My crystal beacon never sounded during the night. In other words, my spider’s web of channeling wire had not netted me any bugs. So far as I was aware, everyone at the villa, save for Gloria and I, had slept sound as foals all through the night.
On the one hoof, I should have been happy. The changeling was running out of time to make their move. But on the other hoof, so too was I running out of time to catch them.
I wanted to resolve this case on my own. I wanted to tear past the lies and the traps. I wanted to see for myself the good and the evil that truly resided in this changeling’s heart, and in what ratio.
No more sympathy. No more hatred. No more running. No more fighting. No more framing. No more begging. No more weepy-eyed promises of sanctuary that we can’t keep to a creature that we can’t trust.
Was I the only one who still cared about the truth?
On the third and final morning of the investigation, I rose out of bed bright and early. In particular, brighter and earlier than my partner, who I did not bother to wake. An unusual chill hung in the air as I drifted through the corridors of the villa. I saw not a single face on my way to Zorn’s bedroom.
I gave a firm three knocks on his door. After a shuffle from inside, the zebra answered.
“Pesco,” he said flatly, before returning to a seat at his lab desk. It seemed that he, too, was up early with his own work.
I stepped through the door he had left open and closed it behind me. It was a warmer welcome than I was expecting, all things considered. “Good morning, Zorn.”
The zebra took little notice of my existence. He sat with his back to me, grinding a pile of dark purple herbs with a mortar and pestle. At regular intervals he would sprinkle a measured amount of the resulting paste into one beaker among a four-by-four grid, and then repeat his grinding and sprinkling for the next beaker in line. Perhaps he had been at this process for an hour already, before I arrived; just as likely that he would continue for another hour, so long as he could ignore my presence.
“Do you know why I’m here, Zorn?”
“No.”
“Fair enough. But I’m sure you have your ideas.”
“Something to do with the changeling, I would suppose. You have had a singular focus on unraveling them.”
“I’m sorry, though it is my job. You seem to be the only one who begrudges me for it.”
“I notice your partner has his own concerns.” He took a moment to measure and sprinkle some herb paste. “I like your partner.”
“I like him, too. I’ll give him your regards. But tell me, how do you feel about the Royal Guard?” I said. “That’s what has me coming around. The commander called me last night, and he says they’re making spectacular time through the mountains. They’re going to be here at noon.”
This, unlike anything else, gave the zebra pause. He finished sprinkling his current beaker and returned to the pestle and mortar. “And I suppose you expect me to take your word on that. I know what you are here for, now.”
“Believe me or don’t—in a few hours, we’ll see who was right. In the meantime, here’s a question: If I only wanted the changeling to be caught, no matter how or by whom, why would I not just sit on my hooves and wait for the Royal Guard anyway? This isn’t my idea of a vacation. I’m driven by my conscience alone.”
I found myself clacking my hoof in agitation against the floor, waiting for a response that never came.
“After all this time, I still don’t understand you, Zorn. You don’t fully trust either me or the changeling, so in lieu of admitting what you know about them, you sent me on my way with a big needle and told me to discover the truth for myself.” I shook my head. “That’s bizarre enough. What’s even more bizarre, is that now I’m the bad guy for doing exactly what you told me.”
“You held the truth in your hooves with that message of surrender,” he said. “You failed to recognize it. Without any evidence, you preferred to believe that there was malice written inside a scribble.”
Here was where Zorn was mistaken. He had no shortage of eccentricity, but this was the first sign of delusion. He had sent me away last night, thinking that I would have no means of uncovering the aborted message without the help of his scientific apparatuses. He had underestimated just how desperate I was to get at the truth. Like a changeling without love, I would shrivel up and die without the truth.
I trotted over to his desk where he was still hunched over, failing to give me even the courtesy of eye contact. I slid the message in front of him, scribble-side up. “Go ahead and take a look for yourself. Or just ask Grid what we found in his room, courtesy of our would-be whistleblower.”
Zorn put down the pestle, and scrutinized my face for signs of a bluff. He didn’t find what didn’t exist. He proceeded to clear his workspace before withdrawing from a drawer a slew of magnification lenses and light-emitting crystals. After drawing the blinds and shutting off the lights to his room, he began in earnest with his own investigation.
The zebra was deft with his tools, and he zeroed in on the winning wavelength. He put me and Bon to shame. I could see a frown tighten at the corner of his lips as he read the damning four words underneath the scribble:
Searched Grid’s closet yet??
But, so it seemed, he was not yet finished with his analysis. With a stubborn glint in his eye and that same dimple of a frown, he began to twist and turn the paper:
WHAT HAPPENS IF I COME ALONG PEACEFULLY?
over:
Searched Grid’s closet yet??
and back again:
WHAT HAPPENS IF I COME ALONG PEACEFULLY?
Zorn’s frown gave way to a deep and bitter scowl, his severe features illuminated from below by the crystals. I realized, then, what my singular focus had failed to hone in on before now: the handwriting. Both sides weren’t written by the same person.
“I see now what needs to be done,” Zorn declared. “I should not have abided this for as long as I have.”
In that moment, I came to another realization: I was not imagining the chill in the air, the one I had felt on the way to the zebra’s bedroom. Zorn’s breath hung like smoke in the air, and mine along with it.
He alighted from his workspace, and flipped the lights back on before sitting on his bed.
“It is quite cold in here, is it not, Pesco?” he said knowingly, while rubbing his hooves together.
“I’ve noticed.”
“It felt quite the same, one morning about two weeks ago. Later that same morning was when I would come to my first suspicions about the changeling,” he said. “Bon and I presumed a malfunction in the villa’s boilers. We were prepared to investigate the problem, but as it turned out, the problem fixed itself. I, and I alone, was of a curious mind to see this self-repairing boiler for myself.
“Pesco, I do not mean to be cryptic. It will be self-explanatory, if you go to the boiler room for yourself. Once you do, you will know everything I do about our past and present circumstances—and I pray you will have an appreciation for the complexity of our future.”
Earlier, my partner had told me he had investigated the boiler room and reported nothing of interest. I was not particularly surprised to learn that that was a lie. For a long time coming, I had sensed that I was the only one really left on this case. It was not a given that I could count on my partner—or the sledgehammer commander, or any of the kids—to make the right choices in this situation. It was not a given that I could count on myself to make the right choices. Now that I knew the truth, I no longer had faith that there were even any right choices to be made.
Here is what I found, when I visited that boiler room:
Before I’d stepped inside, I did not find it emitting that steady, low-frequency hiss that was so familiar to me by now. That morning, the boiler room, and perhaps the entire villa, was silent.
Once I’d stepped inside, I did not find the sweltering heat known to any functional boiler room. Neither did I find the adequate lighting or organizational principles common to any boiler room that was ever intended to be functional.
Instead, I found only the feeble, flickering glow of a series of dying fluorescent lights that did little to illuminate a morass of electrical cables snaking along the ground. It sufficed to say, it would come as no surprise to me if someone with a history of skulking around in the boiler room just so happened to have tripped over this or that cable, disconnecting this or that vital piece of machinery, and did not realize their mistake until hours later when a safety shut-off mechanism engaged and the villa went cold. And it would come as no surprise to me if this had happened not once, but twice now.
As I made my way into the furthest depths of the boiler room, I found one more source of light besides the fluorescents. A lit lantern on a workbench, far in the distance, beckoned my approach.
As I stumbled toward the workbench, I found three piles of winter gear stowed behind a line of water heaters. The largest among them consisted of an assortment of equipment for three out of the four resident species of the villa. This largest pile was also the most haphazardly assembled, as if cobbled together at random. The fourth species’ equipment was the content of the other two piles, very neatly arranged: They could each comprise the complete wardrobe for an individual hiker intent on a long trek, although one of these two piles included many more insulating baselayers than the other.
That fourth species was griffon.
At last, I reached the lantern and the workbench. And yet, I found myself transfixed not by the peculiar arrangement on the bench, but by the contents of the wastebin just beside it. I had no rational basis as to why I chose to investigate the bin before the bench; perhaps, like with the changeling’s note, it was my lifelong and professional infatuation with what was discarded rather than with what was put up on display.
In the wastebin, I found some papers. Papers with nothing more on them than some names written in cursive, but these were some very telling names, written a very telling amount of times. Here is what a few of them looked like:
Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter
Bridd Bridlebit Roy Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk B B B Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Bridlebit Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridelbi Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk
Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liason Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorg Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison
Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Gleend Glenda Glenda Glenda Glenda Glenda Glenda Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glend Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison
K King King Grayson King Grayson Grayson King Grayson King Gray Grey King Graysn G G G G G K K K K G K G K G King Grayson Kan't fucking Get it King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King King Grayson King Gray Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grays Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson K King King Grayson King Grayson Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson
Clearly, someone was a fan of others’ signatures—so much so, that they went to painstaking lengths to learn how to replicate them precisely. If the first few wobbly attempts in any set could be distinguished from one another by the occasional slip-up or variation, then the later attempts could only be compared to the work of an autoquill.
As I rifled deeper through the trash I came across yet more papers, however less interesting than the signature practice; it was merely a backlog of Girard’s high school homework assignments, in various stages of completion. Perhaps they, along with everything else in the wastebin, were deemed to be of no further use to whoever had pitched them.
At the very bottom, underneath all else, I unearthed the last but not the least of the wastebin’s curiosities: a pocket-sized photo album. By all appearances, it was a family photo album, serving to remind its owner—and whoever they might share it with—of the happy family that is the Kralle-Karom royalty. Here is a description of the subjects of several of the photos:
Most of these photos were taken in front of rocky outcrops, caves, and boulders. While one might be led to believe these features were most indicative of the Griffonstone mountains, I couldn’t help but notice that not one photo among the collection actually had a mountain in frame, or contained any geographical feature one couldn’t find in Equestria if one truly wanted to.
I also couldn’t help but notice that none of the photos depicted more than one of Gloria’s supposed family members at a time. Not a single one.
But enough rooting around in the garbage. I moved on to the workbench, which had a host of its own curiosities to showcase.
The very first thing I noticed were the dark red candles, numerous enough to turn the workbench into an altar if they were lit, but none of them were. In fact, none of their fully intact wicks showed signs of ever having been burned. And yet the candles were all melted at their bases anyway, some of them reduced at this point to nothing but waxy stubs.
The means? I had to imagine the nearby hand lighter had something to do with it. The motive? I had to imagine the forged royal seals had something to do with it. They were practiced over and over again on nearby parchment, just like the signatures in the trash.
These practice seals weren’t the only clue. I finally found Gloria’s hidden book on the workbench, and its contents were exactly as she had described (being the honest bird that she was). I also found a number of razors and fine sculpting blades strewn about the workspace, each of them caked with dried red wax. They framed the practice pages, as well as the documents where the final products ended up.
These documents with the final products—that is, the forged royal seals, of Griffonstonian, Equestrian, and Hippogriffian authority—included but were not limited to:
All in all, it was enough. Enough that I could be certain now of the perps responsible, and the bigger picture. All that remained were the details, and the resolution.
That is to say, all that remained was one final interrogation.
oh god whatstheirname in the comments were right oh god oh fuck
it can't be tomorrow soon enough!
Well then. Quite the little workshop here. Now I’m wondering how those signatures compare to the two sides of the changeling’s (changelings’?) message.
I'm not going to say I called it because that was one of like 3-4 theories I put forth. But that sure was one of them. Girard is almost certainly Scolus.
Now I want to know what's up with Bluebird, who apparently looked at this room and didn't mention anything. Is he a third one, sent to reclaim refugees posing as the griffs? If he is, why was he pressing Grid so hard if he'd seen this? I've previously suspected one or both detectives as a loyalist hunting a rogue, and noted the lack of first person for Bluebird. But the actions taken don't quite line up yet.
Also possible that Gloria isn't a changeling, but an actual griffon refugee leveraging a friendly changeling in Girard to facilitate her own escape from the griffon lands. All the evidence in the boiler seems to be trying to establish her identity specifically. She'd be trying to frame Grid and stockpiling for her own escape from the authorities fearing they were about to expose her own illegal status.
In this case I guess Bluebirdling might have glossed over that because a hive loyalist wouldn't care about griffon affairs. But the evidence that a changeling was involved in her forgery was pretty strong, and I doubt he'd have missed it. So there's a lot of nonspecific sus on him right now because his actions don't line up for a changeling or real detective.
For all she takes it out on Girard for being incompetent, ironically everything Pesco figured out about Gloria was her own slipups or outside assistance.
11247076
I think at the beginning of a recent chapter, Bluebird said he visited the boiler room, but thought about how that wasn't true because he was so taken in his own theories he hadn't actually taken the time to do so...?
11247076
11247076
Right, in Room Service, Pesco assigns Bluebird to check the boiler room (amongst other locations), but Bluebird gets too distracted with Grid and he puts it off. He tells Pesco as much at the end of that chapter (Pesco himself is singlemindedly pursuing Gloria). Later, in The Drift, Bluebird says this:
showing that he's numb to his mentor's plans and just telling him what he wants to hear. The consequence of their failed teamwork was this workshop remaining hidden for far longer than it should have.
The kicker here is that at this moment, Pesco can't be sure whether the lie was because Bluebird was lazy/distracted, or because Bluebird already found this workshop and is actively trying to subvert the investigation by omitting it.
I read all the signature stuff and started thinking "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"
11247121
I certainly felt myself starting to go a little insane, wrestling with the formatting of that whole bit!
So Bluebird hadn't reported in the night's events. These two really are no longer on the same page.
No, I think everybody still cares about the truth except you, because it may still be a truth you seem to be unwilling to accept.
And that's your problem, why you still haven't cracked the case. The truth is right there in front of you, but you refuse to even consider it.
Well...openly, at least. The others are more subtle about it.
He's gotcha there, Pesco!
Dear Pesco, you're so blinded by your own bias, it's almost tragic how far you're reaching now to try and justify it.
Zorn's right. You have pretty much no meaningful evidence of your stance on the matter anymore--even less, if Bluebird had told you what had happened last night (but honestly at this point I can't blame him for withholding it, as you'd no doubt interpret it the wrong way). Instead of trying to trying to pursue an angle that clearly is not a reality, you should concede there is probably far more to this than you are willing to admit, and that it is not all as it seems, or, more important, as you want to believe it to be.
Yeah, I think I already know where Zorn's going with this.
It's not the same handwriting, is it? I mean, I thought so about maybe a chapter or two back, but...given it's sort of hard to prove that in this format where it's hard to convey that detail clearly...
Eesh, and it took him twenty chapters to find this.
To be fair, the same goes for Bluebird, but it still doesn't paint the prettiest picture of Pesco for having such a laser focus on minute details that it took him this long to come searching here for the obvious. In retrospect, this was probably the first place he and Bluebird searched upon arrival, but nooooo, Pesco had to waste time looking for a darn book, and so on.
...didn't Gloria effectively admit to be engaged in the art of forgery earlier in the story?
(stops to double-check)
She did. Even openly admitted she wasn't ashamed of it.
Okay, so that verifies with one hundred percent certainty that Gloria is in someway involved with the changeling. But how does forgery fit into...
...oh my gosh, I think that changeling's her pawn!
Oh crap, Pesco, I think I might be a hundred and one steps ahead of you on this...and if I'm right...holy crap, the changeling might just be the least of our concerns in this conspiracy.
Whelp! It's always in the last place you look, isn't it?
But seriously, Pesco, why did it take you this long to even think of checking the boiler room, one of the most obvious hiding places in the whole building? You should've been thinking to check there way before any of us readers were thinking of checking there ourselves.
At this point you don't just have egg on your face, you have a couple dozens worth on your face.
That settles one suspicion I've had for numerous chapters then, but more on THAT in a second.
Of course not. The idea here is to NOT draw suspicion, to NOT be obvious with their actions.
It is, in fact, so insidiously clever that I both have to give begrudging respect to Gloria for devising it as well as kick myself for not seeing it sooner, because, as I recall the author indicating back in a comment on an earlier chapter, we had been given a very critical clue very early on in the story, enough of one that we could've figured it out then...but it seems we all missed it (and I might have figured it out sooner myself if I hadn't fallen for Gloria's passionate relating of her cover story as too passionate to be a lie...hence the kicking of myself mentioned earlier).
But enough beating about the bush--some have already indicated they're onto the same thing in their comments, but I'm going to go a step further and layout all the details of what I think is happening here (but I'll be courteous and put it in spoiler tagging for those who'd prefer to be left in the dark)
First: Gloria is a flesh and blood griffon. But she is no royal, and probably never was. "Gloria" may not even be her real name.
Second: Girard is the changeling. I am now 100%, without a single doubt, certain that he is the changeling. Further, he is our (probably disgraced) changeling, Scolus.
Third: remember how Gloria went on about how much she hated the state of her country, and how she'd love to do something to fix it to her particular standards? This part, at least, is true, but it goes much deeper than that. I suspect Gloria sees herself as something of a revolutionary, I fear a radical one at that, who's willing to resort to extreme measures to get what she wants. However, as already said, she is no royal, but I figure rather just a regular off-the-street commoner at best, in no real position to bring about the sort of changes she wants because she lacks the political power to. What she really needs is some way to get the authority she needs to at least get started, some way to get an actual, meaningful say in political affairs, but she lacks the connections to do it.
That is until the changeling Scolus, having left the hive either through banishment or fleeing from punishment, happens to come her way. And with the powers of a changeling who could assume any form they want now at her disposal, a scheme starts to come together...
Gloria is using Scolus, typically posing as Girard, but will also pose as any additional member of their otherwise fictional "royal family" if the situation demands it (this is why when, way back near the beginning, Grid was telling of the last time he saw Gloria with her "father," Girard was also conspicuously absent--he wasn't actually, he was just posing as the father rather than his usual Girard identity), to create a fictional royal bloodline to be believable enough to create a fictional cover spinning themselves as members of that royal family to help support the rest of the forged documents Gloria has created to help sell it to actual creatures of authority. They appear to have used this to escape the Griffon Kingdom and into Equestria, where most of the work of setting up the identity in full seems to have taken place.
Gloria's end goal is, presumably, to use all of this to fabricate enough political sway for herself to get herself into some position of power, either to live it up in the good life as a royal, or to use that power to force through some level of change she desires to have happen. She's no doubt promised Girard some share of the spoils so to win over his support, but to her, he's ultimately just a tool, and is used and treated as such by her. Girard, having no where else to go that's any better, puts up with it, but this still can't change his good nature, and as such, that good nature occasionally puts the scheme into jeopardy, something Gloria doesn't tolerate and responds abusively to.
...or it's just a case that she used Girard to escape the country in hopes of getting a better life and the royal identity was just something they devised that had enough sway to help fill in any gaps, but that's the boring explanation.
In any case, whichever it is, this brings us to the here and now. The most likely chain of events of what happened is that Girard did something foolish to potentially reveal he is there to the others and thusly raised the alarm (I'm thinking he snuck into Blanche's room to read Changeling Ringing and accidentally shed a wing fragment in the process, as I've already theorized in the past), and now Gloria, starting to see the whole scheme in danger of unraveling right before her eyes, is resorting to extreme measures to try and save it, all the while meanwhile venting her frustrations on Girard, blaming him for putting them into this mess (I've actually wondered if Girard's earlier bought with having lost his voice earlier wasn't due to illness but rather Gloria's abuse). Girard's starting to breakdown under the strain though, and I suspect that will eventually become the weak link that allows everything to come to light, whether Gloria likes it or not.
However, there is also the possibility I'm entertaining that Gloria actually means ill-intent, and that this whole charade is a set-up for some "phase 2" of the scheme, which I worry, if I'm right on that, may endanger the other kids in the villa, as they are all (mostly) from families or areas of influence or power, influence and power Gloria could use to her advantage, and wouldn't you know it, she's got a changeling handy she can get to pose as any one of these kids when needed for public appearances while she seizes control of their influence from behind the scenes. This may be the worst case scenario though, so...interpret it how you will.
ABOVE ALL ELSE THOUGH is the fact that, make no mistake, Gloria is our real guilty party in all of this, and Girard, as the changeling, is just the victim and pawn.
But watch, Pesco's still going to try and pin it all on the changeling anyway, because why would I believe he'd do anything else at this point? So it just might be up to Bluebird and the others to step in and save the day on Girard's behalf, but I figure that's probably where the remaining five chapters of the story will come into play.
Or I'm somehow waaaay off track, and it's not any of this at all.
Except Girard's the changeling. I promise you that much.
11247263 To add to the hypothesis you propose: don't you find it very convenient that the storm cleared soon enough to allow the Guard to arrive days early?
We know the changeling is on the run from the Hive... looks like they found him.
Am I the only one who is a bit tired of all of these characters and their pettiness at this point, or is this the standard format of a Whodunnit?
Yep. I think I was on the money.
Welp. You've sunk my battleship.
Barring any last-minute twists, I now believe that Girard is the likelier changeling over Grid. Well, it's not a 100% confirmation, but there is still a lot of suspicious work behind the scenes for either Girard or Gloria, and given how the pre-Girard griffon hasn't really matched anything with Girard, there's that. Which raises the question: Why go through all this trouble with roping some griffon royalty into your disguise? And who's really in charge here—Gloria or Girard (or Scolus)?
This does make Zorn look like a jerk, though. Maybe he did believe they'd find the changeling soon enough because, of course, you'd investigate all rooms, including the boiler room, but still, I'd have to side with Pesco now. Zorn has seen abuse, sure, but if he's seen abuse in Scolus and/or Girard and just did nothing (not even ask Girard/Scolus questions, how he could help—at least, if Girard said, "Leave me alone," Zorn would've gotten confirmation that Girard wanted to be left alone), then all this high-falutin near-nonsense about not trusting others that much goes rather unjustified. But it also makes him a pain point meta-wise, because I'd have to ask myself: If I were in Zorn's shoes and I saw abuse within my own group of closest friends, what would my actions (or inactions) say about who I am in the dark? I could try to justify my own reasons as to why I shouldn't intervene here or there, but if for the sake of not rocking the boat, I let someone fester in darkness, I too am festering in that darkness.
...well. Can't say much else here. We gotta find out what Girard confessed to Bluebird, and then, let's go.
No way. Don't tell me I clocked Girard with my opening shot in the dark! Looks like I even clipped Gloria by calling her my second pick! There's no way I can say "I knew it" at this point, but I guess I was on to something after all.