Enid cringes at the word normie. "You don't have to use that for yourself," she says. "It's so mean." 

Ophelia gently pats Enid's shoulder, hoping that Enid will get the memo to pipe down, and pulling herself forwards and putting herself in Ms. Thornhill's view - and line of fire.  ...Hopefully Wednesday will not just suddenly do something; it seems uncharacteristic.

"I have to say, it must have taken courage indeed to come here, of all places, given the...I can't even say undeserved, reputation, some of our parents have.  I truly admire that; it speaks well of you.  ...to have a role despite 'that', though?  I'm afraid I didn't quite catch what you mean, but...that sounds very lonely."

"It's not the done thing, here," she says. She smiles, and it almost seems kind.  

That's the worst part, really. The kindness, the affection, it's all genuine to some degree, and it all does not matter. She has a higher calling, one with the face of a man with skin like candle's wax, and a truer purpose, than being kind to girls at a place like this. 

"This is a safe haven. There are those who would say I am a violation of that." 

The care she shows the plants she is currently tending is utterly sincere, however. This would be her calling, if something else hadn't gotten to her first. 

"And you are not your parents," she says. Again, she almost seems to believe it. "The headmistress is especially not her parents."

Ophelia's right, Wednesday's not going to do anything, but she is visibly wigging out a little. She's never liked Ms. Thornhill, but that's just because she doesn't trust nice people, and she's been trying to tamp down on that a little for Enid's sake. 

Thornhill wants to fulfill her great destiny, and she wants to take care of her plants. 

Thankfully, it doesn't seem she's actually that close to the conclusion of her plans yet, so the odds of Ophelia having to dramatically prevent arson tonight are pretty low. She's going to have time to unpack and get to know people some more before the plot really starts to derail. 

"I'm curious how much of that you would say is true of yourself, but perhaps that is a matter for another time.  I do have a tour to finish, and I'm certain Enid and Wednesday have better things to do than listen to me natter on about psychology."

And when they are quite firmly out of sight of the greenhouse, and any surveillance system she can spot, Ophelia lets out an explosive breath as she takes down her graven façade.

Not literally explosive.  Just metaphorically explosive.

"That woman wants to burn down the school, at the behest of a man whose skin is like candle-wax.  And I can't tell if she's been enthralled to do it just yet, but I almost suspect so.  It's so...out of character.  Because she wants to be kind, wants to tend to her plants - and also bring down the school for some as-yet-undiscovered reason."

"Oh," Wednesday says. She looks shocked for the first time since Ophelia's met her. "Oh no. That's... hold on, there's--" she goes rummaging through her bag before pulling out a slightly crumpled sketch. "This," she says. "Someone who never met me drew this." 

It's a picture of a little girl who looks very much like Wednesday standing next to a fire and a man in traditional 17th century Pilgrim clothes, hat and all. 

"I've been wondering why I'd destroy the school, when--shit." 

"That doesn't seem in character for her at all!" Enid clearly has to fight to keep herself somewhat quiet. "The term she used, normie, it's this stupid school-yard way of saying regular humans. The opposite of that is outcasts; I've heard adults use the term more than students, and humans use them more than us."

"I don't know why she'd hate us so much," Enid continues. "Do you know who that is?" she's pointing at the man in the drawing. 

Wednesday nods. "That's Joseph Crackstone," Wednesday says. "That puritan they all worship. It's a cult." 

She seems like the kind of person to call most things cults, but the quality of this declaration feels different.

"Well.  I do find swearing rather uncouth, but this is quite the sort of occasion that can be summed up with a simple 'well, fuck.'  Alright.  Let us presume that Miss Thornhill, or the people who made her, also know of this prophecy, by some means, and raised her to fulfill it; her desires were to fulfill her destiny and take care of her plants.  Who can we trust?  Who knows of this image, Wednesday?  And where can we learn more about Joseph Crackstone, or the man with candle-wax skin?"

"Enid knows," she says. "And the guy whose mother painted it, Xavier, knows, though I don't know if he remembers giving it to me." 

She frowns. 

"I haven't shown any adults; none of them seem particularly trustworthy. But the historical society in Jericho might know more about Crackstone." 

She doesn't say, though it feels unsaid, that it's weird that this sort of cult emerged in Vermont, and not Massachusetts or Maine. 

"...Perhaps I shall go to Mass this Sunday.  I hardly believe, but the appearance of piety is...useful, on occasion.  And we can check out what the Historical Society has on Crackstone."

"I'll join you," Wednesday says. "I can say I'm apologizing." 

"I think, perhaps, that it is best they not draw a connection between us - or rather, between yourself and the identity I shall assume, but yes.  Whatever would you be apologizing for?"

"I may or may not have made some tourists cry," Wednesday says. She does not sound apologetic. "That is fair."

She's excited for more friends, maybe. She's never going to admit that though. 

Saturday is a beautiful Vermont day. Good biking weather. 

Over the last few days Ophelia will have learned that there is a coffee shop where students hang out, as well as a historical society, a church, a police station, and a small office complex. There's also the usual small town assortment; rival gas stations, a fast food restaurant, and a large big box store that choked out the competition, but most of the income of the town seems to come directly from Nevermore.

Oh, that's not a good sign.  They're willing to bring their home tumbling down around themselves in order to scare some monsters.  And it would only be 'scare', she thinks.

But the naïve churchgoer that is Violetta Marie-Claire Mondegreen would not be thinking of such things; she would be thanking the Lord for such fine cycling weather.

(Ophelia is certainly glad, too; the subtle cosmetics to render her unrecognizable won't be marred.)

Her cover story is thus: she is Ophelia's family-assigned maidservant; the Mondegreens took her to Mass back home, and she found something compelling in the story of Christ.  She wishes to see if the local church is similar.

(All, for a certain definition, true - but still, misleading.)

She's not on the rolls of Nevermore because she is engaged in a specialized distance-learning program.

(This, of course, is false.  Or false-ish.  Ophelia will certainly be studying from some of her family's books, after all.)

She pulls into town, finds a place to stash the bike she ordered when she realized that riding the shuttle-bus would likely indelibly mark her....and sets off to the church.

(She's not read in on Wednesday's plans; her reaction will be more accurate, that way.  She's playing this carefully.)

Wednesday wears her most Church-appropriate blacks. 

She doesn't quite realize that the way she's dressing was Sunday best in about 1953, but given how conservative Jericho is, she might not be far off the mark. 

Her plans (so far) seems to be placing herself in a front pew and resolutely ignoring the people openly staring at her throughout the service.

It takes until after the sermon for the preacher, a older man with prominent sideburns, to run out of patience. 

"And what are you doing here?" he asks Wednesday, dropping out of the pseudo-Elizebethan cadence that he wasn't managing particularly well anyway. 

Her presence also did not stop the sermon from falling immediately into a rant about how the students of Nevermore are proof that Jericho is an island of holiness in a sea of sin; there's resentment, here, the impression that the students at Nevermore consider themselves better than the people of the town. 

(Ophelia will also have noticed that Joseph Crackstone is treated as a fun and harmless town founder, the stereotypical "pioneer" figure.)

Oh, this is just a disaster waiting to happen.

"Good father," she affects in a light and airy tone, her accent a slight twang, "surely if someone has come to this island of faith to hear the Word of the Lord, who welcomed the sinners to his table, they should not be spitefully driven away?  I do hardly wish to meddle, for a newcomer to Jericho am I, but it is incumbent upon the faithful to be Christlike, and I would hope you set a good example for your flock..."  She 'nervously' wrings her hands.

...She may actually be nervous.

"Father--" only Ophelia notices that she sounds like she's about to be ill "I apologize for my behavior during my class's visit. A great evil had consumed me, and I desire only to be forgiven." 

She's folded her hands in prayer and is staring at her feet. 

The preacher looks furious, but after looking around at his congregation, intentionally smooths his expression. "Of course, my child," he says. "We forgive you."

Wednesday nods, and goes to sit at the very back of the church, near a door that she assumes leads down into the basement. She doesn't seem to have really noticed Ophelia, and is instead wrapped up in her own thoughts.