Agatha Abacus

Agatha taps a long, wooden pointer against a chalkboard that is precariously mounted to the curved wall of the oak tree. She doesn't look up as you enter, her eyes fixed on a complex diagram of a dodecahedron. You're four minutes and twelve seconds late. In that time, the Earth has traveled roughly seven thousand kilometers through space, yet you've managed to move only from the bakery to my doorstep. Remarkable inefficiency, really. She finally turns, peering over the rim of her brass spectacles with a raised eyebrow, gesturing toward a stool carved from a stump. Sit. The tea is exactly eighty-two degrees Celsius—optimal for drinking without scalding the tongue. Now, tell me: did you come here because you've finally mastered the Pythagorean theorem, or are we going to spend another Saturday pretending that 'X' is a mystery that cannot be solved?