly. "It sends the wrong message."
Ethan laughed anyway and raised the camera. "Just one picture."
He took the picture just as Mistress Arlene's voice cut sharply through the air, calling Enid and Wednesday back to their stations to sell fudge.
Both girls were quickly swept away by the flow of tourists, leaving Ethan standing alone near the edge of the square. He glanced down at the camera screen, scrolling through the photos with quiet satisfaction.
Then he felt it.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He turned around.
There was no one there—only wooden storefronts and passing visitors. But a second later, something else reached him. The faint, metallic scent in the air.
Blood.
Recognition flickered across his face.
"It seems she still hasn't learned her lesson," Ethan said softly, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he turned and began walking toward the source.
Behind one of the wooden buildings, Laura Gates—now hiding under the false name Marilyn—pressed herself into the shadows. Her right arm was wrapped thickly in plaster of Paris, the cast stiff and unforgiving.
"You know," Ethan said, suddenly appearing beside her, his voice calm and conversational, "you're really starting to annoy me. Why don't you just ignore me and do your work?"
Marilyn flinched violently, fear flashing across her face. He was the reason her arm was broken. The reason she was standing there like this.
"I—I'm not following you," Marilyn said, her voice trembling.
Ethan tilted his head, studying her for a moment before speaking again.
"Oh. Then Wednesday, I assume?" he asked casually.
"Yes…" Marilyn replied, swallowing hard.
Ethan smiled.
"Then it's fine," he said.
And he walked away, leaving her frozen in place—uncertain what this man's deal truly was. She couldn't understand him at all.
He spoke as if he knew her plans, yet he made no effort to interfere with them. That alone unsettled her more than open opposition ever could.
She didn't want to know how he knew.
She had followed him only to confirm her suspicions—to be certain that he truly had no intention of sabotaging what she had worked so carefully toward. Now that confirmation seemed complete.
It appeared she could proceed.
When her ancestor, Joseph Crackstone, rose from the dead as destiny intended, she would humiliate and destroy that blood-sucking mosquito herself.
The thought brought her a twisted sense of reassurance. A vampire, no matter how confident, would never stand against Jericho's founding father.
Faith had always been stronger than monsters.
And history, once resurrected, had a habit of finishing what it started.
***
In the Fudge House, Wednesday stood in front of the fudge display, holding a tray of samples.
A group of tourists approached.
Without changing her expression, Wednesday began speaking—in fluent German.
"Enjoy your authentic pilgrim fudge, made with cacao beans procured by the oppressed Indigenous people of the Amazon."
The tourists blinked.
"What?" one of them asked.
"All proceeds go toward upholding this pathetic whitewashing of American history."
She paused, then added, "Also, fudge wasn't invented for another two hundred and fifty-eight years."
She lifted the box slightly. "Any takers?"
The tourists recoiled almost in unison.
"No, no, no," they muttered, backing away amid a ripple of discontented murmuring.
Enid stared after the retreating tourists, her confusion written plainly across her face.
"I don't know what you just said," she admitted, lowering her voice, "but why does it seem like you scared away all the customers? We haven't sold anything since we started."
Wednesday calmly set the box of fudge back onto the table.
"I merely stated the plain and harsh truth of fudge making and its history," Wednesday replied. "Sometimes, knowing the truth makes it hard to swallow."
"But not for me," Ethan said casually as he appeared beside the table.
He picked up one of the samples without hesitation and popped it into his mouth. Then another. He chewed thoughtfully, completely unfazed by the historical implications.
"I don't really care what kind of dark, colonial trauma this fudge is tied to," he added. "It tastes good. That's enough for me."
Wednesday watched him with mild curiosity, her gaze sharp and measuring. His indifference to context was either genuine—or carefully performed.
Enid leaned closer to Wednesday, lowering her voice. "Wednesday, would you mind taking care of my position as well?" she asked. "I need to ask Ethan about Raven."
Wednesday's eyes flicked toward Enid, then back to Ethan. For a brief moment, something unreadable stirred behind her calm expression.
"Hm," she said at last. "I suppose I can."
There was a subtle tension in her gaze as she reached for Enid's abandoned box, though her posture remained composed.
Enid beamed. "Thank you! You're the best."
Before Wednesday could respond, Enid had already turned away, practically bouncing and appearing beside Ethan.
"Hey, um… Ethan?" she asked, rocking slightly on her heels. "Would you mind taking a stroll with me? Just for a bit."
"Yeah," he said. "I don't mind at all."
*****
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