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“Whyyy?” Priya drew the word out.

“He has my book,” Tempest continued. “My annotated copy of his trivia book. I’d had it since before the Owl’s signing. I’d been writing notes in the margins ever since I got it and I’d taken it with me to Chicago since I’d never had the chance to ask him to sign it in Portland. But then when I beat him, it just felt too awkward to ask. I accidentally left it behind when we went to a bar after, and this is weird but I’m almost certain he has it now. In Bloomington he said something that was almost the same as something I’d written. I don’t think he even realized.”

Priya looked at her steadily. “So what if he read your notes?” she said, “He flew out to Bloomington of all places! Just to see you. What’s the issue, Tempest? He’s clearly into you. Don’t you like him?”

“Yes. I do. I like him a lot. But I can’t afford to even entertain the possibility!”

“Why not?” Priya was looking at her like she was crazy.

“Because he was at the store, Priya. He’s seen the bus full of stolen books. I’m a fugitive! Eventually he will remember something and make the connection between me and Owl’s. Or Fowler’s now, I guess. If Clement finds out… What if they come after me and prosecute me for taking the books? He said he would alert the authorities. I just⁠—”

“Oh, Tempest,” Priya interrupted. Her tone had changed and there was pity in her eyes. Tempest could tell her friend didn’t want to say what she was about to say. But she swallowed and forced herself anyway. “I should probably have told you right away that I went back to the store the morning after the party. I’d left my favorite mug there.”

Tempest’s hand went to the locket at her throat. She clutched it tight, feeling her mother’s monogram burning hot against her hand.

“I heard Clement talking with Barnabas and Archibald when they realized the books were gone.” She looked down at the floor. “They didn’t care that you took the books. They were never going to pulp them. They were counting on you to get rid of them. I’m pretty sure it was Barnabas who said it, though it was always so hard to tell him and Archibald apart. He said, ‘It looks like the trash took itself out.’”

There was silence in the bus.

“I’m so sorry,” Priya said. “They’re so terribly awful. I don’t know how you put up with it for so long.”

“I didn’t think I had any other options,” Tempest admitted. She looked out the window at the people of Salem going about their afternoon. The pressure was building in her chest. She squeezed her hands into fists. She was mad. Very mad. Weeks of careful logistics. Never using her surname. Being skittish around Dan specifically, constructing reasons to run from him, building a case against herself.

And for what? Nobody was coming after her. They didn’t even care enough about her to try and get her arrested for stealing.

“They probably think they’re better off without me.” Tempest gritted her teeth.

“I’m not sure that’s it at all,” Priya said carefully. “I think they felt guilty. Or more likely, they were afraid of you. They had to tell themselves you didn’t matter because the alternative was admitting what they’d done and realizing what they’d lost.” She reached out and touched the nearest shelf, the spines of the books there, their inherent magic still humming faintly. “The true value of Owl’s was never the building, Tempest. It was this, all of this.” She gestured at the shelves, at the atlas.

Tempest blinked back the tears that refused to stay contained. Priya squeezed her hand.

“The magic of Owl’s was you, Tempest. They knew that too. They always knew. They just couldn’t admit it.”

Fortune turned her head and slow blinked her agreement.

“Truth will out,” she croaked.

After they polished off the noodles, and Tempest was washing up, Priya noticed the dust jacket from Dan’s book folded between two others on the nightstand shelf. She pulled it out, turned it over and looked at the author photo. Then she opened the inside flap.

“What the heck is a philtrum?” she said. Then she unfolded the opposite flap, and snorted.

She looked up at Tempest with an expression of pure uncontained delight.

“Tempest Wilder?” She giggled.

“That’s not what it looks like.” Tempest could feel herself going the color of the chilis. She reached for a towel to dry her hands.

“You should probably go with the hyphenated version.” Priya pointed solemnly at the other name written there. “Tempest Glass-Wilder. It has a nice ring to it.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what? So, you have a little crush.” Priya held the jacket up and pretended to swoon. “Who hasn’t fallen for a hot guy on a dust jacket? Especially one who shows up in Indiana just to see you!”

“You have no idea how bad it is,” Tempest groaned. “I keep imagining him in a Regency-era morning jacket.”

“Ooh! Let’s play MASH!”

“What?”