The meeting house door creaked open abruptly.
Mistress Arlene stepped inside, her pleasant reenactor's smile gone, replaced by sharp outrage.
"Just what the fudge are you doing in here, missy?" she demanded, her gaze snapping between Wednesday and Ethan.
"Nothing," Ethan said easily. "The door was open, so we came in."
Mistress Arlene's eyes narrowed. "Didn't I proclaim that the meeting house is under repair? I know thou heard me."
Wednesday didn't bother responding to that.
Instead, she held up the book.
"Why is there a fake book in the display?" she asked coolly. "Do visitors know they're paying to see replicas?"
Mistress Arlene stiffened.
Wednesday tilted her head slightly. "Or is this the only fake thing here," she continued, "or is the entire Pilgrim World an elaborate lie?"
"Hold thy tongue," Mistress Arlene snapped, color rising in her cheeks. "The original was stolen last month—during the two o'clock witch trial reenactment."
"We replaced it to avoid panic. Pilgrim World depends on authenticity. You people wouldn't understand."
Wednesday's eyes darkened.
"Authenticity," she repeated. "Yet you hide the truth, display fakes, and lock the doors."
Mistress Arlene bristled at the name.
"That book is none of your concern," Mistress Arlene said sharply. "And neither is this room."
"True," Wednesday replied coolly. "We're leaving anyway. I have nothing to gain from staying here any longer."
She turned as if to go—then stopped.
"The original meeting house," Wednesday said, glancing back over her shoulder, "the one in that painting. Where is it?"
The question landed harder than the last.
Mistress Arlene's expression flickered, irritation flashing through the rehearsed authority. "How the hell should I know?" she snapped. "I only moved here from Scottsdale in April."
There it was.
Wednesday studied her for a brief, assessing moment.
Truly authentic, she thought.
She walked past Mistress Arlene without another word, Ethan falling into step beside her.
Wednesday discarded the ridiculous Puritan outfit and walked out of Pilgrim World, the sounds of forced cheer fading behind her.
Ethan walked beside her, unbothered.
"The original book was stolen a month ago," Wednesday said, her voice calm but precise. "And you said the real book is at Nevermore. That means whoever stole it is someone from Nevermore."
"You're correct," Ethan said. "It's someone from Nevermore."
Wednesday didn't look at him as she continued walking. "Which narrows the suspect pool to outcasts with access—and motive—to steal a book from Crackstone's era."
She stopped.
"Then do you know where the original meeting house is?" she asked.
"No," Ethan replied. "I don't."
Wednesday turned slowly and looked at him.
Her gaze lingered just long enough to be uncomfortable.
"Interesting," Wednesday said at last. "You've been remarkably informed about everything else—until now."
Ethan scoffed lightly. "Do I look like a walking encyclopedia? Even I don't know everything."
You can't expect someone to remember every minute detail from something they once watched on a show, so Ethan didn't remember where the meeting house was.
Wednesday's expression didn't change. She clearly didn't buy it—but she allowed him to continue.
"But," Ethan said, "I do know someone who knows where it is."
As he spoke, Ethan recalled the one person who knew the location—another Nevermore student, notoriously eager to please Wednesday and far too willing to share what he knew when given the slightest encouragement.
"Who?" Wednesday asked.
Ethan's mouth curved into a knowing smile.
"Xavier."
***
They arrived at the Weathervane Café shortly after.
The bell rang as they entered. The café was quiet, with only a few customers seated. The smell of coffee lingered in the air.
Xavier was moving between tables, carrying a tray with two cups.
He noticed Wednesday and stopped.
"Wednesday," he said, genuine relief bleeding into his voice. "Didn't think you'd—"
Then he noticed Ethan.
The smile faltered.
Not vanished. Just… cracked. Like a painting disturbed by an ugly brushstroke.
His eyes flicked from Ethan back to Wednesday, searching her face for context that wasn't there.
She gave him nothing.
Ethan broke the silence first, pulling out his phone and opening a map. He held it up between them.
"Xavier, be a friend," he said lightly. "And point out the location of the old meeting house on this map."
Xavier's jaw tightened.
"Why should I?" he asked, folding his arms. "Last time we met, you called me a moron. And now you're asking for help from that same moron?"
There it was. The resentment he'd been holding onto, finally given permission to surface.
Ethan winced slightly. "Okay, yes. I might have said that," he admitted. "But I'm not the one asking."
He tilted his head toward Wednesday.
"It's Wednesday who needs the location."
Xavier hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, he reached forward and pointed to a spot on the map.
"There," he said. "That's where the old meeting house is."
He left his finger there a second longer than necessary. "Wednesday, I—do you already have someone to go with for Rav—"
He stopped.
Wednesday had already left.
Ethan watched the realization settle in. He closed the map and stepped closer, resting a hand briefly—almost sympathetically—on Xavier's shoulder.
"Xavier," he said quietly, "give up."
******
A/N: The Patreon version is already updated to Chapter 55, so if you'd like to read ahead of the public release schedule, you can join my Patreon
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