A young lady - who's definitely not any sort of girl - steps out from the car, dressed in a cool seafoam-green blouse, and wearing navy-blue pants beneath the obligatory Nevermore blue-and-black girls' uniform.  She has accessorized with a silver bracelet - rectangular panels etched with geometric whorls, the center panel fitted with a single sapphire - around her right wrist, and ever-so-slightly swaying pearl earrings, also set in silver.  In her hand is a plain leather attaché case that she carries with no difficulty, despite the fact that it must contain all her schoolbooks, and perhaps some electronics as well - though she has tucked several thin notebooks into various pockets, all a simple utilitarian steel grey.  Only some are labeled, with a label-maker's crisply printed letters.  She wears a pencil case strapped to a black-and-silver belt, on her left side; it goes over her skirt, but underneath her jacket.  Her coppery hair is clasped neatly into two riotously-colourful plastic barrettes; her bottleglass-green eyes scan the scene, sharply attentive.

The hand not carrying her briefcase carries a violin-case, instead.

A girl with bright pink hair, who has dealt with the restrictions of the uniform seemingly by cramming as many colors onto her hands and into her hair as possible, bounds over to the new girl. 

"Hi!!" she says, and sticks out a hand to shake. "My name is Enid welcome that's the headmistress she's going to ask me to give you a tour so we might as well start HELLO--" 

She stops to breathe. Clearly, she speaks in exclamation points. 

Her companion, in a black on black version of the uniform, moves only so she's standing next to Enid again, but does not otherwise react. 

"This is Wednesday," Enid continues. "She's allergic to color." 

...

The headmistress seems more delighted by Enid's antics than Wednesday, who seems mostly fondly exasperated. 

"Hello, Enid," handshake, "Wednesday," respectful nod.  "Headmistress.  Is there anything that needs attending to, before..."  Enid continues happening?, she doesn't say.

"We can take your bags," the headmistress says. "Enid is right, I was going to ask her to give you the tour." 

Her smile is just slightly tired. 

"I'm just happy that I get to do this twice in a month or so," Enid says. "I'll show you where your room is last, so you don't have to follow me around after."

She is full of energy, clearly. She's going to lead Ophelia through to a central courtyard if the other girl follows. Wednesday will also follow, for all the world appearing like Enid's shadow. 

Enid is a good source of answers about student level aspects to Nevermore, but also the nearby town of Jericho, rumors surrounding both, and the shenanigans both she and Wednesday have been pulling since the dark-haired girl's arrival. 

"You don't have a roommate," Wednesday says. "But I think I have an idea of what clique you'll be into."

Her voice is flat enough that it's hard to tell if this is or is not an insult. 

Wednesday is more tight lipped, but if pressed will give information about goings on in the woods, local history, and what she's found out about the school. 

She has two suitcases; one is markedly more heavy, and more secured, than the other, judging by the effort put in to lift it out of the trunk.  She does not, however, take the headmistress up on her offer of transportation, preferring to roll her suitcases along herself.  "I prefer to avoid trusting the security of my possessions to hands that are not mine, madam Headmistress."

"I wouldn't expect my appearance to be a wholly accurate barometer of my interests, Ms. Wednesday.  And truthfully...cliques have always struck me as a pointless waste of time and energy spent upon dominance games and competition within one's field of expertise, when one could instead make friends who do things you cannot.  There are certainly benefits to keeping your enemies close, however.  They're easier to backstab from that range."

She grins.  Her teeth are inhumanly sharp.

"I would be most gratified to learn about the social environment of Nevermore Academy and its environs, Enid, Wednesday; please, do feel free to speak your minds.  I will not take umbrage, though I may challenge your conclusions.  I would additionally like to confirm that this institution holds to my standards of academic rigor.  And I would be remiss to fail to learn of the environs I shall be within for the next several semesters, I imagine; do please speak of Jericho."

She can carry her stuff around; the headmistress isn't going to stop her, but it's going to be a long walk. 

"Nice teeth!" Enid says. It's a sincere compliment, coming from her. She makes a playful scratching gesture with her left hand, multi-colored nails briefly transforming into multi-colored claws. "Jericho's full of conservative Christian normies, go there if you want to get food or clothes, but try not to get into any fights."

She looks significantly at Wednesday when she says this, who shrugs. 

"The joke is that there's the vampires, the werewolves, the gorgons, and the sirens, but most of the people here don't fall into one of those categories strictly. Mostly it determines where you eat lunch, because people tend to eat with people who eat the same stuff." 

Enid is happy to chatter and keep answering questions. 

Wednesday, for her part, looks at the huge bag.

"What's alive in there?" she asks. "Pugsly and I play a game where I stuff him in a sack and throw him in the river and then he almost drowns, but doesn't, and your box has that kind of heaviness."

This is the first time she's taken genuine interest in the proceedings. It's also clear she and Enid have different reasons to fail at being intimidated by the teeth. 

It is a good thing her bags have wheels and she's an endurance swimmer, then!

"Thank you, Enid."  She smiles at the girl, mugging shamelessly.

"Eyachk, Christians.  The absolute hypocrites.  I read their Bible once; it's entirely out of synch with their behavior.  I am ever-so-tempted to go and sing at them.

"Sadly, I have standards for my minions.  They hardly meet the quality I'd prefer, if they're so easily whipped into reactionary mobs.  Really, the modern evangelical has such a lack of class consciousness that if I flaunted a bit of my ill-gotten gains in front of them, I imagine they'd lick my boots without a lick of magic, and that's just sad.  They should be trying to cast me down, not worship me like that golden calf.  It's shameful.  An absolute disgrace to their position and profession.

"As for what's in my bag, dear Wednesday, I am ashamed to admit that all it is is a portion of my books.  Though some of them most certainly have a mind of their own, sometimes."

"Bianca is going to love you," Wednesday says. It's hard to tell how sincere she's being. "What kind of books, I like books and they're less likely to get me expelled."

While this is happening Ophelia is shown the classrooms, the stairs to the dorms, the greenhouse wing, though they're still making a bee-line for the courtyard.

"Magic, and fiction, and fictional magic - writers are so inspirational - as well as a few computer operating manuals.  ...It occurs to me that I have not introduced myself; please do pardon the lapse.  Ophelia Verdigris; it is a pleasure to have met both of you.  ...There is a greenhouse wing?  I'm not certain I processed that, nor its implications; I do so love to garden."

"It's mostly poisonous," Wednesday says. She sounds delighted about this. "There's a teacher there all the time, though, so I guess if you want to detour we can, but then you'd have to talk to her."

"Stop being so mean!" Enid says. "She's perfectly nice, she just isn't magical, so she has trouble relating to the students sometimes." 

This is going to devolve into Wednesday and Enid very maturely pulling faces at one another.

"Ladies, ladies, do consider: We all have trouble relating to eachother.  There are a thousand things I take for granted that you've never heard of, and I'm sure that's true from your perspective, as well.  There is just an obvious reason you can pin failures to relate upon, here, regardless of those failures'...I believe the term of art is 'proximate causes'.  That's hardly rigorous.

"This is not to say that I think you ought to like her, sight unseen, but that you might consider a purpose of her presence here.

"This is a school, after all; what better place than a school to learn how to communicate across seemingly insurmountable boundaries?"

And what sort of desperately tired woman would approve teaching that this way?

"I don't mind her. She's just weird in a normal way." Wednesday gets an odd expression on her face. "Let's go to the greenhouse next. Follow me."

Does she?

"I don't see why not."

She'll keep pace with Wednesday.

The green house is huge, like half the size of the gymnasium. There's an odd thrum to the air, like the space isn't quite like it might seem from the outside. 

There is in fact a youngish woman tending the plants. She seems nervous, but looks up when they come in. 

"Oh!" she says. "You're the new student."

The flicker of revulsion would be invisible to anyone else. 

"I am she, yes.  Ophelia Verdigris; a pleasure to meet you, Ms...?"

...Well, that's interesting.  And somewhat worrisome.  Perhaps enough to merit a closer investigation, even; thus, the handshake she presses, and the lingering gaze upon her face.

Truthfully, neither of those preparatory actions are necessary, but she is about to open herself up to the thrumming desires of the world around her; it helps to have hers fixed in mind beforehand.  She wants to know what this woman wants, in the deepest recesses of her heart and mind.  What brought her here, despite her terror and disgust, putting up that pleasant façade, day after day after day...

It is a fine, ancestral tradition she carries on, asking that; it dates back to Odysseus and other mythic figures.  The sirens know, you see; they know what you desperately crave, and you believe they will give it to you, if you listen to their song, if you obey, if you come closer to those jagged rocks bearing a thousand bones...

"Ms. Thornhill," the teacher says. The smile on her face is almost sincere. "I teach Botany here, and I'll be your dorm mother."

What she wants, more than anything, is for Nevermore to burn. The purity of that desire makes it hard to see the details of it. 

What the fuck?

...Her poker face is very good, but she almost drowns the woman right there.

"I see; I will, as some say, be in your care.  I'm curious, what's your favorite part of teaching Botany, here?  This is a very interesting school, after all."

And this conversation will give her time to fish for more details of her plot to commit arson(?)!

"Nowhere else have I seen such an appreciation for poisonous plants," she says. "As the only normie teacher, it's good to have a role despite that." 

Near the desire for arson is the desire to please... someone. Some authority figure. It's hard to tell.

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. 

"I must say, as a visitor here, I would so like to hear more of your town's almost-patron-saint, and certain source of parable, good father; would you like to tell me more about Joseph Crackstone?  He sounds quite interesting, and I daresay I've not heard of him before!"

A small wisp of mist condenses out of the air near Wednesday: Go be sneaky.  I'll be oblivious hard-to-vanish distraction, cover you.

...Yeah, she's a freshly graduated travel reporter now.

She takes the hint, heading down towards the stairs. 

The priest looks uncomfortable, and then he smiles. "He was a seer," he says, without a hint of irony. "When Massachusetts fell to sin, he founded our little community in the woods, so that we may bring about a brighter future." 

He's the kind of guy who thinks that the Salem Witch Trials didn't go far enough.

"My goodness, he was?  That is a profound gift; did he prophesy anything in particular?"