Day 21: Penultimate

Was it any coincidence that the Chatterboxers felt nostalgic the next morning? Lily and Cassy knew it was not. Something had caused the Chatterboxers to reminisce on the Farm Story, just as something had triggered Lily’s dream:

“I just realized something, guys,” Moonfrost mentioned over a breakfast of muscadines. “This is just like when Dragonrider destroyed the farm house. Remember that? And we lived in the safe houses and trained the dragons?”

“Of course we remember,” Joan said. “Although I didn’t get to experience it like you guys did.”

“Living outside was fun,” Dragonrider grinned. “Still is.”

Thankfully, the reminiscing was harmless despite its pervasiveness in the CBers’ conversations. Business continued as usual--Cassy produced the next clue (along with some goose eggs, which were also eaten); the CBers gathered extra muscadines for the journey; they were off before the dew could evaporate.

To reach their next clue, the Chatterboxers had to return to last night’s tunnel and use echolocation to find a mossy lump on the shadowy ceiling.

The next clues led the CBers in the general direction of the lake’s tip, but the means to get there were unusual, ushering them through paths even Lily and Cassy hadn’t visited before.

Every time a new clue was found, the Chatterboxers got a strange sense of deja-vu. Something in each instruction was so, so familiar…

Booksy pondered this as she headed to the ‘Fertile grotto in the ferny swamp--follow the lilypads’. She was so deep in thought that she didn’t care if her shoes were soaked in mud, nor did she mind her thirst. Leafy pool...leafy pool, and even the smoked salmon...follow the LILY pads. And the echoes in the tunnel...

Booksy Owly’s heart skipped a beat. Wait, wait--Leaf-pool, LilyPad...echoes, tunnel--Echosong! Smoked salmon--Saphire! As Booksy repeated the clues to herself, she discovered hidden references to past Chatterboxers in every one.

Saphire, Leafpool, Spyro, Turgon and Gem, Rosalyn and Cortana, Icy--with our breakfast eggs!, Echosong, Pepper Star, Saphira, LilyPad…

“Guys!” Booksy exclaimed, and everyone halted, alarmed at her outburst.

“No, don’t worry--I just realized something about the clues. They’re all references--memorials to past Chatterboxers!” The others were shocked that they hadn’t seen it sooner, and everyone paused for a moment to wonder over the implied meaning of the hunt.

“Wow, fancy that,” mused the murderer. Its feigned surprise was, admittedly, well below par. Its attitude in general was well below par; the murderer’s headache had worsened and now the throb had spread; even worse, the murderer had a fever. The sickness was out of control again, worse than ever before, and like pulses of lighting on a summer horizon, it buzzed with a vibrant, distant, moving energy that gave the murderer goosebumps and shivers of unease. Previously, the darkness had taken an approach of violent impulses and fiery bouts of authority. Now, it attacked the murderer’s brain, weakening its intelligence, observations, and all five senses. It was a more personal attack than before, making it harder for the murder to keep out unwelcome thoughts simply because it couldn’t differentiate between the two anymore. The only thing keeping it moving was the prospect of escape.

“We’re looking for the fertile grotto,” Joan reminded everyone. “Let’s keep going.”

“Watch out for that poison ivy,” Pierre piped up. “The farther we delve into this swamp the worse it gets.” Everyone groaned, peering down the green-choked hill into the grotto below, where three-leaved vines snaked up every tree.

In their minds, the Chatterboxers grumbled against who they suspected to be the murderer. You said we’d benefit from this. Ugh.

Nevertheless, lilypads saturated the bottom of the hill, where the ground was a strange, warm, peaty mixture of water and earth. In their loyalty to the hunt, the CBers sloshed through ferny puddles, rugs of moss, and an ever-widening trail of lilypads.

Just as the mushy ground gave way to a sludgy river that went up to the CBers' shins, they spied their clue.

A cluster of pinecones dangled from a muscadine vine, swinging gently over a bubbling spring nestled among heaps of moss, vivid green bushes,saplings, and poison ivy. The telltale white of paper peeked out from within the cluster of pinecones.

It was a very picturesque scene, and sunlight scintillated over the foliage, creating the illusion of being underwater. Dancing sunbeams bounced off the water and flashed under the CBers’ chins--an upside down sort of lighting that gave everyone an unearthly yellow glow.

“How did they get the clue up there?!” Booksy sighed in dismay.

“I don't know, but it’s easier for us just to grab the pinecones from the ground,” Hotairballoon pointed out. “They’re low enough to reach.”

“Oh thank goodness. I thought we were going to have to beat it like a piñata,” said Moonfrost.

“You could, but then it might land in the poison ivy,” Dragonrider reminded her.

“Who wants to grab it?”

For some reason, the CBers hesitated at the edge of the grotto. Something about the foliage seemed to hold them back, and they got a very strange feeling when they looked into the blue-green spring water.

They must've been concerned over the poison ivy. Nobody wanted to be itchy for the sake of a clue--and the spring was fringed with vines.

“Well, good luck getting out of these woods without being itchy,” Hotairballoon observed.

“Good point,” Booksy said. “Too late to avoid that. I guess I’ll grab it. I’m tall enough.”

She took a step towards the grotto and felt cool, slimy water pool around her feet. She kept to the moss as best she could, but liquid oozed up from all around, so there was no hope in evading it.

Booksy brushed against one of the overbearing, round-leaved saplings and recoiled when it felt like she’d been electrocuted.

“Those plants are sharp,” she muttered to herself, hugging her stinging arm close to her body.

She came closer to the pinecones until she was almost directly in the middle of the spring, where she noticed something that distracted her.

Purple shoots sprung up from between the lilypads. They were bright, plump, and delicate, unlike any plant Booksy had ever seen before. She wondered what kind of beautiful flower might someday emerge from those little stalks.

Closer inspection revealed a sticky powder on their stems--as though drewdrops had crystallized into sweet-smelling dust that plumed away at the slightest touch. By the time Booksy had reached the pinecones, a heavy cloud of purple had spread over the spring’s surface.

“What’s that?” Cinderelt asked nervously, indicating the purple haze.

“Pollen or something from those purple plants,” Booksy answered, reaching up to pluck the pinecones from the vine’s grasp. They separated easily from the muscadines, but the cluster remained bound. Pleased, Booksy started her delicate walk out of the grotto.

That’s when her legs went numb.

One minute, there was slimy water sloshing through her shoes, and Booksy was enjoying the soft purple shoots brushing against her shins. The next minute, there was nothing. It was as though her legs had fallen off, and she was nothing but a torso suspended in midair.

Booksy stumbled to a halt, glancing down nervously. “Guys, um, I can’t feel my legs.”

Were those her legs? The sensation was overwhelming; she patted her knees frantically, but even her fingernails could not penetrate the fog that had paralyzed her nerves.

“Booksy, did your legs fall asleep?” Joan wondered, anxious.

“No, they--”

Booksy’s hands went out like a light. Suddenly, her arms felt too heavy, as though her brain could no longer process that she possessed hands. The pinecones disappeared from Booksy’s touch, and she stared hard at them to make sure they were still in her grasp.

Booksy attempted to maneuver her legs for another few steps. Two tries later, she found herself on her knees, halfway buried in a round-leaved bush, numb up to her head, surrounded by water and that sweet perfumed fog. Booksy stared at the haze in horror, suddenly making the connection. “It’s making me go numb! The fog. Let me throw the clue to you--”

She flung the pinecone cluster in a clumsy arc towards Joan. It landed in the bushes behind the CBers, but nobody made a move for it. They were more concerned for Booksy.

“We’ll get you out--”

Booksy couldn’t feel herself anymore. Wherever the purple fog touched, the nerves went out, as though her body were slowly sinking into slumber. She saw, to her horror, red welts breaking out wherever the round leaves touched, and she recalled, in an instant of frantic reflection, where she’d seen them before.

Manchineel. Manchineel killed LilyPad.

But she couldn’t feel the pain, and for this she was glad; unfortunately, the purple fog seemed to be just as deadly.

I should have known. This was LilyPad’s clue…

Booksy was reminded, as her last nerves faded into oblivion, of a strain from the murderer’s poem…Something about this moment, with the fog and separation of mind and body, brought it all back. Booksy felt as though one piece of the poem was meant for her... A pearl of shadow, The effervescent craters lull you with their song
Surreal land
Wispy dreams--
Fortuous moonscape.

Death is relaxing, Booksy thought numbly to herself. As the CBers looked on, Booksy called with drooping eyes, “These plants are all poisonous...Go on without me...”

Her voice sounded so calm, so serene, as she collapsed into the bush.

Rest in peace, Booksy Owly.

The Chatterboxers stared in fear at the malignant purple haze, which, once beautiful, now promised a quiet death. They backpedaled from the sunny grotto as quickly as they could, and suddenly, the poison ivy didn't seem so horrible.

Silently, greatly distressed, the CBers came to a halt in a humid grove of beech trees.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Moonfrost groaned, pale.

“I didn’t expect…” Cinderpelt trailed off.

“Maybe hitting it with a stick would’ve been a good idea,” Hotairballoon lamented.

“We couldn’t have known,” Joan put in quietly.

“Let’s just get this hunt overwith,” Dragonrider sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Cassy murmured, and she and Lily held back for the next few hours, withdrawn and weary.

The hunt led the CBers out of the woods and back to the lake, where they attempted to wash off the poison ivy. Scrubbing with sand seemed to help, and they only acquired a few painful blisters each.

The Chatterboxers had emerged near the very tip of Lake Lelillo, where all they could see to their right was crystal clear water: they’d gone so far that the inhabited part of the property had disappeared from view. To their backs was the forest; up ahead was a vast stretch of sandy shore. 

As the Chatterboxers continued, something miraculous occurred. It cannot be elucidated to the degree that the CBers experienced it, but the more distant the CBers grew from Noodle Manor and all that had happened there, the lighter they felt--and the sky seemed to brighten--and the air grew fresh and clear, and all their stress and anxiety melted away.

What an unusual way to feel so near to the climax. Perhaps it was that the Chatterboxers reverted back to the way things were at the beginning of the ski lodge--with all their good spirits, and the laughter and jokes. Perhaps the closer the CBers came to the border of Lake Lelillo, the more they felt the aura of the Chatterbox, and the less buried under the Mystery they were. The atmosphere felt...true.

The Chatterboxers were not going to complain about this unexpected, inexplicable lightening of the mood. Actually, they hardly noticed it themselves, just as puzzle pieces never see the picture they’re a part of. Nevertheless, the Chatterboxers found themselves at first smiling...making jokes...and then laughing...and then, allowing a torrent of memories to pour out between them, and the CBers relived their entire vacation and then some, giving closure to past incidents. The CBers shared both smiles and tears. They entered the knitting of loose ends that marks a story’s near-conclusion.

The party trudged through the sand, picking up speed until, at the height of the conversation, they felt like they were flying. The scavenger hunt clues required the CBers to traverse huge swathes of land, which seemed to take no time. In fact, the day itself seemed timeless, and the sun appeared frozen; the ebb and flow of wind and waves were the metronome of an everlasting moment.

When the topic of Lake Lelillo was exhausted, time remained to discuss past adventures. The spirit of nostalgia had descended upon the group; now, they moved on to the farm.

“Do you guys remember that time when we freaked the farmer’s assistant out exploring the woods so late?” Moonfrost grinned. “I can’t remember, who was in the group that did that?”

“Don’t ask us; we were both ghosts at the time,” Hotairballoon retorted, and Joan nodded her assent.

“It was Rufus, Will, and Panda, right?” Dragonrider replied. “No, wait. Rufus, Panda, and…Critic A? Or Sydney?”

“I trust your word over anybody else’s,” Moonfrost said. “After all…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dragonrider agreed quickly. “So--”

“How is the farmer’s assistant, by the way?” Hotairballoon interjected.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Dragonrider said.

“Oh, that’s right--you stayed behind,” Moonfrost mused. She sifted through her memories, which greatly resembled the sand below her feet--disjointed, shifting, and untrustworthy.

“Well how’s the farmer, then,” HAB corrected himself.

“She’s good. Really busy. When I left, we were finishing up the restoration of the house and acclimating the Nocte Fictiles back into the mines. I made a huge mess, do you realize that? We…buried the farmer up by the oak tree—the one as old as the farm—and buried Emerald there, too.”

Even as Dragonrider pored over her memories of the farm, they shimmered in her mind’s eye. This had been happening ever since she got here; she hadn’t noticed until now. Her visions of the farm held the quality of a dream, or another life--a reality different from the one she knew...The observation made her shiver and long to escape this place of confusion. Had any of that been real at all? She felt as though she had left a place to which there was no return.

“How’s the story?” Moonfrost asked, to which Dragonrider choked a little.

“The story? You mean the one--”

“The one someone was writing about us, yeah.”

“It’s--it’s good, um--I went through it once, invisibly, and--uhh…”

“Was it cool?” Joan wanted to know.

“You know, it was like reliving other people’s memories. And as for me, I--”

“--You got to watch yourself under the Mystery’s control,” Hotairballoon realized.

“Yes,” Dragonrider said. “It was very interesting, and--the story was exactly how I remembered it happening. It was extremely accurate.”

“I’ve heard you guys mention this story, but…” Cinderpelt trailed off.

“In the farm ski lodge, we found out just before we left that the farmer had received a new story in his magic room what-have-you,” Moonfrost explained. “Turns out it was our story. He put it in the woods while it finished. And obviously it finished, if Dragonrider could go in.”

Dragonrider cocked her head and hesitated before continuing. “Yes, it did finish. I got to the end. Whoever wrote about us didn’t continue past the point when Panda and the ghosts left.”

“You mean someone was recording the events of the farm story while you were there?” Cinderpelt contemplated.

“Yeah. Very accurately,” Dragonrider confirmed.

“Did you ever find out who it was?”

“Nobody has any clue. See, it couldn’t have been any of the Chatterboxers. Nobody knew I was the murderer. How could my secret meetings be in the story, then? It wasn’t the farmer’s assistant. And it wasn’t the farmer, because his death was...it was in there, and everything that came afterwards.”

“Autumn Leaves, then?” Moon suggested.

“Wait, I thought--” Cinderpelt began.

“Different Autumn Leaves. Bad guy version,” Dragonrider said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“The Mystery was controlling her, too?” Cinderpelt wondered, still confused.

“No. Same name, different entity. This Autumn Leaves was from the farm.”

The strolling CBers quieted in a moment of silence as they pondered this rediscovered mystery.

Meanwhile, Lily and Cassy shared an astonished glance at one another, and they could practically feel the tension hovering over the Mystery. The balance, again, was very near tipping, and as with the Noodle Manor, it would only take one beam before everything came crashing down.

“Weird. Maybe it was one of the magical creatures, or someone with a crystal ball or something,” Hotairballoon suggested.

“That’s what the farmer and I were thinking,” Dragonrider nodded, but cold seeped into her memories, and her mouth went dry. Could it have been? If none of it happened? Surely--they remember it. And yet... “We’re going to do an investigation after everything’s fixed up.” Again, Dragonrider felt that worm of unease thrashing within, as does one who has very nearly realized they are sleeping and tries to move a limb in reality.

“This is pretty neat,” Pierre piped up. He now walked level with the CBers. “Did anyone write a story about me?”

“No…but we got all your Harry Potter fanfiction,” Dragonrider joked.

Pierre perked up. “Really?”

“No, sorry.” All the same, Dragonrider looked thoughtful. “What if someone is writing a story about us? Right now?”

“I don’t see why not,” Moonfrost mused.

“That was a ski lodge. This is a ski lodge. Maybe Lily and Cassy know,” Pierre suggested innocently. In truth, he was eager to find out if he was someone’s favorite character.

“Maybe. Lily! Cassy!” Moonfrost called back.

“Yeeees?” Cassy replied, hurrying her pace to get into conversation range.

“What, um...how do I phrase this...What do you know about the person writing the farm story?”

Cassy pressed her lips together. “Oh. Yeah, the farmer put that story in the woods. What about it?”

“You know what. Do you know who wrote it?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Is that a yes?” Pierre wondered hopefully.

“Brother dear, don’t ask about things you don’t understand,” Lily reprimanded him with a playful pat. With that, Lily and Cassy removed themselves once more from the conversation. Their hesitancy to provide information only made the Chatterboxers more curious.

Presently, however, the CBers moved on to other topics--the cooking competition, the snail army, Dragonrider’s secret plans from the farm--and for the rest of the day, there was no good Mystery and bad Mystery. It was simply talk about ski lodges--and the funny parts, at that. The truest parts. For a moment, the shadows lifted, and the murderer felt relief in its migraine. This was the calm before the storm.

Sand dunes rolled past...waves receded as the tide went out...the clouds melted into the horizon in one of the most brilliant sunsets the CBers had ever seen...and the CBers found the last clue of the day at the very tip of Lelillo, where a burbling stream emptied itself into the lake. A log lay across the stream, which was flowing slower than usual due to the drought.

Beyond the conjunction between the stream and the lake was a dark, dense forest that stood perfectly straight from left to right. All the trees were the same size, evenly spaced like prison bars, extending indefinitely into the distance. In the twilight, the CBers felt as though they’d reached a wall.

“This is the border of the property,” Lily declared. “If you squint you can see a flagged post just there, where the stream disappears underground--way back in the tenth row of trees.”

The CBers squinted and saw it was true.

“If it’s underground, how’d we get here?!” Moonfrost exclaimed. “We all came in on canoes. I don’t remember being underground.”

“All inlets lead to Lelillo,” Cassy replied. “That’s just how the Mystery works.”

None of the Chatterboxers dared pass into that maze of trees. They preferred to stick near the shallows by Lelillo’s tip, where the soft, grassy sand still retained the day’s fading warmth. Someone--either Cassy or Lily--had prepared a campfire before the CBers’ arrival, and on this last night of the CBers’ third week at Lelillo, they feasted on warm berry mash and--at HAB’s insistence--frogs.

The frog meat was not bad.

Under the serene conditions surrounding this slight valley--its gentle breeze, the murmuring of the stream, and the cushioned sand--the Chatterboxers grew weary in an instant. After the fire was doused, the moon had already risen, and the stars awoke, flashing millions of pinpoints of light down onto the crystalline surface of the lake.

The CBers drifted off to sleep and dreamed of bicorns and General Firecracker and boats and huts and survival in the wilderness.

It was the last night at Lake Lelillo. 

Alright, got you covered, Joan ;) 

Day 22 - 12:04 a.m.

The murderer dreamed of other ski lodges that night. Phantasmic wisps of other murderers, venues, and chaperones danced through every nook and cranny of its mind, but the visions were benign--candid. There was no underlying message beneath the sights. The murderer would’ve liked to sink into them forever, but suddenly, a whip-poor-will whooped from a nearby tree, jerking the murderer from its slumber.

It sighed through its nose and opened its eyes, disappointed to be back in reality. A quick glance at the moon relayed the time to the murderer, and it let out another huff. Only three hours of sleep?

Wait--the moon.

The murderer scrambled up and did a double take at the sky. The moon was nothing more than a blob of light seeping out from behind a dense layer of clouds. The stars were gone, and the lake’s glow had dimmed. Humidity permeated the air. Petrichor drifted under the murderer’s nose.

The murderer spun around and saw a faint mist gathering in the woods, pouring slowly across the sand and pooling over the lake’s surface.

It’s going to rain, the murderer realized, its heart skipping a beat with joy. Yes, yes! 

The murderer inhaled deeply once more, revitalized by the scent of oncoming weather. Lily and Cassy would certainly be elated by the rain, unless the clouds were merely blowing through. That would be just their luck.

The murderer rubbed its temples and withdrew from the sandy basin, careful to tread quietly. The others were all asleep, but the murderer half wished to shout them into awakeness.

Today, the scavenger hunt ends, the murderer thought, suppressing its impertinent urge to reveal itself. If we get through today and the Mystery doesn’t break--mission success. Then we hop into another ski lodge and...try to fix the Mystery there? The murderer knew that was a horrible plan, but it was their best bet.

There’s no guarantee that they’re going to hit all the traps. The murderer surveyed the slumbering CBers and realized that if the plan for today failed, all would be lost. And with the story in conversation now--which was no coincidence, mark the murderer’s words--all ski lodges were one step away from disaster.

Suddenly, the smell of rain no longer promised peace. It promised a climax. The murderer realized that the clouds were not a symbol of returning stability; they were a metaphor for sudden change that could not be controlled.

The murderer could only hope...

~ ~ ~

Dragonrider. A Chatterboxer. The murderer from the farm story. The new farmer’s assistant, or so her memories assured her. Now, she was a suspect—a passerby—and a detective.

She’d come searching for answers, lying low about her cause. Having been the murderer once, she understood what to keep quiet about. After all, both the murderer and detective must search in darkness. Why do people become murderers, and what causes a ski lodge? 

Before her arrival, Dragonrider had intended to find the murderer of this ski lodge and ask them these things, which was easier said than done, because a force gripped her just as strongly here as it had at the farm, seizing her mind and pressing her into forgetfulness. When lucidity had at last been regained, Dragonrider held her first clue: Participants had zero control in a ski lodge. What force could possibly be at hand? I know it isn’t magical…so what else could it be?

Dragonrider, the detective of the Lake Lelillo ski lodge, had come to peer through battered boundaries. The other CBers opened a window for her, and Dragonrider reaped those benefits in secrecy. Despite finding answers, Dragonrider never achieved rest. A detective’s duty is to discover, and Dragonrider could not silence her own mind. She knew there was one last puzzle piece she was missing.

The Mystery knew this too. Perhaps that is why Dragonrider awoke, dangerously, just as the murderer returned from its final preparations. After all, a detective must draw ever closer to answers...and another force wanted her endeavors to succeed.

Dragonrider opened her eyes and spied the murderer returning over the log bridge, accompanied by Lily and Cassy. The murderer almost didn’t notice, because Dragonrider did not make any motion as she observed the murderer’s return.

Dragonrider knew in an instant that her climax had come. This was the very meeting she had hoped for since her arrival. With all the past behind her, Dragonrider viewed that lonesome CBer in a new light. Was she surprised it was them? No. How could she have been, when she suspected everyone? The awe was not absent, however, as two entities became one—the murderer and its identity—and Dragonrider realized there was no turning back.

She stood; the murderer saw her; Lily and Cassy jumped in shock.

The murderer panicked; Dragonrider hurried to meet it; the murderer tried to lie about why it was up and about. Dragonrider had none of it.

“Tell me—this is why I came—I have to ask you something.”

The pair retreated across the stream again. The murderer again denied its identity. Dragonrider repeated her questions.

The murderer wouldn’t respond until it had stopped at a rocky outcropping by the shore. At last, in its own interest, the murderer conceded to Dragonrider’s demands. It could not answer all of her questions, but it could appease her curiosity by sharing details of its own experience.

The murderer, too, had questions. It found great relief conversing with a CBer truthfully for the first time. Dragonrider didn’t flinch in the murderer’s presence, and it was liberating, if only for a moment, to have someone know its true self and not care. In this way, the murderer was free.

The pair talked for a very long time, and Dragonrider felt as though she had never truly known this CBer until now. Unfortunately, this CBer could not answer the one question burning in Dragonrider's heart.

She could've phrased it a million different ways, but beating around the bush would only make her feel worse. Although it hurt, and she was afraid of the answer, Dragonrider whispered, "Was the farm real?" The minute the words left her mouth, she felt something in her plummet. Her phrasing betrayed her belief: The farm had become a 'was'.

The murderer regarded Dragonrider solemnly, contemplating how to answer in the gentlest and truest way possible. "The farm is real."

Dragonrider exhaled her anxieties all at once, but all too soon. The murderer inhaled and added, either out of sympathy or the want of it, "Just not in the way you think."

The murderer offered nothing more, and Dragonrider was not wholly comforted. The murderer was secretive not out of interest for the Mystery, but because it understood the burden of knowledge. It was out of the same incentive that restrained Dragonrider from seeking explanation: Both CBers knew--and this was enough--that ignorance brings bliss.

Answers don't always mean relief, and Dragonrider was all the wiser for realizing this.

- - - 

There is a game—and the CBers had played it—called Murder in the Dark. This game features suspects, a murderer, and a detective.

The detective wins if it finds out who the murderer is.

The murderer wins if the detective is defeated.

Tonight, both parties found victory.

Day 22 - Part One: CONJECTURE

The Chatterboxers awoke to a gray, misty morning with a sprinkle of rain that masked the horizon like a fog. Sand stuck to the CBers’ hair and was now a nuisance. The surface of the lake was a mass of abstract ripples. The atmosphere was thick and white, oppressive and cool.

Dragonrider was gone, and nobody knew where she’d disappeared to. After an hour of waiting, she did not return to the group. The CBers assumed her death, held a brisk memorial service (during which Dragonrider still did not show up, confirming their suspicion), and prepared to continue—perhaps to finish?—the scavenger hunt.

Cassy handed the Chatterboxers the morning's clue with a somber expression. It was so uncommon to see Cassy with a passive face.

Chatterboxers, today is the final day of the hunt. Cross the bridge and follow the last five clues to victory. Your final prize awaits you.

The Chatterboxers took the clue and shivered. Would they go out quietly? Was this really the end? Had all their plans led up to this day? Everything they’d ever thought or said or felt about the Mystery seemed to fall flat. In that moment, they felt as though all they had done had been for nothing. Lake Lelillo felt more like a trap than ever, and the CBers wondered what its purpose had been in the first place.

Five days ago, the Noodle Manor had fallen. Now, four CBers remained.

They’d been living submissively since the collapse, expecting their final days to be an explosion of chaos. Surely this wasn’t the end…?

Something in the wind told the Chatterboxers it was. These really were the final days. Final hours. Final...minutes? Subdued, the CBers collected themselves and began the hike around the other side of Lake Lelillo.

The clues continued to commemorate fallen CBers: Shadow. Grace. The CAPTCHAs. Kate the Great. Owlgirl. Ice Wolf. Wordsy.

It was unusual for the last five CBers not to be accusing one another. It was unusual for the last morning to be spent in silence. It was unusual for the rain to suppress the sounds and sights and smells; wasn’t the final day meant to be catastrophic?

It doesn’t have to be the final day, three of the CBers kept telling themselves. I’m not going to die today. No...we’re not leaving today. We’re not saying goodbye to Lily and Cassy yet. No, no, no.

Moonfrost’s every footstep hammered into her head like thunder. It was anxiety, returning tenfold with every minute the CBers drew closer to the mansion. The hunt had led them in a big, useless circle, and she knew they’d be back at the mansion in no time at this speed.

What’s the point of this? What have we gained from this scavenger hunt?

She thought, and she thought, and the more she thought, the more she remembered the vigor with which she opposed the Mystery--and she resented her choice to forget that opposition--and then she realized it was all the murderer’s fault. Moonfrost’s anger condensed as she made the connection and she blurted the declaration with vehement disgust:

“We’ve been distracted!”

“Distracted?”

“Distracted!”

The rain poured down harder. Moonfrost was furious, but none of the others could be bothered to care. Change was in the winds, and the CBers looked forward to what was coming rather than back at what had been done.

Cinderpelt asked a question that needed to be answered. “Lily, Cassy--what happens after a ski lodge?”

Thunder rumbled from behind them.

“You go back to the Chatterbox,” Lily answered. “And if you’re dead before the ski lodge ends, you wait in the waiting room.”

“Waiting room?” Joan wrinkled her nose. “I don’t remember a waiting room.”

Lily shrugged. “Well of course you don’t. You’d be surprised at all the things you don’t remember right now.”

“Why do you ask, Cinderpelt?” Cassy wondered.

“It’s--just--there’s only five of us now,” Cinderpelt stammered.

“Ah.”

The Chatterboxers continued walking in silence for a moment. They’d found the cobblestone sidewalk and now strolled at an easy pace parallel to the shore.

“Well.” Cassy cleared her throat. “Um, I want you guys to know you’ve been an awesome group. It’s been neat having a ski lodge of our own, and we’ve loved getting to know you over these past few years.”

“She means weeks,” Lily corrected her sister.

“Feels like years,” Hotairballoon muttered. “But for what it’s worth, guys, the same to you. Thanks for putting up with us.”

Cassy smiled. “We’ll have to do it again someday.”

“We will, won't we?” HAB wondered.

“I sure hope so,” Cassy answered.

“I don’t know how you’d want to after all this,” HAB murmured.

“Pfft. This is literally our only job in life.”

“We love you guys,” Joan added.

“Yeah. You’re some of the best chaperones ever,” Cinderpelt agreed.

Moonfrost nodded in agreement.

~ ~ ~

Before long, the scenery became better-kempt, and the Noodle Manor rolled into view.

It was quite a sight, looming through the downpour like that. All the CBers could see from their vantage point—having yet to reach the boat house or the false sunken ship—was a hazy, craggy pillar of splintered wood with part of the roof dangling from its tip. The ruin stretched into the sky as if to meet the rain. Smoke drifted up around it; there must have been a fire, and the rain had put it out. The CBers shuddered and wondered if the hunt would lead them back there.

Much closer—and much more welcome—was the boat house, where the CBers had first touched land here at the lake. Its long tin roof promised temporary reprieve from the torrent of water; the storm had worsened, and now, the sky was nearly black, roaring at the CBers from all around. Lightning flickered close by—sometimes just on the other side of the lake, zapping the water and sending steam up with all the makings of an explosion.

“LET’S RUN! WE’RE ALMOST TO THE BOAT HOUSE!” Joan shouted over the chaos.

The CBers tore off through the sloppy sand, wet clothes flapping icily in the gale. Sand and water stung their eyes, but they didn’t stop until they’d reached the expansive (yet rickety) tin building filled with canoes.

It was dark under that cover and not very dry. All the wood on the dock was sopping wet; the lake kept sending giant waves coursing up and over the boats, splashing onto the walkway. Thunder echoed aggressively between the water and the metal roof, but at least the wind had been left behind. The boat house was so rickety, however, it trembled violently with every gust.

“The clue is supposed to be in one of these storage closets,” Cinderpelt murmured.

Moonfrost opened the storage closet in the middle of the room, which was farthest from the walls. A slew of pool noodles toppled onto her and she shoved them forcefully away. “Oh! I found the clue!” In the back of the wooden closet was a piece of paper nailed to the wall. Moonfrost stepped into the closet to reach it.

Thunder blasted again, and the whole boathouse shook. At the same time, there was a click, and Moonfrost felt the floor give way beneath her feet. She screamed in fright, fell for a few seconds, and collided into the violent waves.

It took a few seconds for HAB, Joan, and Cinderpelt to realize Moon had fallen, since her scream had been drowned out—literally—by the wind and waves. When they finally spotted the hole in the closet floor, they crowded around the hole, searching for signs of Moon.

“Don’t jump in after her,” HAB warned, “or you’ll drown too.”

“Hotairballoon! It’s not like she’s already dead!” Cinderpelt was ready to dive into the hole after Moon.

“No! I mean the waves are too rough for that. If she’s smart, she’ll swim and resurface under here…Or outside, where there’s less risk of being knocked out by a boat.”

The CBers split up to watch and see if Moon would appear. Cinderpelt headed outside to the left side of the boat house; Joan headed to the right side; HAB stayed in to survey the interior. Lily, Cassy, and Pierre joined each of them.

Two minutes later, Pierre (the strongest and best swimmer) did jump in to see if he could find Moon, but to no avail. The murky water revealed nothing. Pierre had to be pulled out by HAB and Cassy before he was sucked down as well.

Moon never did make an appearance. The CBers searched and searched—and waited and waited—but the longer they stayed the less they could ignore the deadly waves. There was no way Moon could have survived so long under that kind of water.

The storm seemed to me coming closer, and nobody wanted to be in the boat house if/when lightning struck it, so they continued after CAREFULLY extracting the clue from the back wall.

Rest in Peace, Moonfrost. 

YOU ARE ONE CLUE AWAY FROM THE GRAND PRIZE, CHATTERBOXERS. YOU HAVE PROVEN YOURSELVES STRONG AND I AM GLAD THIS IS NEARLY OVER. HEAD TO THE FAÇADE BEYOND THE BOAT HOUSE. HIDING WITHIN IS YOUR REWARD. THANK YOU, AND GOODBYE.

-THE MURDERER

------

Well, Moonfrost came to a conjecture--a conclusion/ending based on incomplete information. There was no showdown between her and the murderer! What, then, will the climax be...

But whaaat?? You mean to say it's almost OVER?! GET READY GUYS; I have a feeling you're gonna love this installment...

Day 22 - Part Two: The Moment You've All Been Waiting For

And of none but one of all, to be meekest in form,
one long-sought prize
brought forth, nameless;
The air around you,
The past behind you
Intangible yet somehow there
      Like shadows, but more; think deeper:
All things aside,
The only one that means its name 

 

- - - - - -

Heartbeats pounded rapidly under the frothing sky, terrible thunder, and torrential rain. The lashing, pelting droplets were relentless, forcing the CBers onward. Up ahead, surrounded by weeping flowers, was the fake sunken ship where the AEs had played on the first day at Lelillo. It was also where the CBers had sought Cassy. They remembered the secret passage within and wondered if they’d now find out where it went.

Joan’s heart sounded feeble, at least to her. She was afraid; she was dreadfully curious; she was eaten up with the mystery from the farm. She was confused; she was suspicious; her head was hurting.

Hotairballoon was expressionless; he was quiet, as usual; he was also afraid, perhaps even more so than Joan, but he would never show it; he lagged behind the others; he, too, felt trepidation at what was to come; he wondered who would be the last to leave Lelillo.

Cinderpelt was quiet and heartbroken; she feared the thunder less than what lay inside the broken ship. The more she walked the more pressure she felt to stop--and the heavier the atmosphere became; it was inexplicable, and she had no part in it, but all the same, something was happening at the same rate as her footsteps; Cinderpelt knew not if the two were separate events or one.

Lily and Cassy bit their lips; there wasn’t much to ponder in their minds; they knew they had to research their dream, but hated to leave the CBers at this point, when they might never see them again. All the same, something had to be done. They hoped the books hadn’t been burned with the rest of the house.

Pierre was along for the ride. Painfully oblivious, he remained shielded from the mystical effects of the Mystery that now lay dimming, slowly flickering out.

The murderer was in the worst shape of them all. Battered internally from head to toe, it felt its mind slipping—and this was not wholly the Mystery’s doing; the murderer’s personality made it hard to stay sane where it had no control. And only the murderer could sense the pattern in the thunder—which matched its irregular heartbeat. Why am I the symbol? Why am I the metaphor? Is that not Lily and Cassy’s job? Every footstep closer to the ship’s tawny hull worsened the murderer’s mental chaos, because the murderer could feel the Mystery moving at the same rate—and a collision was imminent.

“Let’s hurry,” the murderer urged. We have to beat it.

It was as though a wave chased them from behind.

How can the Mystery still be breaking?!

It seemed that the crack in the Mystery had widened so much it could not stop. We have to cut it off before then.

“Guys,” Lily began, shouting over the thunder. “Cassy and I have to go check on something in our room! We’re going to run ahead and—meet back with you after the hunt. Pierre, you need to come too.”

“What—why?”

“Because I said so.”

Cinderpelt looked at them worriedly. “Oh,” she replied with a frown. “Okay. Goodbye, then…” She walked over and hugged the chaperones, who then embraced the other three Chatterboxers. Pierre did the same.

“See you!” Cassy, Lily, and Pierre shot off, racing up the shore. When they reached the cobblestone path, they hurried faster, disappearing around the fake ship, up the hill, and into the looming ruins of the Noodle Manor.

The CBers themselves ran too, at the murderer’s insistence, until they arrived at the false sunken ship.

Feeling odd about entering from the back, they looped around and reached the jagged entrance they’d always used. And when the CBers stopped, so did the thunder. Moments later, the rush of rain ceased all at once, plunging Lake Lelillo into petrified silence.

The CBers looked wordlessly at one another; then, they peered into the sunken ship. Its dank, muggy interior consisted of two broken-down sections. One was halfway submerged in water, forming a wooden cave, and the other consisted of unnaturally clean, white sand.

There were no footprints inside. All the sand was soaked. Joan’s eye wandered to the corner that held the yellow lever, which could open the secret passage.

No one made a move to enter the ship. 

“This, uh, this is it,” Joan said, breaking the silence.

“Yep,” HAB agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t want to go in,” Cinderpelt murmured. “I can’t help but feeling like we’re about to...end this ski lodge.”

“We’re about to know who the murderer is,” Hotairballoon realized.

“We’re about to leave Lelillo forever,” Joan concluded, “but it doesn’t feel like the end.”

“Because it’s not the end."

“I wonder what Lily and Cassy went to look at,” Cinderpelt sighed. “Something real, or was that just an excuse?”

“Surely it was real,” Hotairballoon speculated.

“And maybe it had to do with the farm story,” Joan supplied. “Who knows.”

A chill went down the murderer’s spine. If there’s a wave really coming, then I know what it’s going to reveal.

“What’s our prize going to be?” Cinderpelt asked. Anything to stall entry to the ship.

“Prize? I doubt there’ll be one,” Joan answered.

“Maybe it’s buried,” HAB suggested. “When will we go in?”

“Do we have to?”

“The murderer’s here. They’re going to make us.”

“…Who do you think the murderer is?”

“I’d prefer not to say.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t see any traps. Let me throw this rock in.”

“See? Nothing…”

“Shall we head in, then?”

Cinderpelt found herself at the head of the group. She desired to be the first person to enter in case there was a trap; safety for the others was her primary concern.

Slowly, uncertainly, the CBers inched their way into the body of the ship. Cinderpelt’s bare feet were tickled by the damp sand, which felt surprisingly stable—The atmosphere remained ominously silent.

.

..

…

CRAK!

With the sound of an explosion, the sandy floor heaved upwards like a firework in the center of the room. Sand blasted out in all directions, stinging wherever it hit bare skin. All at once, a gaping hole opened in the ground; Cinderpelt let out a shout of surprise and was then swallowed into the depths of the earth. HAB and Joan leapt back just in time to avoid being sucked down as well.

Gravity pulled the sand neatly down atop the hole, and in less than thirty seconds, Cinderpelt was gone--buried who knew how deep--with nothing in her wake save for a layer of white, flat, silent sand.

Just then, the loudest roar of thunder yet reverberated through the sky and unleashed a torrent of rain that fell with renewed vengeance. Both Joan and Hotairballoon’s ears rang from it; the storm had reawakened.

In that moment, the murderer was revealed for the last time:

As Hotairballoon and Joan slowly turned and looked into each other’s eyes, fear colored one’s and steel gathered in the other’s. And now, for the first time in three years, I can write of the murderer with its true name. It and its identity are now one.

 

Joan’s world went slow-mo. She saw Hotairballoon—and she knew she wasn’t the murderer—and her lips parted in a silent scream, and a lightning bolt of fear lashed through her, and she forgot everything she ever knew about Hotairballoon except for one terrifying realization: He was the killer of all her friends. He was the killer of all his frirends--and his own AE. Hotairballoon was the murderer, and horror was Joan’s response: Primal fear for her own life caused her legs to move of their own accord, pumping as hard as they could, spurned by pure, blinding instinct. She forgot all her foresight, all her strengths, about her dagger, and about herself.

As Joan tore out of the false ship and into the raging storm, her adversary was not named Hotairballoon. In that moment, he was nothing but the murderer.

The murderer stood, watching her go, making no move to chase her.

Joan’s breaths came out in hysterical gasps. Why am I running? She ran because she wanted more time—more time to ponder the mystery of the farm story. Her mind had started on a track it could not escape from; it was too late to turn back.

She hugged the shore, but then she tripped on something that clamped her leg in a vice and kept her from standing. Spitting away sand, Joan craned her neck and saw her left foot bound in a cuff, welded to which was a heavy metal chain.

Joan yanked at the chain—and the chain yanked back. Under the dark sky, Joan could just barely make out its direction: it snaked through the sand and into the water. With every second that passed, the chain slithered farther into the lake’s depths.

Joan let out a gasp and flailed for purchase in the sand, but as the chain pulled her closer to the thrashing waves, all she got were raw fingers. The motion of the chain stretched her feeble scrabblings into frenzied, jagged lines in the sand; then, Joan resorted to twisting and pulling, but soon she felt water at her feet—and then it was up to her calves, gaining speed, and Joan thrust her arms into the mud in one final effort to remain on land.

A moment later, Joan caught a glimpse of Hotairballoon walking towards her from the sunken ship, approaching slowly until he stood right before her so that all Joan could see of him were his feet. She said nothing through her mouthful of sand, and neither did he. She endured her doom without a goodbye.

The wet substrate made a sucking sound around Joan’s arms as the rest of her body was pulled into the waves; then, with a pop, her arms were wrenched out of the mud, and she knew this was the last breath she’d ever take.

Just before Joan went under, she caught a glimpse of Hotairballoon’s face. He watched her with his arms by his side—looking anxious, not triumphant.

.

..

…

Joan held her breath tightly, submitting to the chain’s control and rapidly gaining speed as she careened down a steep slope of mud. The roar of thunder and the sloshing of the waves were muted underwater, and Joan could hear her heartbeat more clearly than ever.

Everything else had been cast aside. It was only her, the chain, and her doom. She was pulled down so quickly that after about forty-five seconds, her descent came to a jolting halt. Joan tugged weakly at the unyielding weight below her, and the air in her lungs caused her body to strain against it. She writhed under the water pressure, hundreds of feet below the surface, longing to float upwards and find relief.

This watery world was illuminated only by a dim echo of the surface’s light. Here, the murky water pressed in like an icy coffin—motionless, frigid, and silent as a grave. Joan pressed her eyes shut and warm tears squeezed out as she felt her lungs growing tighter. She could hold her breath for about two minutes--but how much time was left?

I want to figure it out before I die. Joan's mind flailed for purchase on some solid fact, and, as her oxygen ebbed away, she cast about wildly for some certain knowledge. Anything to save her from this snare of shadows…Clues clamored for attention in her fading consciousness. The plot. Written on paper. Writing a story. Helping. What was there left to ponder but this one remaining mystery?

The cuff around Joan’s ankle seemed to leech the life out of her. As the seconds ticked by, it burned with cold; Joan was sure it was going to leave a scar...She couldn’t concentrate through the pain. Then, as her lungs wailed in agony, Joan forever lost the ability to focus, resigning herself to defeat. Her ears began to flood with water, tormented by the pressure, and her body convulsed in pain. POP! Silence in her left ear, and the knifelike tension—as well as Joan’s hearing—fizzled out.

Even with her eyes clamped shut, Joan felt her vision ebbing. Her ankle went numb. Joan fell motionless in order to preserve energy, but her mind wasn't working properly, and her legs began to jerk in irregular spasms.

Even through all this, her subconsciousness raced on relentlessly—faster, in fact, that it had when Joan could think freely. As she sank deeper into darkness, a hidden part of her mind reached new heights, soaring on its own as strong minds do on the verge of inciting a lucid dream. Joan was now like Dragonrider—she was someone who sensed the dream and would soon make her mind recognize it.

The difference between Dragonrider and Joan is that Joan’s mind did it. Her mind broke the surface and the truth flooded in.

Suddenly, the ice that held Joan down flared, becoming immeasurably cold. In one final, uncontrollable spasm, Joan's feet jerked backwards.

The chain, embrittled by some unseen force, snapped.

The bonds within Joan’s mind, tested one time too many, shattered. Inside Hotairballoon's head, a throbbing glass ball exploded into a million tiny pieces that rattled like knives in his consciousness. He passed out.

Joan's eyes flew open with renewed vigor. Just like that, she had solved the Mystery.

Free, the CBette pushed off the lake floor and shot for the surface. Her limbs and lungs screamed for oxygen, but an inexplicable strength aided her rise to freedom. The higher Joan rose, the more powerful the currents grew; she was dashed about by waves and wind—and then—a blast of air! Joan inhaled more forcefully than she ever had before; she paddled weakly and gulped the oxygen, sobbing in relief, ignoring the pain in both her ears and not caring if she choked on the water.

When the dizziness subsided, Joan found that she could see again—and she saw she’d been pushed to the other side of the lake, just offshore of the beach beyond the water park.

Joan’s mind, which had likewise suffered three weeks of submersion, now surfaced: And she saw the world with new understanding. Thoughts flooded her brain that had once seemed impossible, and she processed them with more clarity than ever before:

My name is Joan B. of Arc. I am a Chatterboxer. I live at the Chatterbox. I go on vacations knowing what's going to happen before it happens, but I go anyway because it's fun to see. This is not the only me! This is only part of me! And of course the farm story was written by Micearenice—the other Mice, the Mice who was at the farm and not at the farm! The Mice of reality!

Joan was both physically present at Lake Lelillo AND somewhere in another dimension, reading her thoughts and emotions as they were described to her. Someone else recorded her every motion. Of course someone did! No ski lodge would exist otherwise! This was the way things had always been!

Two blinding streaks of lightning stabbed down at the tip of the lake. Joan was deaf to the explosion, but as she looked on—seeing through eyes not quite her own—two trees toppled over from the border forest, blocking the inlet that fed Lelillo. Simultaneously—and yet Joan also saw it, even though it was far behind her—a mudslide buried the river that flowed out of the lake. With that, the property was closed in.

The thunder that followed was some of the loudest yet. It shook the very earth, making the water thrash even more violently. The increased motion caused Joan’s right ear to give a faint pop, and warm water leaked out. At last, the whoosh of the rain and waves flooded her senses—she could hear again.

Joan forced her way through the waves and headed for the beach, but not after she’d taken a glance at where she’d last seen Hotairballoon. Over on the opposite shore sprawled a limp, waterlogged form. The waves lapped greedily at his feet, but he did not move.

Joan was tempted to ignore his troubles, but she couldn’t stop concern from entering her heart. Hotairballoon had worked by the CBers’ side—and he’d been so thoughtful—and he’d always done his best to think things through—he was never biased—he was such a good leader—and he’d kept everyone from dying—and yet he was the murderer.

Even if Hotairballoon was still living, Joan couldn’t help him now. She was too exhausted and too far away. Joan reached the shallows and plodded wearily to shore, her left ear throbbing. She probably wouldn't be able to hear out of it ever again...Not in this story, at least.

Joan flopped upon land like a beached whale. The sand was cold and clingy, but it promised rest, so there she lay, catching her breath with greedy gasps and coughing out the water she’d aspirated.

If she stayed out like this, Joan feared she’d get struck by lightning. However, she couldn't will herself to move, so she lay on the sand, letting the waves wash her off, panting until she had calmed down enough to drift into trauma-induced sleep.

Her mind remained conscious through the slumber. Joan was in awe and horror of this new state of being; on the one hand, she’d discovered the final puzzle piece of the Mystery, opening an entirely new realm to the Chatterboxers. On the other hand, the Mystery she’d striven so hard to protect was now destroyed. It was no longer a Mystery. What would happen to it now?

Maybe a half an hour later, Joan forced herself to awaken and stand. Across the lake, HAB was still lying motionless. Joan bit her lip--What happened to the murderer when the Mystery broke…?

  Joan gasped. What happened to the--

  No.

  Joan couldn't bear to consider the idea.

  What had happened to Lily and Cassy when Mystery fell to pieces? No. Nonono. I didn’t mean to--! I really didn’t! They can’t be dead.

Joan’s insides squirmed with dread as she gazed across the lake, where the ruins of the Noodle Manor were sprawled in full view, dark and misty and ominous.

She couldn’t rest until she knew. Hotairballoon could wait; it was time to go. Joan raced for the mansion, careful to keep to the cobblestone paths, eyes peeled for traps. Presently, the storm subsided, breaking into a steady, windless downpour.

  She reads her story; wondering, dreading, hopeful, tentative; unknowing, confused, oblivious; with no knowledge as to what her fate will be--or already is.

~ ~ ~

  Stories are timeless creations whose tales become infinite upon completion. Read a story once; read it twice; read it again, and when you start the next time, you'll be in the same spot as you were at the start. The more a story is perused, the more knowledge is gleaned from it. You can predict--state, even, with utter certainty, when you open to chapter one--the characters' hopes and dreams, their goals, and whether or not those goals are reached.

  Yet there remains an exception to this rule. If you read a story as it is written--if you follow a story before it is finished--then you adventure alongside the characters on their maiden voyage. You witness the birth of the story’s loop: The ending has yet to be reached; in fact, it does not exist; the tale remains an arc.

  Sometimes the author, who in her story is omnipotent, sees the ending and bears it in secrecy until the final phrase is inked. She foresees a conclusion in her mind, but until The Ending is penned, finality lies dormant. Change pervades the atmosphere, surrounding the author in a storm-cloud of possibilities. Each alternative battles for consideration in the author's mind, and she would be remiss to ignore them; dutifully, gently, in love for her story, she weighs all outcomes, as a jury before a court. The very fiber of her story is considered—its DNA is taken under a microscope--its shell is thrown off and the author is immersed inside her mind, where there are no words--where there is no writing--where there is only, simply, just--the creativity and imagination of the author.

  The nature of the story sings to the author: In the depths of the mind, if the story has been written the right way; if the story has, until The End, written itself--then the characters choose the ending.

  The characters choose the ending.

  Two of you remain in this story. One of you is a character of my creation, identified only by name; you are under the influence of something other than yourself, including myself. But one of you has escaped the trance of the Mystery—and has thrown it out of its domain, casting it into the land of the broken—and is now consciously within and without of these words. Your real self has connected with your fictional self. The fourth wall has been breached at long last.

  The story is not over...the future hasn't happened—And the author, subservient to the demands of her characters—a mere representative—has now surrendered control. 

  What will you, Joan B. of the story Arc, do next?

----------

Joan, your character has broken the fourth wall and is temporarily under your control. What would you have her do next? (You don't have to 'do' anything if you don't want to, and I'll keep going with what I've got.) You could continue to look for Lily and Cassy, change your mind and tie up Hotairballoon (or help him instead), etc. The choice is yours!

That was the Mystery's final secret--the secret that kept CBers from knowing about reality/our world. Now that it's known, the Mystery is not much of a mystery anymore...

I have a second part that I might post today, since this one was relatively short(?), and I'm excited.