Exie and I sit together in the library, saying nothing, for the better part of half an hour after that. I want to break the silence, but I don't know what to say. I've never been good at comforting people. My parents named me wretchedness for a reason.

Eventually, Exie un-hugs her knees and picks up her book again. I don't think she's actually reading it, but she puts on a good act, and I find myself looking around once again for anything to do. I feel even worse not helping with the project now. Exie might be one of those psychos who genuinely enjoys schoolwork, but I hate feeling like a parasite. It's my own pride, really. Nothing to do with Exie or the project. Though I have gained a modicum of interest in the Santa Clarissa Cathedral since yesterday's class on the Sectant Witch Trials.

Exie was uncannily exact in her identification of my hatred for writing, but I would submit to reading something if I knew it would be interesting. I also can't draw. Not well enough that I'd show people, anyway, an attitude I hold in kind across nearly all the arts. And Exie's already scoured this library for maps. That rules out all of her suggested contributions, so I run through them again, with exactly the same results.

"Is there anything in particular that I can help with?" I say.

Exie sorts a book from the leaning tower of literature beside her and scoots it across to me. She doesn't introduce it, so I flip it open and am met by a graphic woodcut of a witch bonfire. I can't stop a smile from laying siege to my mouth-corners. I'll never turn down a tale of church-folk attempting to submit the devil to death by barbeque. Half the stories I know involve witches calling calamity down on their oppressors, and while Church propaganda dictates that the Church triumphs in the end, I always stop reading before I reach that part.

I turn the first page, then pause. "This isn't for the project, is it?"

Exie shrugs. "It's a prevailing sentiment of the day and age, which we're supposed to research. I have suspicions about parts of Santa Clarissa's architecture that might have been impacted by it. But I'm sure nobody will complain if it serves another purpose."

A smile teases her lips, too, but she maintains outward serenity for the benefit of anyone listening in. I have to appreciate just how shrewd a choice the Santa Clarissa Cathedral was for this project. Exie has us studying the origin-context of the Melliford angel cult without ever naming it out loud, and the two buildings are just far enough apart to circumvent suspicions. Off the top of my head, I can't name another structure in southern Englemark whose architecture provides a plausible excuse to read up on witch trials.

"Tell me anything interesting you find," says Exie, and goes back to her book.

"Have you screened this one already?"

"No. I'm not a fan of burning people."

"So you're offloading those stories onto me?"

"Tell me you don't enjoy them."

That gets a guilty grin out of me. I feel seen.

"Watch out for anything local," says Exie. "Or anything particularly condemned by the House of Heymair. I'm still betting they're the ones who changed the maps."

I delve into the book without need of further prompting. It's larger than the Miranda Bible, giving its typeface room to breathe on a pleasantly creamy background. Little medieval designs painted in the corners carry on the tradition of an earlier era. I'll never not get a giggle out of butt trumpets.

It's not until the sun begins to set that I surface and find Exie looking around, fidgeting with her shirt hem in a manner that's definitely not relaxed. I offer her a questioning look that she doesn't see, then stretch myself across the carpet to wave for her attention like a defective sea cucumber. She startles when she spots me.

"Uncovering the secrets of the universe?" I say.

"We've got chapel tomorrow."

I remain sprawled across the floor, uncomprehending, until my brain's pathological aversion to time drags enough gears into alignment to process what Exie means. It is, in fact, Saturday today. Sunday follows Saturday on a consistent basis, much as my brain would have a person believe otherwise. Sunday means chapel, and chapel means angels.

"Have they said anything about it?" I say, but Exie shakes her head.

"No mention at all. I don't even know what time it's at."

I'm glad I'm not the only one.

I drop my voice with a glance over my shoulder. "Do you think they'll try anything?"

"I have no idea."

That's not reassuring.

"We should have a contingency plan," says Exie. "In case something goes wrong."

"Do we even know what could go wrong?"

"That's why we need the plan."

"How do you plan for something you have no way of knowing?"

Exie's look turns defiant. "You make backup plans. A way to run away without arousing suspicion, a way to talk your way to safety, and a way to play along within the rules."

"Those are all within the rules."

"And what would you do? Try to fight a fallen angel?"

I shrug. "Fire's supposed to purify things, isn't it?"

Exie's voice jumps half an octave. "We're not burning the school."

"Why not? It could use a good purge."

"This is why your—" Exie snaps her mouth shut. She's too dark to go red in the face, so I watch her as she grips her pants fabric in an obvious show of regret. But she doesn't apologize.

I keep my own voice level. "I would have ways to fight back. And I don't plan those, especially when we have no idea what we're up against. I'd just be ready to respond to whatever happens when it happens, and if the system gets in the way, screw the system."

"We can't break the system."

"Why not?"

"Not until we have answers." Exie's look is hardening again. "I didn't get this far just to blow up everything I've been working towards."

"And if your plans trap you somewhere you can't tolerate anymore?"

Her chin juts. "Then I make a plan to get out."

This isn't going anywhere. I make a note-to-self to pocket matches before chapel tomorrow, and maybe a cross for good measure. If I even have one. I might have to borrow from Clarice. I'm also not in the mood to keep talking to Exie after she nearly suggested I belong here again, so I make a show of returning to my book. The next page, though, usurps all other thought-trains.

There's a map. It's a bigger view than the ones we've been looking at—and for—but it contains the area where Melliford Academy now sits, and that spot isn't blank. It's black. Blacked out, like someone tipped their inkpot very deliberately over the paper and let it dry without an attempt at mopping. There's a splatter on the page of text opposite, too, but that also proves deliberate. There's a word inked out here.

I hunt down the beginning of the paragraph. Its florid handwritten text is a struggle like it always has been, but I'm here for the story, and for that, I'll push through anything.

It's the middle of a story. I've missed the lead-up, but once I've locked onto a line, I don't want to let go. I don't think I need the context anyway.

Sayeth the parishioner, "There across the queen's way dwells a coven the likes of which has never been seen in this prefecture. Men and women alike gather to lure their victims to the unholy cesspool they steward, saying 'Come to the water, and thou shalt find audience in the court of the highest of judges, the one who will tempt your heart and find it pure or wanting in the eyes of God.' And the bewitched flock to the water beneath their thrall."

Sayeth the priest, "Surely this is a grave violation of the laws of God, for no one but Her holds authority to judge the sins of humankind."

And so they donned their holy armor and rode forth to find and purge the coven, whose dwelling bore the name of [ ]. And not one of them returned.

"It's a town," says Exie's voice beside me. I jump in my skin. She's crept up to read over my shoulder. Before I can voice my disapproval, she points to a line in the following paragraph. "Here. And the town was smitten by the Holy Spirit's power. There was a town at the crossroads. They blacked out the name."

I hold the book up to the window's evening sunlight and try to glimpse what was overwritten through the backlit page. It's a fruitless endeavor. I drop the book again. "Where's the water?"

"The what?"

It's my turn to tap the page. "All over the description. Come to the water. Where is there water around here?"

Exie reaches reflexively for her other stack of books—the ones with maps in them—then catches herself and retracts her hand with a noise of frustration. Without older maps, we have no reference except the landscape of the present day.

"I didn't see any on my way in," I say. I was actually paying attention to the countryside by then, a futile attempt to ignore my father's speechifying as I battled boredom with fantasies of going rogue across the open fields. "I came from the north side."

"West for me," says Exie. "But my parents took the scenic route, so we covered the south side, too. I didn't see any water either."

Our eyes meet.

"Bets it's off the back wall of this place?" I say. "There are even trees there that I might be able to climb."

Exie gnaws her lower lip. "I don't like it."

"Don't like what?"

"We can't confirm it's safe to sneak out at night again. I don't like going without a plan."

"This is our plan. Also, I haven't heard a scream since Colson." Three silent nights, and I have been listening. Each one soothes my rattled nerves with the reassurance that Colson was a one-off. An accident. I knew no school would be so sadistic as to murder its own students, and Colson II is still alive. Different, maybe. But a near-death experience will do that to a person.

"Look," I say. "Colson happened within seed-spitting distance of the teachers' bedrooms, and that's why we nearly got caught. This is outside the school building, on a side with no windows anyone can look through, and it's shaping up to be cloudy tonight. We'll have cover. We can sneak to the back wall, I'll climb a tree and check for water, and then we're done. If anyone catches us, we can always say we snuck out to watch the stars."

I realize what just left my mouth a moment too late to snatch it back. I nearly choke on my own tongue as I attempt salvage the situation. "Or that you wanted to see the fireflies, or... or something. We can make an excuse. People sneak out all the time. We'll be fine."

Exie has gone motionless behind my shoulder. I dare to look at her, and find her face completely blank, like she's forgotten how to make expressions.

"Right," she says. I can't read her voice, either. She blinks several times, then gives her head a little shake. Normal-Exie returns. "I'm still making contingency plans."

I throw both hands up. "Go crazy. I'm not going to stop you."

She purses her lips, but says only, "Meet in my room tonight?"

"Moonrise?"

"Moonrise. Let's find this 'unholy cesspool' the church was so afraid of."

Like this chapter if you'd also read about the witch trials!

Comment your hypotheses about the water  :)