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Orrie grinned at the completed sketch. Ignoring how some things weren’t drawn to scale, he was admittedly impressed by how much he remembered of the rooms, the hallways they passed through, and the relative lengths and distances between each of them. Maybe he should be a mapmaker when he grew up.

Silly as the thought was it didn’t entertain Orrie for long, and he was soon wondering what was taking the twins. The two had gone to get something to eat about half an hour ago, which (he had to remind himself) was a reasonable amount of time. But being alone in the manor was greatly raising his anxiety. Even without the clue on him Orrie did not fancy having another run-in with Siegfried. And then there was the staff, any one of whom could be the culprit behind Dug’s death. And that was assuming it was only one of them and not more, or even some unknown third party.

Orrie made an indecipherable noise in his throat. Now was not the time to be worrying about that– they had a mission. Solve the mystery and escape. But he wasn’t going to be doing any solving by just standing in place. Maybe…maybe I can explore the grounds? Anything to give himself something to do. Calm his nerves and mind. He packed his sketchbook back into his bag and made for the mansion’s front door. The nagging sensation he’d been feeling since Belle and Dipper left grew as he walked. But he soothed it somewhat by promising himself he wouldn’t be gone long; he’d be back inside by the time they were done eating.

Stepping though the front doors the midday sun greeted him brightly. A warm breeze teasingly ruffled his hair as it blew past, and for the briefest of moments Orrie could just forget his worries. Robins chirping from the distant hedge maze, dazzling light glittering off the pool water’s surface, the faint smell of roses and tulips that lined the trimmed bushes– how could anyone suspect a greater evil here?

Orrie hurried himself down the cobblestone path, wishing to check something. He knew the others had dismissed the idea and for good reason too, but he just wanted to make certain…

“Well now we know for sure…” he muttered to himself. The gates were indeed locked as he could clearly see. Orrie paused, leaning in a bit closer. Was that—? Listening carefully he could hear a faint, steady thrum coming from the bars. Brow furrowing, Orrie bent over and picked up a tiny stone, tossing it at the gate. A loud pop followed by agitated sizzling rang out upon contact, and the charred pebble fell with a dull thud. Magic-powered fences? he thought. Okay…this was going a bit far. Surely the owners would have turned this security feature off while visitors were here. Despite wanting to see just how far the fence stretched, Orrie knew he needed to get back inside. Even if it wasn’t much information he had to let Flynn, Dipper, and Belle know about the gate.

Footsteps grabbed his attention. He took an unwitting step back, twisting fully to face the hedges. Nothing moved. Only the sound of chirps continued to ring out clearly from the maze. “I-is there someone there?” Orrie called out nervously, still refusing to budge. When no words answered back he hesitated a step towards it. When still he saw nothing emerge he reasoned he’d probably misheard the noise and it’d been a deer or something. Orrie approached the neatly-trimmed maze from the side and peeked around its corner. It was empty as far as he could see.

Orrie briefly debated the chances of the murderer simply jumping out and killing him once he entered, then he reasoned the person would’ve already done so by now. He entered the maze only to find it an overly simplistic labyrinth. Two turns right, one left, and he quickly found himself at a dead end. Slightly put off that there wasn’t anything of worth here he made to leave.

But it was right when he reached the entrance again he paused, listening. It was incredibly easy to disregard but now that he thought about it he never did see any birds while in the maze, and yet not once did it let up on its song. Surely it would have gone quiet or flown away as he approached it. Berating himself for going back on his self-made promise, Orrie reentered the hedge maze, now seeking the strange bird. He scoured every inch of the bushes, slowly nearing the source of the tweets. It was roughly halfway through he noticed something brown hidden deep within the compact branches– extremely easy to overlook if you weren’t searching for it.

Sticking his hand through the maze wall, Orrie could feel it was a handcrafted nest, and inside it were a tiny device and something flimsy. The device had to be a speaker of sorts; the chirping was momentarily muffled when Orrie ran his fingers over it. As for the flimsy material—

“You have got to be kidding me.” Did fortune actually favor him? The boy hastily pulled out the hint, eagerly unscrolling it to read:

“How many of these go round all day long?”

Orrie snorted to himself; now this nursery rhyme he could figure out. Still, where exactly was he going to find a bus? The hint couldn’t be referring to the one they rode on yesterday as it was likely long gone by now. Maybe there was another bus they needed to find, one in a garage hidden somewhere behind the manor. So…wait, no; that couldn’t be right. The song was ‘Wheels on the Bus’. So was the hint referring to the wheels themselves? Orrie frowned, wordlessly rolling the paper back up and stuffing it into his backpack.

Another light breeze fluttered through, and Orrie took the moment to appreciate it before the answer suddenly thrust itself to the forefront of his brain. Pinwheels! He made haste to the greenhouse, spotting with happiness the rainbow pinwheel spinning lazily above the glass building. It took a few seconds to find the door that was nearly identical to the thick glass windows, but it wasn’t long before Orrie was inside. Almost instantly he was hit by the overwhelming stench of damp earth carried by hot air; the greenhouse was a lot muggier inside than he expected. So he left the door open in hopes of dispelling some of the heat.

Getting a better look of his surroundings, Orrie made a noise of slight annoyance. This place was more a maze than the actual maze outside– tables of varying lengths were arrayed in such an unorganized fashion that there was no easy way to walk down the rows and columns without having to turn corners every few steps. And some pathways led to obvious dead ends. Yet covering every table were brown pots holding various plants: some with flowers, some with growing trees, and some with strange foliage that were likely of magical origin. These pots had sets of colorful shapes painted on them, none of which were arranged in any particular pattern. Orrie approached the nearest pot, the one with three red squares and contained a bamboo shoot. To its right was a pot with foxgloves and painted with ten blue hexagons, and beside that was a pot with some sort of fern and dotted with four white diamonds.

So what should I do with these? He lifted the pot. Nothing underneath. He turned it around. Nothing on its backside. He scooped out some of the packed soil. Nothing noticeably odd inside, but now he knew at least all the plants on the tables were fake after he pulled out the plastic bamboo stick. “They have to be fake for a reason,” he muttered quietly; the real plants had probably been put away for the event. He wandered around the greenhouse for several minutes, simply looking and pondering what he should be doing. There didn’t seem to be much else in here to browse at. It was when he somehow managed to maneuver himself to the back of the building he found ten trowels lined up neatly on the wall. Ten trowels– one for each of the guests.

Ah, so they did have to dig through the pots. After climbing onto the table (and taking care not to knock over any of the bowls containing water and real lotus plants growing) Orrie snatched one of the trowels. Now to figure out which pot to dig through. The boy grinned, remembering the hint. Of course– a bus has four wheels that go round, so he needed to find the pot with the four circles.

With excitement and a bit of pride in how much of the hint he solved by himself, Orrie hurried through the table maze once more, scanning each pot for the correct pattern arrangement. It wasn’t too long before he found the one he was looking for. He removed the fake bonsai tree and started digging. When he scooped out all the hard dirt he saw a thin indent at the bottom of the pot, just wide enough to fit the tip of his trowel in it. Orrie put the tool in and twisted, the bottom lifting to reveal a tiny but empty compartment beneath.

What? The frown appeared as quickly as his excitement vanished. Was this not the correct pot? Orrie checked underneath it and even the two pots beside it, but there wasn’t anything. Am I missing something? He walked slowly down the paths again looking for another pot with four circles. That one had seven squares…four rectangles…eight pentagons…five triangles. He eventually looked at each and every pot, but he couldn’t find any other with four circles.

He stopped and contemplated. The rhyme wasn’t complex so the answer had to be simple; he was just overlooking something. He thought some more before realizing his mistake. He had been missing something– four wasn’t the right number. A bus may have four tires, but it had five wheels; he forgot to take into account the steering wheel. Spinning around, he dashed back where he’d been, realizing he’d passed a pot with five purple circles a couple tables down. He quickly found the pot, shoveled out the soil and fake tulip, connected the trowel to the slot, and twisted. The door opened, and this time there was something inside. Orrie dumped the items out—another key and scroll—and read the piece of paper:

“Non amo thee, Sabidi.”

What does this—?

The door to the greenhouse slammed shut before he could finish his thought. Faltering for only a second, Orrie took quick steps toward the exit but could already hear a mechanism click as he grabbed the handle. He turned it; the door was locked. Orrie banged against the reinforced glass. “Hey! Can somebody hear me? Open the door!” He paused when he heard something begin to buzz. Looking up, he saw the lights flicker and shift from a warm yellow to neon pink, and almost instantly the temperature in the building began to rise to a sweltering level. Orrie gasped, seeing that the greenhouse used strong magic to make its plants grow. “Help!” But he knew there was no one around to save him.

Droplets of sweat already beginning to coat him, Orrie forewent pounding the door with fists and tried flinging a pot at it instead. It bounced back with nothing more than a dull thud. He tried again and again, both door and windows, but all he succeeded in doing was drastically wearing himself out in the rising heat. Orrie was panting as he looked around for some other route of escape. The walls? A back door? He groaned, his thoughts slipping into sluggishness. He fell to the ground and crawled beneath a table in a useless attempt to find shade. Orrie pressed himself against the ground, taking in what little coolness was left in the concrete floor.

“Hel…he…” His mouth was too hot and dry. Sweat drenched his body yet couldn’t cool him. His eyelids felt heavy, and he so very much desired closing them and falling asleep. Orrie glanced one last time toward the sealed exit. What’s…that…? From this position, head flat against the ground, he could make out a small raised something on the floor nestled by the door hinge. It was only a shade darker than the rest of the cement but clearly not part of it. Orrie forced himself to believe that was some sort of emergency switch as he half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward it. He thought his heart did a tiny flutter when he saw it was indeed a button. He pressed it.

The floor rumbled, a grinding screech nearly too much for Orrie to handle. A couple feet to his left a part of the floor fell and slid away. Orrie crawled over to it, peeking over and noticing at least a ten foot drop into an underground tunnel. What little reasoning his brain had left could not stop him from pushing himself forward; the boy tumbled through the hole and landed painfully on his shoulder and side. He rolled onto his back, dimly aware he should be in more pain than he was but honestly too tired to care.

Something clattered beside him. It took Orrie a moment to realize he’d dropped the key and even longer to realize he’d been holding it and the hint the whole time. He moaned and closed his eyes, falling asleep to rest in the cool, quiet tunnel.

When he woke up after what felt like hours later, Orrie felt somewhat rejuvenated though still a bit woozy. His eyes stared upward. The hole was still open, the pink light flooding through but not nearly as scorching. He had seriously just been this close to—

No…

He…he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to. It had to have been part of the act…it had to…

Orrie wordlessly grabbed the items and climbed to his feet, slowly trudging down the spacious tunnel before him. It wasn’t long before he couldn’t see and had to feel out in front of himself to not crash into anything. He didn’t dare think of where the tunnel led and forced his thoughts to remain optimistic and hopeful. That’s why Orrie relaxed a bit when the tunnel ended with a vertical turn upward. Metal rungs were embedded in the wall, and he climbed them to find a wooden plank above him.

Orrie pushed once, twice, three times with all his might, finally able to get the heavy trapdoor to open. Is…am I back in the manor? He seemed to be in a supply closet of sorts, artificial and non-magical light pouring in from beneath the closet door to reveal old brooms, buckets, and mops scattered messily about. He climbed out and, after closing the trapdoor, exited the tiny room. He found himself in an unfamiliar wing of the mansion.

Orrie walked down the halls, taking in the silence, the lack of magical heat, and the absence of people. He was safe…for now. So his thoughts drifted to the newest hint and what it could mean. Taking a second to pull it out and read it again, he noted that while the language was unfamiliar it looked an awful lot like Latin. “No…love…thee, Sabadi,” he roughly translated. “Oh! Don’t love thee, Sabadi. I don’t love thee, Sabadi.” He could recall no nursery rhymes that had that line.

He racked his memory for anything that could possibly be related. The only thing he could connect with was a song his doctor used to sing to him as a little kid. The memory was faint, though, because she only sang it to calm him down long enough to give him his shots, joking afterwards the song had to have been made just for her. “But how did it go?” he muttered to himself. He knew the melody and rhythm, and he was certain the words did relate to the hint. “I do not something, something…uh…” He bit his lip. “I do not…oh! I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.” Orrie smiled softly, remembering how much he actually liked Dr. Fell; she must’ve sang that song to all her patients.

He stuffed the paper back in his bag and picked up his pace. Now he had a destination in mind: an infirmary. There was no way this manor didn’t have one. Orrie was both relieved and unnerved that he didn’t come across anybody in his search for the room. He really should consider putting all this on hold and finding Dipper and Belle first, but it was right then he just so happened to stumble upon a door with the word “Clinic” printed on its window. Orie sighed, reasoning he was already this far along so why stop now, and entered the small room.

Inside had a bit more than one would expect to see in a clinic: a doctor’s desk and chair, a cushioned bench, a single cot, a full-length mirror, and a doctor’s scale. There was a bookshelf cramped into the corner behind the desk and a counter and cabinet full of medical supplies, but otherwise that was it. Orrie quickly went to work scouring through the drawers and cabinets, finding only a wireless (and broken) keyboard in the top drawer of the desk. At the bookshelf he tried to remove one of the books from the shelf, but they might as well have been nailed down because they wouldn’t budge.

Orrie stepped to the doctor’s chair and flopped down in it. He mumbled to himself, “I don’t love thee, Sabadi,” a few times, trying to find some secret meaning in it. Growling in frustration, he took out the hint once more. “Non amo thee, Sabadi. Non amo thee—”

Wait! This whole time he’d been translating the probably-Latin into English when he should’ve also been focusing on the actual English in the hint. ‘Thee’ meant ‘you’, he was mostly confident. He glanced up at the mirror, his reflection staring right back. It seemed perfectly normal, so he got up and inspected it. Sadly, it didn’t open up or have any backwards messages on it. Orrie returned to the seat, spinning himself slowly around in it as he brainstormed again. He was close to solving this, he could feel it. With little conscious thought he opened the top drawer again, eyeing the wireless keyboard.

It wouldn’t be in here for no reason, right? There was, after all, nothing else inside the other drawers and no monitor or computer on top of the desk. But it was broken, with several of the keys missing and bits of plastic chipped off to reveal exposed circuitry. Orrie half-heartedly started pressing some of the remaining letters. He really needed to figure out what he was overlooking. Which, he admitted, would be so much easier to do if he had the twins helping—

It was when he pressed the ‘U’ key that a book from the bookshelf suddenly popped out of its place with a loud shoonk!, startling the boy and nearly causing him to tip out of the seat. He really wasn’t expecting anything to happen just now. He bent over and grabbed the displaced object, and his eyes widened when he recognized the book as actually a clue. Orrie snatched the key from his backpack and hurriedly unlocked the booklet. He at last read the clue he’d spent so long seeking:

“I just got the news from Pierce: The construction of our manor will begin Tuesday morning. I…I can’t believe this is actually happening. Joining a cult, constructing a home, capturing and commandeering a demon of unimaginable power. I suppose it’s a miracle that they knew how to contact me at all. And while I’m happy to no longer be seen as an outlaw to at least a few, it’s still so strange to me. Those six seem like the closest of friends; why drag an exiled nobody like me into their plans of grandeur? Is it only because of my knowledge of rare and blacklisted flora? Or is it also because of my understanding of the terrain, the likely routes and direction authorities would take to find us, the back-paths of escape?

Pierce assures me it’s nothing to concern myself over, but I don’t know; I don’t think they treat me like I’m an equal to them. Still, being far from my birthland and with no allies of my own, I’ll stick close to these people I’ll hesitantly call friends.”

Orrie took a moment to reread the first page, understanding that this writer was the least connected to the other cultists. Was he perhaps—no, he couldn’t jump to conclusions yet. Orrie turned to the other page:

“Four years to complete the manor, even with Jans and Sarkozy’s extensive knowledge in magic and their unrivaled proficiency in handcrafted spells. But I’m not complaining. It’s wonderful! A home. At last. I want to explore every inch of it like a young child…except for the attic. Sarkozy may be a bit overdramatic (or maybe her arachniphobia is legit), but she has a point, and so I’m keeping my distance from there until the infestation problem is resolved.”

Orrie’s heart raced. The names– these were the same names that were on their bedroom doors. He quickly went through the rooms and their occupants: he was in ‘Keller’, the Sterlings were in ‘Pierce’, Flynn was in ‘Jans’, the Lionharts were in ‘Gogh’, the Tosettis were in ‘Lemaire’, Siegfried was in ‘Sarkozy’, and Dug was…had been in ‘Kohl’.

Comprehension then dawned on him. “So those abbreviations must be for their first names since none of the rooms start with ‘M’ or ‘H’,” he said aloud as he took out his sketchbook and wrote down all the important takeaways from the clue. But when he finished he faltered in putting the clue back in its place.  Yes, Siegfried would be problematic if he found Orrie carrying it but…what if Flynn had been right? What if he couldn’t depend on the other guests? Sure, he felt mostly safe with the Sterling twins, but they wouldn’t always be here– right now being a great case in point. The killer wanted them all to solve the mystery; and the more clues he had, the likelier his chances of staying alive to do that.

Was that why Dipper had asked to hold on to it earlier? Had he already realized their importance and wanted a safeguard? Orrie’s hold on the clue tightened. He trusted them, he really did; he told himself such. But…but it wouldn’t hurt to keep this one little secret. His own safeguard. Besides, if it turned out to be something crucial later on, he’d tell them about it immediately.

Orrie removed the two diary pages from the booklet’s flaps and laid them in his sketchbook. Then he put the booklet back on the bookshelf and left the small room.

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Mr. Goodman stared dolefully at the stone floor, still unable to bear looking at the security feeds. How in the world could this have all happened under his watch? How had—he had trusted his staff. He had trusted Terry. He’s known the young man for four years; not once had he done anything remotely this…horrendous. Then again did he really know Terry if he was currently tied up and gagged in the inner chamber’s spare room? There was commotion by the monitors for some reason, and Mr. Goodman looked up. At least someone had been “kind” enough to leave the door cracked open, enough so that Mr. Goodman could see the screens and several staff members crowding around them.

From his limited view he could tell they were switching through the feeds quickly, looking for something. Or was it someone? Earlier it had been Mr. Fairfern as he talked to the children and convinced them to move Mr. Segal’s body. Then it had been on Mr. Connolly as he wandered the manor for clues. For a long while the staff kept watch on the twins as they ate; for some reason the cameras’ mics only picked up interference when they spoke. He did spot briefly the young boy Orrie heading outside, but that had been well over an hour ago and shortly after Terry had left the chamber for who knew why. At least the Tosettis were currently out of danger; the staff quickly turned feeds from them when they noticed all the elderly couple doing was reading and looking out their bedroom window.

Mr. Goodman returned his subdued gaze to the floor again. He was absolutely useless, unable to protect his own guests, so many of them so young. It was relatively quiet for several minutes until a scream tore through the speakers. Mr. Goodman’s head snapped up, his terror-filled eyes dreading to see what was before him.

The feed was from the foyer, not far from the staircase. Zahia Lionhart was leaning over something on the ground, wails escaping her as she did something with fervor. He couldn’t tell what exactly was going on—with her back to the camera and the staff pushing to get better views and blocking his sight—but based on her location he could make an educated guess.

Someone else had been killed—Cliff Lionhart no doubt. Mr. Goodman struggled to think what specifically could have done it; there were just too many possibilities. His blood chilled when he realized Zahia’s screams would act like a beacon to the other guests. With Terry in control and clearly having reactivated the mansion’s traps, the foyer in particular was nothing more than a death room waiting to claim its victims.

Shadows bobbed down one of the connecting hallways, and soon enough the Sterling twins ran into the picture, stopping short by the stairs. Dipper, face carefully blank, said something to Mrs. Lionhart, but again the mics had difficulty picking up sound; it was mostly garbled static with words occasionally breaching though. Whatever the boy said Mrs. Lionhart refused to answer, still hunched over and crying heavily.

“…eed to…could…atching ri…” Dipper made a step forward. That’s when Mrs. Lionhart rounded on him, shouting something indiscernible to the twins. Belle said something back, she too trying to keep herself collected, and Mrs. Lionhart broke down into tears again. The staff members started murmuring amongst themselves, making it even harder to hear what was going on.

Flynn arrived from out the same hall the twins came through. Mr. Goodman could tell he was a man seasoned to handle crises because almost immediately he was taking long strides toward Mrs. Lionhart and gently pulling her away from the spot she rooted herself to. Zahia struggled against him, but the elf was far stronger and held her tight to his chest. His glare hardened toward the twins, and Mr. Goodman could barely read his lips as he ordered them to go upstairs. Dipper retorted, his expression darkening as he took a defiant step forward and crossed his arms.

“…ot a game! We…nger…perty.”

“How d…eave? In…e’ve no…no…un awa…”

Belle joined in with something, but Mr. Fairfern shook his head at the two. “…en barrac…rooms. I’m ta…rol of the…” He paused. “And…rrie?” All eyes turned to Mrs. Lionhart then; she must have been muttering something. Whatever she said caused Dipper to look away with…anger? Frustration? Mr. Goodman couldn’t quite place the emotion. Likewise, Belle and Mr. Fairfern seemed quite uneasy. It was only then Mr. Goodman took notice of the thin puddle of blood pooling on the floor by Zahia and Flynn’s feet.

A door slam made all the guests jump: Siegfried had entered the scene. There was a brief moment of no one moving while Mr. Connolly and Flynn exchanged words, the twins speaking up every once in a while. Then Flynn, Dipper, and Belle were all staring incredulously at the large man. Both teens glanced at Flynn when the elf suddenly started shouting at Siegfried, looking downright furious. Even Zahia momentarily looked up at him.

“…will not allo…ou…ndanger the lives…people, Siegfried!”

Siegfried yelled harshly, “I didn…ared off by…came for…oney! Your…no concer…me!” He faced Belle when the girl uttered something evidently scathing to him. He scowled, curtly turning his attention to Zahia. He nodded toward her (again, likely talking to her) before turning on his heel and leaving the foyer. Flynn watched him go with the darkest glare Mr. Goodman had ever seen on a man’s face. His anger was almost palpable.

His head snapped to the side. Mr. Goodman had missed him coming in during Flynn’s outburst at Siegfried, but there was Orrie standing just at the edge of the screen, frozen in place as he stared with terrified and unwavering eyes at the scene before him.

“No…ve now! Orr…go!” But the boy couldn’t move, his form visibly shaking, all ability to otherwise respond gone. Flynn half-carried, half-dragged Zahia away and towards Orrie, her resuming her struggle to break free from him. “Zahia!” Finally she escaped, but she had been carried far enough away for Mr. Goodman to at last get a good look at Cliff.

The man’s death was hopefully quick. Long, needle-like blowgun darts were embedded deep into his chest and upper body, several piercing clean through his heart and base of his throat. A look of surprised pain was forever frozen on his face that stared blankly into the distance, his own blood soaking through his shirt and staining everything it touched. Beside him, half smeared by blood and half crushed when Zahia knelt beside him, was a note. It went unnoticed as Zahia screamed her husband’s name over and over. It went unnoticed as Flynn changed priorities and hurried to guide Orrie up the stairs, desperate to block the child’s view and demanding Belle and Dipper to help him. But Mr. Goodman saw it. And he read it. And he knew Terry was far from done with toying with his unwitting prisoners:

“Needles and pins, you married on whims; let’s end all your grins with dastardly sins.”