Chapter 3 : A Day Unlike Any Reasonable Day

Robert awoke with a start, tangled in floral bed sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and expired bubble gum, the cottage, too warm and too cozy, wrapped around him like a grandmother's overlong hug.

His first thought: Where the hell was he?

His second: Why was he wearing a Victorian nightgown?

Then. A knock.

Not a polite tap, but a theatrical assault! Rat-a-tat-tat, pause, BOOM. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, BOOM. Like someone was determined to audition for Stomp: The Musical using only the front door.

Robert bolted upright, nearly throttled by lace. His foot caught on a knit ottoman shaped like a teacup, sending him stumbling forward with all the grace of a collapsing bookshelf. His nightgown billowed behind him like a haunted doily in distress.

He didn't hesitate. No breath. No thought.

He swung the door open with the fury of a man ready to arrest a poltergeist.

And there—glowing like a fever dream in the morning mist—stood a woman with curls like fireworks and a coat loud enough to be illegal in several counties. Her smile was enormous. Her voice is more audible.

"GREETINGS AND FELICITATIONS!" she roared, already stepping inside like she owned both the cottage and the mortgage, her presence filling the room like a sudden burst of confetti.

A voice rang out like church bells wrapped in velvet and dipped in gospel fire:

"I am Baroness Lady Dame Marjorie Crumpet-Smythe of the Fifth Crumpet-Smythes, Holder of the Royal Corgi Cuddlers' Cross, Twice-Nominated Duchess of Tiddlebottom's Annual Tulip Parade, Former Junior Ambassador to the Great Muffin Rebellion of '94, Current Treasurer of the Society of Umbrella Etiquette, and part-time Zumba instructor!"

She struck a pose like a Broadway finale—jazz hands, cheekbones raised, curls bouncing.

Then she paused, winked, and hummed a perfect B-flat.

"But you," she purred, eyes narrowing, "did not bow."

Robert blinked, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of glitter, energy, and sheer presence on his doorstep.

She leaned in close, curls haloing her face like a disco-era deity.

"You can call me Tracey."

Tracey was not a whisper. She was a full-volume crescendo. A Black goddess in her late twenties with skin like rich honey and a voice that climbed scales and took liberties with tempo. Her curls defied gravity, fashion, and logic—each one seemed choreographed. She wore a rhinestone-studded cape over a vintage Prince T-shirt, a Union Jack tutu, and glitter heels that somehow matched her mood. Around her neck hung a key to the theater and a laminated pass from a concert that had never taken place.

She hummed when she talked. Always. As though words alone couldn't carry the melody of her spirit.

Raised in Surrey Main since the age of nine, Tracey was the town's adopted prodigy. This unstoppable musical force once dreamt of taking the West End by storm. But her dreams never made it past mile marker five. Whether it was fate, fear, or fog, no one knew. What they did know was that she now ran the Surrey Main Little Theatre and starred in everything from "Midsummer Night's Disco" to "Annie: But Make It British."

She was the voice of every Council ceremony. The soloist at every blessing. The scandalous alto who once performed an entire ceremony in sequinned overalls and got a standing ovation from the clergy.

Tracey had presence. Power. And a grudge against Bev that neither of them cared to explain.

She didn't wait to be invited inside. She swept into Robert's cottage like she owned both the deed and the weather rights, eyeing his Victorian nightgown with a theatrical gasp.

"Oh no, darling. We're not haunting Westminster. We've got an Octagon to conquer."

She picked up his hoodie, sniffed it dramatically, and shoved it into his arms.

"Bathroom. Now. We've got to make you at least somewhat presentable before the Council starts whispering again."

Then she paused, smiled, and added with a hum, "They've already got stories about you, sugar. Don't give them a sequel."

Robert stumbled inside the tiny bathroom, bumping his elbow on a porcelain swan-shaped sink and staring at his reflection like it owed him an explanation. He pulled the door shut and held the hoodie limply in his hands, his mind buzzing.

I could escape.

He looked at the window above the tub—small, fogged, maybe loose. If I climbed onto the radiator and hoisted myself up… maybe I could slip out. Maybe.

But then what? Run to the train station? And then what—hijack a handcar like a cartoon villain?

He leaned against the sink.

Who even are these people? Why are they expecting me?

How does an entire village expect someone like a disgraced detective turned tabloid punchline?

A sinking feeling pooled in his gut.

They know who I am. But they don't know me.

They had headlines. Maybe memes. Wildly incorrect Reddit threads. But that didn't stop people from building whole personalities around partial facts.

He pictured someone in a powdered wig casually scrolling through TikTok, do they even have internet here?

"Do they even have Wi-Fi?" he whispered, horrified.

He pulled the sweatshirt over his head, heart thudding. The familiar cotton clung to his skin like a life raft. Maybe it's not too late to bolt, he thought, yanking the sleeves straight.

From the other side of the door, Tracey shouted:

"Tick tock, darling! The Council doesn't wait! Not even for misfitted train men!"

Robert sighed. He opened the door.

Tracey beamed. "See? Much better. Now let's go ruin your life with pageantry!"

Moments later, Robert found himself sandwiched between Tracey and a corgi in a bowtie that looked more expensive than his entire college wardrobe. The golf cart hummed like a lullaby with ambition, its boiled-ham paint job shimmering with early morning dew. Tracey shoved a thick paper program into his lap; the title scrawled in gold calligraphy:

Council of Wonders: Bi-Monthly Banquet, Blessing, and Bingo

(Formal Attire Encouraged. Emotional Stability Optional.)

As Gloriana glided through the fog-veiled village, Tracey unleashed a verbal landslide of information. Words came at him like confetti from a cannon.

"Now, we don't truck—we glide," she said, patting the dashboard. "Quiet engines, quiet minds. Gasoline causes inflammation and... opinions. And nobody here likes those."

Robert opened his mouth.

"Millicent brought a German shepherd to tea," she said, as if finishing his thought. "Broke three bylaws and one ottoman. Exiled for three luncheons. Came back speaking louder and more aggressively in French. No one asked questions."

The cart rattled past brick cottages with lace curtains and doorbells shaped like teacups. Yards were trimmed within an inch of their lives. Not a hedge dared go unsculpted. Garden gnomes stood at attention, each with a tiny scroll of bylaws clutched in their porcelain hands.

"Why do all the houses look the same?" Robert asked.

Tracey gasped. "The same? Jesus, darling, don't be gauche. That one has lavender shutters. That one has mauve. You'll cause a diplomatic incident."

Every mailbox resembled a corgi in mid-curtsy. Every actual corgi wore a nametag and at least one accessory. People on the street bowed before sneezing—children in powdered wigs galloped by on scooters shaped like carousel horses. A man with a top hat balanced a tray of scones on his head while jogging.

By the time they reached the town square—an octagon, actually—Robert's sense of logic had given up and gone to lie down.

The building before them looked like a fever dream in fondant: part opera house, part gingerbread cathedral, part civic center imagined by someone with a Jane Austen obsession and a Bedazzle.

Tracey grinned. "Welcome to the Octagon. Where legends are baked, blessed, and occasionally revoked."

"Welcome to the Octagon," Tracey whispered, as if it were holy. "This is where the magic happens."

Robert sat staring, uncertain whether to laugh or run.

Children darted across the cobblestones, dressed in miniature powdered wigs and velvet waistcoats. On every building—from the bakery to the post office to the unexplainable Button Museum (which was exactly what it sounded like)—banners waved:

"Blessing Day: Be Witnessed or Be Forgotten!"

It felt like Mardi Gras met Downton Abbey at a tea party hosted by hallucinations.

Tracey—or Baroness Lady Dame Marjorie Crumpet-Smythe, depending on the formality of the hour and her current caffeine level—twirled dramatically in the center of the octagonal square, arms stretched wide like she was presenting a miracle wrapped in bunting.

"This, sugar muffin, is what Surrey Main was built for. The Council of Wonders. Bi-monthly. Rain or shine. Curl or no curl."

Robert opened his mouth to respond, but Tracey's words surged on like a royal parade without brakes.

"The Council isn't just a gaggle of frilly-robed fuddy-duddies sipping tepid Earl Grey from ancestral saucers. No, darling. They are the Guardians of the Curl. The Custodians of Community Conduct. The Archdukes of Afternoon Appropriateness. Every rule, every whisper, every bingo number scrawled into the velvet dark of ceremonial night—it all passes through them."

She thrust a glitter-drenched hand toward the towering Octagon, where crimson banners billowed like gossip.

Then, with a breath that could have powered a hot air balloon, she asked, "Would you like me to sing you the history of the ceremony?"

Robert blinked slowly. "No."

But Tracey, undeterred and possibly powered by fruit preserves, was already inhaling again.

"In Surrey Main, the day is grand, the curls must bounce, and—"

"SHUT UP!" Robert blurted, his voice cracking like a tea biscuit under pressure. "Can you just talk? Like a normal person?"

Tracey froze. Her sequins stopped sparkling for a full second. She placed both hands over her dramatically corseted chest as though a musket of bad manners had shot her.

"Like a normal person?" she echoed, scandalized. "Do you mean the sort who drinks decaf? Who owns non-ironic socks? Who believes a bow is something you tie on a shoelace instead of aiming at one's nemesis from across the croquet pitch?"

Robert groaned and rubbed his temples. "I just want to know what's going on. Without a pageant. Or a musical number."

Tracey sniffed, indignant but forgiving. "Fine. But you've just deprived the world of a truly illuminating bridge verse about the Bunting Riots of 1803."

Tracey sniffed, indignant but forgiving. "Fine. But you've just deprived the world of a truly illuminating bridge verse about the Bunting Riots of 1803."

She pouted—a dramatic one, the kind that belonged on a velvet fainting couch—then snapped back to her usual manic brightness. "This building," she said, spinning on her heel to face the Octagon, "has seen duels, coronations, and the entire second season of Downton Tabby performed by sock puppets. Inside, the very soul of Surrey Main swirls with pageantry and propriety—like a Victoria sponge soaked in mystery and glitter."

She tilted her head, voice dropping to a reverent whisper. "The ceremony we're about to witness is ancient. Sacred. Incomprehensible. And possibly illegal in four states."

Robert took a slow, instinctive step back.

Tracey took an equally slow—and far more theatrical—step forward, her glittery scarf fluttering like a warning flag.

"You can't run, darling. Not because of fate. Not even because of the Council." She leaned in close, her breath smelling faintly of clotted cream and peppermint schnapps. "Because the train's already gone, and the fog won't let another in till the ceremony ends."

Robert's eyes widened. "That's insane."

She grinned. "No. That's Surrey Main."

He turned to look at the building again, its crimson doors glowing like something alive. A faint chant began behind them—low, rhythmic, and terrifyingly in tune. The crowd around them, still clutching their ceremonial offerings, had started to sway ever so slightly, like reeds in a tide of tradition.

Robert whispered, "I don't think I'm dressed for this."

Tracey held up a single gloved finger. "No one ever is."

And with that, the doors creaked open with the sound of a harp breaking down.

Robert took a step back, his shoulders tightening. The air around him, once filled with silly pageantry and bunting, now felt sharp and surgical. The whispers grew louder, denser, folding in on him like vines creeping up an abandoned statue.

Eyes. Everywhere.

They darted toward him in twos and threes. Some were filled with curiosity. Some pity. Others glinted with the hungry satisfaction of small-town gossip finally blooming into public spectacle.

He heard his name.

Not spoken. Hissed.

A woman mouthed something to her friend, then pointed delicately, as if he were in a nature preserve and liable to spook.

He wasn't just seen.

He was known.

He wrapped his arms across his chest, instinctively tugging the hoodie closer like a security blanket. A child's comfort. A modern cloak. Too thin. Too late.

"I think they know me," he murmured, his voice brittle as bone.

Tracey—beaming like she'd just won the town raffle, and the prize was him clapped her sequinned hands with glee.

"Oh darling, of course they do!"

Her voice rang across the square like a church bell that had opinions. Heads turned. Conversations paused.

"You're the Robert Duluth! The man from the Outside! The one who botched the Chicken Case so spectacularly, the Morning Post ran a three-day exposé! The one Mist rhymed about, 'Feathers fly and secrets rot, Robert Duluth connects the dot!' Ring a bell, sweet pea?!"

Robert froze.

People stared. People leaned in. Someone wrote something down.

He turned toward Tracey, eyes wide. "Could you maybe—not yell that?"

Tracey blinked, then tilted her head as if trying to remember the concept of discretion. "What, this? Everyone already knows, dearheart. You're the talk of Surrey Main. And not just because of the Mist—though let me tell you, she's never rhymed about anyone under fifty before. It's historic!"

Robert's breath quickened. His pulse thudded in his ears. He scanned the crowd. Were they judging? Laughing? Smiling too much? What did they think they knew? What had been written? Tweeted? Rhymed in fog?

He had come here to hide. To disappear. And now—

A bell rang.

Once.

Twice.

It sliced through the square like a hot knife through fondant, freezing everyone mid-thought, mid-breath. Robert's spine snapped rigid.

Three. Four. Five.

Each tolls a heavy, deliberate step into something deeper. Stranger.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Nine.

Tracey straightened. Her entire demeanor changed—like a performer slipping into character. The mischief in her eyes gave way to reverence. A little dangerous.

"It's time," she said softly. Too softly. Almost respectfully.

Then—

The crimson double doors of the Octagon groaned open with a sound like ancient velvet being torn in half. A shaft of thick fog spilled forward—not creeping, but marching, as if choreographed.

And from within… music.

Organ music.

Low. Echoing. Swollen with ceremony.

It didn't feel like church, but it felt like a form of organized religion. Like belief. Like fear disguised as reverence. Like something that expects obedience before understanding.

The choir joined in not with lyrics, but with a single, rising tone haunting and pure, like the sound a chandelier might make if it were to weep.

Robert's knees weakened. His hoodie felt too tight. His mouth was too dry.

The crowd slowly parted down the middle, clearing a path straight to the Octagon.

All eyes fell on him again.

Not a man.

A symbol.

A witness.

A warning.

Tracey touched his arm, her glittered nails cold against his skin. "Go on, then. They've been waiting."

Robert stood still, staring at the darkness beyond the doors.

He didn't know what the ceremony was.

He didn't know why the town seemed to celebrate and condemn him at the same time.

He didn't know how a place that felt like a joke could make his chest feel like a locked box about to be picked.

But he knew this:

He was no longer hidden.

And not even his zip-up hoodie could save him now.