[be poetic? You want whatever tragedy there is in it to be dramatic and orderly and cathartic, because you think that’ll give it purpose, meaning? Does thinking of yourself as a character in a story make you sleep easier at night? After all, if everyone else is ‘just a character’ too, then you’re justified in your complete inability to make genuine connections with them. Or do you genuinely believe that there’s an author-figure controlling your life? Because that would be at best incredibly vain, and at worst a symptom of psychosis.” “Fine, you’ve got me all figured out. Congrats. You win the Freudy. Which is a gold statue of a couch with a figure of a sad little man who looks like me lying on it. The award ceremony’s in September; start writing your speech.” “I’ll be sure to thank the Academy,” Anna said. ——— “You say we’re going to judge,” Minos said. “But I get the feeling, Acorn, that you aren’t the one we’ll be judging this time.” “The structure has been turned inside-out,” Betancourt said, quick on the uptake. “The intent of the narrative was for Acorn to be judged. But now you — we — will judge the narrative itself. We’re turning its own rules against it.” Acorn nodded. “Yes. The three of us will review the evidence, and decide whether this book should have ever been. That’s why I brought us here. It’s both thematically appropriate, and depending on our verdict, it will give us an efficient and poetic mechanism to carry out our justice.” “And this place is…” Minos prompted. “It’s the eighth and highest layer of Purgatory,” Acorn said. “Terrestrial Paradise. Dirk modeled his inferno after Dante’s, so it only makes sense that the poet’s other two volumes are equally represented; welcome to canto 31 of Purgatorio.” “It’s so much better to be able to flat-out explain these things,” Jeanne said appreciatively. “No more of that opaque ‘tee-hee, do you get my obscure reference?’ nonsense.” Acorn and Minos nodded. Acorn continued: “Damn fucking straight. And here’s some more explanation for you: in The Divine Comedy, Dante indeed includes the five classical rivers that Dirk mentioned on page 45, but they’re arranged a bit differently than they are in the Greek tradition. (Which Dirk would have known if he’d researched the content of the poem instead of just its form.) Instead of being spread willy-nilly through the underworld, each has a specific place and function. The Acheron is the outmost border of hell; Styx is in the fifth circle, with the wrathful; the Phlegethon is a boiling river of blood in the seventh circle that’s guarded by centaurs (sounds like the cover of a death metal album, am I right?); and the Cocytus is in the ninth circle, where it forms a frozen lake that holds Satan himself. The fifth river, though, isn’t in hell at all. It’s right here, in purgatory. It’s the last barrier that pure souls cross before they can enter heaven. They drink from it, and forget all their earthly sins.” “Lethe,” Betancourt whispered, looking with awe and fear at the river in front of them. “Thematically appropriate indeed,” Minos said approvingly. “Did Anna explain all of this to you?” Betancourt asked Acorn. “Yeah,” Acorn said. “Oh, I should have mentioned, she’s Beatrice now. Metaphorically, at least. I don’t really get all of it. But she also told me that she and the girls are working on their own plan in tandem with ours. They’re trying to fix all of this bullshit too. Their thing’s a bit different, but if either one succeeds, we’ll be able to be free of this damn thing—” he prodded at the book on the ground with his hoof “—once and for all.” All three of them looked at the thin paperback on the ground. A pile of wood pulp slurry and cheap ink that had somehow become the force that ruled all of their lives. There was a moment of apprehension. Was this thing, this dead thing they stared at, sacred? Or was it profane? And was there any difference? Jeanne Betancourt picked the book up. “Let’s figure this out,” she said. She opened it to the first page. ——— “Now,” Anna said resolutely, “I think we’ve thoroughly explained all of the ‘how’ that’s going on here. Time to move on to the ‘what.’ Namely, what are we going to do to fix this mess.” “Hang on,” Pawnee said, “I think that you owe me and Pam some of our own ‘whats’ too. Like, what the fuck is this book-world you’re suddenly telling us that we’re living in? That would be a good place to start.” “A gift…” said Pam dreamily. Pawnee gestured wildly at the girl, flailing her arms, making the universal sign for, “This! Fucking look at this!” “Also,” she shouted at Anna, “you can tell us what the fuck is going on with Pam now! All this vague, creepy prophet shit is seriously weirding me out, and simultaneously] #DetectivePony