2019-07-30 - Date Night in the Veil

In the last couple of days, Isabella Reede has been largely out of sight.

An understandable outcome considering certain events, though to say that she had been focused on her grief would be a lie and a disservice to what others know about her. It probably isn't the healthiest coping mechanism to think of everything else other than what the inner landscape of her is presently enduring, but it can't be helped if not just because she wanted her father to tend to his sadness while she did everything else - arrangements for her mother's cremation, filing the necessary papers for the family German Shepherd to be registered as an emotional companionship animal so her father could take him into places he otherwise could not. Even picking out the urn that her mother's remains were going to go in, she handled herself - a wound that had cut so deeply that she nearly fell apart when it was time to convince her father to take what had been left of Irene Baxter Reede's spirit and leave Gray Harbor, at least for a little while.

He had been stubborn. He refused. He fought her every step of the way. It's like she got it from somewhere.

In the end, she had no choice but to fight dirty, and picked up the phone to call the one person in the planet that could convince Captain George Reede of the U.S. Navy to do what his daughter says: "Typhoon" Mary Reede of New Orleans, once a notorious ghost hunter before she had decided that cooking was her true calling, and by virtue of that, knows all too well what kind of place the city actually is. How she has managed to escape her terrifying aunt's entreaties to leave with her father, though, is a mystery.

She had spent a good few minutes in her Jeep upon her arrival, inwardly girding herself for whatever Byron could say, and Alexander's absence (at best) or ambivalence (at worst). But it isn't long before she extricates herself from her vehicle to move towards the porch, and then the side doors. There is not a stitch of black on her save for the ribbon braided around her left wrist - the only visible sign on her face and figure that her recent loss was real. Dressed in the manner of most graduate students everywhere, that point between functional and fashionable that she favors, her strides are brisk and businesslike, already reaching for the latch on the door.

The single bone left in her custody feels like a thousand tons, crammed in the inner pocket of her blazer. She brought it, just in case nobody showed - and honestly, she wouldn't blame either of them if they didn't.

Alexander meets the others at the City Hall, and he's careful to be punctual. Neat, not so much: he's been walking through the summer drizzle, and is pretty drenched. It also looks like whatever sleep the hospital forced him to get has been wiped away, leaving that air of exhaustion that is nearly inherent to his general presence. His t-shirt is stuck to his body, the jeans have that uncomfortable wet jeans tightness, but as he waits for the others, he's deliberately standing in the rain and actually picking at his collar to let more water get down his back and front.

He stops that, at least, when the others arrive. His shoulders straighten and he tries to look alert. "We three meet again," he says, perhaps too gravely to not be poking a moment of fun at the absurdity of the situation. A glance towards the door. "Looks like we're the Thorne party, now." He has a small baggie stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans - either a toe bone or he's started self-medicated. Each of them are stared at in turn, assessing their general wellness, refusing to linger on either for very long.

Byron actually arrives in his own car this time rather than relying on others for transportation. It's the weekend rather than a holiday this time, so their rides are most likely the only vehicles in the lot. While this isn't your typical business meeting, Byron Thorne comes dressed as if it were. Donning a dark three-piece suit, his tie neatly done, his shoes made of expensive Italian leather, he's cleaned up well since his stay at the hospital. Hell, since he was tainted by the ring, when, though he still dressed professionally, he allowed his usually neatly trimmed beard to grow out a touch nor did he do anything to style that slick city style of his hair.

There's a bandage still wrapped around his right wrist, an annoying reminder of everything they've just been through. So much has happened since their last visit to City Hall.

"Let's hope that there's no need for a third time where we're suddenly the Clayton party." Byron murmurs to the others, before starting on his way to follow the arrow.

Her green eyes are fixed resolutely on the doors even while Alexander makes his staring assessment.

"If we end up talking to a pair of severed feet with a disembodied eyeball and a mouth for toes, I'm out," Isabella says, in that usual, effortless way of hers. Why? Because feet are gross.

There's a sideways glance towards the security guard making his rounds, watching the man as he obliviously slips around the corner, none the wiser to whatever intruders might be breaking into the more secured areas of the building. If there is any hesitation at all, the archaeologist doesn't show it, striding purposefully through the rain and feeling it soak through her hair and jacket. It's almost a comfort, the cold. The water. Water was always a comfort.

She doesn't kick the door down. Instead, she curls her knuckles and raps on it once or twice, before shouldering it open and stepping inside.

Another absent flap of his wet t-shirt, and Alexander gives Byron a sidelong, tilted smile. "That might not be so bad. Surely? Has a nice ring to it. If you ask me." Which no one does. When Isabella turns away and strides towards the door, his eyes lift and settle for a moment on her back, and he rubs a tired hand over his face. Then follows along with wary looks around, as if waiting for the ambush. "I can't believe we're voluntarily going over there, though," he mutters. "This is contrary to every survival skill I've acquired." He doesn't hesitate to go through the door, though. Just notes it, for future reference.

Did I mention that Thorne is carrying a briefcase? Because he is! Sure the Archivist asked for a single bone, but Byron didn't want any of William's bones, so he's packed his share of them up and they are stashed in the briefcase. He's been in possession of them for too long as it were, despite not paying them any mind due to a situation involving a ring. Since his Rolls comes with its own umbrella and a heated compartment to dry it, he has that opened up as well. If others would like they can stand beneath his plain black, far too expensive, umbrella.

While he doesn't frown over at Alexander, Byron gives the other man this look when the discussion lingers too long on the possibility of a 'Clayton Party'. He owes Alexander, he knows that. It doesn't mean that he has to be amused by the man's antics.

The door looks normal enough and this wasn't the odd basement that they were led to before, which means that this place could be even worse. Nevertheless, he'll enter the door alongside the others, closing his umbrella and tapping out some of the droplets from it before proceeding. "It came to my attention that these murders may have been prevented earlier if only we'd burned the bones. Whether that's true or not." He shrugs. But they were getting rid of at least one of the bones today.

"At this point, I'm not ruling anything out," Isabella replies to Byron as she and her two companions breach the deeper underbellies of City Hall together. Her hands slip into her pockets, droplets of water clinging to her face and neck, wicking thin rivulets of dark-brown hair against her cheek, but does nothing to wipe them off.

The cavernous room and its vaulted ceilings carry within its grasp the sound of multiple typewriters, and were the circumstances different, she would even appreciate the retro-ness of it all, reminiscent of old newsrooms buried in a haze of a dozen cigarettes. But in the front of the room is the creature she just described a few minutes ago and her expression goes completely flat upon seeing it.

"It's like I actually am psychic," she murmurs, though whether to herself or her companions, it's difficult to tell. But while there is a palpable sense of disgust wafting from her, she moves to stand in front of the creature directly. His question tightens the corners of her eyes further.

"No," she says. Because she already has a job. A job she loves and would like to go back to, but chooses not to because of reasons. "We have an appointment with the Archivist. Or the Collector. Where are they?"

Alexander's sidelong smile wilts at Byron's look, and he ducks his head and looks away. Shoulders hunch just a bit and he lapses into silence as he follows. The mention of burning the bones draws a flinch, a grimace, although apparently he doesn't feel like trying to speak up again at the moment. There's a brief sigh of relief as they hit the cooler air of the interior, and for a moment he just closes his eyes and relishes it. Then his eyes open.

That was a mistake. He stares openly at the typing pool, and the many interesting things inhabiting it. The disembodied foot with its many mouths receives the longest assessments. He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again to say, softly, "I'm so glad the two of you are here. I think I'd have to commit myself if you weren't seeing this. It's a foot. It just said 'goodie'. Are we on the same page? Please be on the same page." Then he shuts up when Isabella starts to talk, but can't resist leaning towards the closest typewriter and the wobbly thing operating it. What could such a creature be typing? He has to know.

With his umbrella securely closed, Byron tucks it beneath his arm, his eyes giving the odd room (yes, of course, everything here is odd) careful observation. As they pass through the groups of... things, that's the best way that he can describe the collection of various cubicle creatures, he goes along with some of the conversation pertaining to the burning of the bones. "If that was the way to prevent all of this," Murder, "Then I hope that everyone forgives us for not burning them sooner. But if we did, then we'd have nothing to show for it here today." In fact, they wouldn't be here today, probably, unless everyone wanted to sacrifice a bone.

Alexander's warning adds to his uneasiness, but what he doesn't expect to see is something far worse than the grotesque Archivist. Far more gruesome in appearance. The severed pair of feet? Is there an evident clean cut or did some just go hog wild with a hacksaw? Either way, on first glance, Byron doesn't start at the thing for long. It was... not easy on the eyes. Eventually, however, he takes another look, before asiding to Alexander, if by being on the same page, you mean leaving right now?" Sure, he was up for that.

Isabella takes the lead.

You won't find the Collector here.

Sometimes being thorough produces the most unexpected results. Isabella's eyes narrow faintly in thought when the creature gives its reply. If not here, then where? She can think of a good few.

She doesn't press it, instead, she gestures to Byron. "That's us, the Thorne party. He's Thorne." The exchanged whispers between her two companions seem to have slipped past her notice entirely, or she heard them, but chooses not to address it, because she is staying. She has to. She must.

The acoustics of the room carry the seemingly thunderous creak of the back door opening, her eyes turning in that direction. There's a glance at the two men with her, giving them a nod, before she forges on ahead, her hands returning into the pockets of her jacket. There's a faint twitch in the corner of one eyelid when she sees the movements of the animated Post-It and while she moves, she can feel it again, how her skin crawls just being in the middle of this place, no matter how friendly its strange denizens are.

"The only way out is through," Alexander replies to Byron, softly. "At least, the only way out I've ever found. Things are changing." He huffs a soft breath at the talk of burning the bones, but doesn't disagree with the assessment. Instead, his attention appears to be caught by the typists, and when the dog-typist forgives Byron and bird-typist nods at Alexander, he smiles at them, a bright and sweet sort of grin. He just can't help it, infected by this weird bit of wonder in a place he's used to thinking of as always terrible. He leans over and murmurs to them both with a friendly sort of nod, "Keep up the good work."

Hopefully their work isn't assembling the lists of people to be tortured in the next few days. That would be awkward. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe his face, pressing the cool, wet cloth against his skin rather than trying to dry it. He follows Isabella, but his dark eyes are wide with a new interest as he looks at everything they pass.

Byron could have announced that they were the Thorne party. He was the Thorne of this party. But they all didn't need to crowd the severed pair of feet with the mouths and that lone eye. In fact, if Isabella wants to have a chat with it, all the better. Then there is some alarm in the monster's voice and was that a threat of firing or releasing the others from their work? How will they ever pay the bills? Either way, when Isabella speaks up, Byron steps forward finally, "I am Byron Thorne. Along with Isabella Reede and Alexander Clayton." This last part is murmured, not certain if needed to be said, but the message left in his voice mail specifically named each and every one of them. "And they are in my party."

He then blinks when the dog typist (Is that an anthropomorphic husky?) forgives him, nodding his head very slowly at it all, including the thumb's up. "Thanks..." But he misses the antics of the pelican thing when he notices the struggling Post-it-Note working its way up to its post. "So the Bone Collector isn't here, but this isn't the Archivist's realm." Or is it? Who knows if that door just leads down to the Hogsworth basement.

Throughout the comments of her companions, Isabella holds her tongue, brows drawn as she gathers her thoughts, impressions from what she has seen and fighting through the haze of impatience. "If this place holds the wheels and cogs of some strange Otherworld bureaucracy," she begins at last, quiet and contemplative, but confident and clear-eyed. "...my guess would be someone else is ultimately in charge and the Archivist simply works here." She tilts her head back, a single bead of water running down her jaw and clinging to the white-gold chain of her moonstone pendant. "Otherwise, he himself would've demanded the payment, not the Collector."

Through the door, the Archivist waits, and looks even more ridiculous than the last time she saw it. She takes in the false lashes, the lipstick in its too-wide mouth. A long, almost interminable silence descends.

And then, because she is who she is: "It's pretty cute that you'd dress up for Byron, but I think your chances would be better if you had some legs."

She gestures sideways. "But yes, we brought the bones."

"Would make sense," Alexander says, quietly. "Archivists are never in charge of anything." His head cranes around to look back into the typing room with a faint frown. "I'm not an 'it'," he mutters, a touch defensively. But his attention returns eyes forward when they pass into the Archivist's space. He doesn't try to touch the books; they don't like that, after all. He pulls out the small baggie with the toe bone, and fiddles nervously with it as the cross to where the Archivist is. And he stares. Frankly. Rudely, even. His eyebrows go up. "I feel underdressed, suddenly. Sorry. Should have dressed up." It sounds serious.

Once inside the somewhat familiar room, Byron keeps his hands to himself, not reaching out with any sort of curiosity to touch anything. One hand remains grasping onto his briefcase, the other keeps the umbrella pressed against him. Oh good, they are once more face-to-face with the Archivist. He sort of expected it. Why was the thing wearing lipstick and what's with those eyelashes. Does it think they make its beady eyes look bigger and brighter?

Isabella's little joke grants her a look, but Thorne /is/ dressed formally enough. But four's a crowd. Just as Alexader takes out his plastic baggie of a toe bone, Byron sets his umbrella down to reach into the briefcase to grab his own bag of bones. "If you're in need of more, I've got you covered." He's hoping that they'd want all of Billy's bones. He, himself, wants nothing to do with them!

The look from Byron earns him a faint half-smile, and the murmured comment from Alexander finally has those green-and-gold irises falling directly on his face, for a heartbeat or two, expression inscrutable - not because of the lack of expression but exactly the opposite.

They draw away again when the Archivist starts to speak.

Suddenly, the intensity of her gaze returns and she reaches within her blazer to produce the rib bone she has left - the last of the collection she had; the rest had been burned, gripping her fingers tightly enough around it that its jagged edges start to cut into her flesh. If it had been any time other than today, Isabella would be asking the Archivist about the land deal, the mysterious bargain between her family and Erin's. But it is today, two days after her mother's murder and since the creature asks, she does:

"Where can I find the person or thing that killed my mother?"

Her jaw sets.

"And what do I have to do to stop him?"

Alexander has SO MANY questions. So many. They're all fighting for space on his face, and probably start with 'what the actual fuck is going on' and then get (gradually) more specific from there. But then Isabella looks at him, straight on, and his mouth clicks shut on whatever query was going to win that grand melee. He meets her eyes for a long moment, dark gaze turbulent, then jerks his head away and moves to shake the toe bone out of the baggie and drop it on the nearest stack of books. Hey, he doesn't know if the Archivist can even operate a ziploc.

By the time he steps back, his expression approaching composed (for Alexander), the question Isabella asks draws a gentle breath from him. But no protest. He adds, "You said you could tell me who I am. That," a nod to Isabella, "is the priority, but if we get multiple questions, I would like to know."

When Isabella pulls out that rib cage she's been carrying, Byron is already laying out the random pieces of bones onto the space indicated. He didn't take many (He didn't want them), but there are a few good-sized pieces of what was left of this Wiliam out on display besides Alexander's toe bone. Unlike the others, Byron doesn't come prepared with a question. He was here to help find answers regarding what happened the night of the storm and blackout, one that almost killed a few of the townsfolk.

However, with a not-so-random string of murders happening, some in his very own apartment building, the inquiry that Isabella presses is similar to what he would have asked. That is, if the killer is the same person. He won't interrupt, giving the Archivist this time to respond to everything just asked.

Put the bone down.

Isabella sets the bone down on the table next to her. It clatters across an open, but indecipherable map.

"Where can I find the person or thing that killed my mother?" she repeats, every word stressed, unable to help the edge overtaking her syllables...and the slight cracking in her voice at the last word. She takes a deep, steadying breath, shutting her eyes in the doing - but they open again to focus, diamond-clarity returned, on the Archivist. "And what do I have to do to stop him?"

She doesn't know why Byron isn't asking any questions. There's a glance over at him, her puzzlement obvious, but to Alexander, her low contralto whispers.

"You should ask your questions."

Words that, ultimately, absolve him from any involvement in anything with a connection to her.

Alexander isn't the most patient of human beings on the BEST day, and he's had a lousy couple of...weeks. When the Archivist starts speaking so, so slowly, his body just starts twitching, the toe of one boot tapping, his lips twisting. You can just SEE him wanting to burst in and finish the damned sentences so that they can move on already. But he bites the inside of his mouth and...waits. And waits. And waits.

And nearly loses his shit when the Archivist says that isn't a question. His hands flutter up in exasperation, a harsh breath coming out. "You know damned well what I meant," he mutters. But Isabella speaking up again has him giving her a sidelong glance. "We." It comes out in a harsh near-whisper. "How do WE stop whatever's murdered Isabella's mother and has committed the related murders? And Who. Am. I?" There. That's a question.

For good measure, he adds, "And what the fuck is WRONG with me?" Which is a question that probably has a LOT of answers, almost certainly more than Alexander really wants to hear and have to face anywhere but the dark of the night, but he flaps a hand at his overheated skin, so hopefully the Archivist gets the intended meaning.

Whatever the Archivist may have hinted to Alexander during their last visit, Byron knew that Clayton wanted answers to that. He's not quite sure what it would reveal or what actually was hinted, but Alexander was here today because of it all. Isabella, well, even if they decided not to come here the first time around, Isabella would have made the trek. Now she has personal questions that need to be answered.

Byron, however, was along for the ride. These murders hurt him, of course, with two of them happening on his property. Hearing Isabella verbally nudge him to inquire, he then asks, "Yes, How do we stop these murders? Are they all related? Were they all committed by the same killer?" He assumed so, but he was never sure. Some of the murders didn't connect well with others in his mind. Alexander's outburst has him growing quiet, giving the man this time to himself with a look of judgment coming from Thorne's corner.

We.

A slight tick manifests at the hinge of her jaw, feeling the familiar stirrings of white-hot fury somewhere in the darkest cages of her. That he had the gall and temerity to say that now, when--

The reply from the Archivist stops her cold. No that's not right. It can't be right.

Because she remembers the date. She remembers the time she received the phone call. A gnawing suspicion starts to cut into her stomach, her mind starting to reel. They said she was found in the tub, her throat opened. "Do you mean the twenty-seventh of July?" Isabella says quietly. "What do you mean the twenty-third?" It isn't right. It isn't right. Her father was retired. He was always home. If Irene had been killed earlier, she would have gotten the call sooner. On the twenty-third, not--

"Who was the voice that woke me up at four am?" she continues. "Who was the woman who woke me up?"

Alexander's breath stops, with a grunt like someone just hit him in the solar plexus. THUMP. The blood drains from his face. But, at the same, he looks - not unsurprised, that's DEFINITELY shock written all over him. But more like this is just the sort of thing he's come to expect from the universe, lately. His voice is even, surprising pleasant, and if you didn't look at his eyes you might think he was taking this well, as he waits for Isabella to finish and dates to be clarified before saying, "When you say 'William' and 'Virginia', do you mean William Gohl? Just. To be clear."

Blinking at what the Archivist says, Byron quickly asks, "What do you mean by incorrect? Do you mean that because William Gohl is already dead that he could really be the killer?" With that in mind, his brow quirks, "I'm a little curious now whether he was the one calling his own name this whole time during the storm. Calling out to his own bones." As absurd as that sounds /someone/ was looking for them and was willing to kill people to find--

Sure, he's watching the fish creature chomp on those bones, but he does ask now, "The voice that we all heard. Was it William Gohl's soul? His spirit seeking out his own bones? Did he take on another form?" Now Byron has questions on his mind.

The whole production of the correction of data, when the gruesome pair of feet show up again, has him straightening his posture once he picks up his umbrella from where it was leaning against some random desk. It looks like even there's still 'human error' in a place filled with vast knowledge and information. Alexander's question makes Byron's gaze peer out only semi-curiously in the Archivist's direction now, because of course, Alexander was releated to the killer too.

Alexander isn't the only one growing frustrated. The young woman takes another step forward, fingers reaching to grip the table next to her in solid effort not to launch herself forward in a fit of pique. "I didn't ask who killed my mother, I asked where. Where can I find him?" Isabella nearly snatches the levitating bone back, because the Archivist is not answering her questions at all! "Who woke me up at four am on the 28th of July?"

With the unfurling of Alexander Clayton's family tree, her eyes turn to look at the post-its which reveal the...

...missing half of her family tree.

It takes her back, the night she first met Alexander, stealing Byron's pens and office supplies to draw them her half. The first thing she mentioned was that she had absolutely no idea what happened to Elizabeth's line, only that she married sometime before the 1870s. And now she knows. Her phone lifts from her back pocket, and takes a picture of the arrangement of Post-Its. At this rate, it might be the only concrete thing that's coming out of this meeting.

Green eyes fall on Alexander's profile, and Byron's astute questions. Her narrow-eyed glare turns to swivel at the increasingly crabby Archivist.

Alexander stares at the assembled family tree, and rubs at his face. He doesn't even seem to appreciate all the work those wonderful little post-it notes are doing to build it up. And they are so clever! He breathes slowly, carefully, as if breathing too hard might just cause his carefully built facade of control to come flying apart. His voice is soft, every word deliberate. "I see. Sorry for being obtuse. But you told us this right when we met you the first time, didn't you? Clayton to Smith and all the way to the bones. You said it. We just didn't hear it. I didn't hear it. I'm sorry for being frustrating."

Isabella and Byron's questions draw a sigh. "You heard it--him--she?" He didn't like to be called an 'it', and he frowns at not having a better pronoun. "The Archivist. Not the Archivist's department. But a good Archivist knows where information can be found." His voice is still disconnected, somewhat remote even as he focuses on the melty face. "Where would be the best place for us to look for information on how to destroy or contain the William Gohl who is committing these murders?"

When the Post-in-Notes work their magic, drawing the group's attention to the Clayton family tree so proudly displayed before them now, Byron's eyes flicker from one pair of names to the other, going up the tree, then down the tree, before he settles on the unfinished branch. That was.. interesting. Especially, when Isabella brings it up now. They were both related to this serial killer and each other!

Giving the diagram one last look, he returns to face the others when he is reminded, thank god, that he is not related to William Gohl and also to the fact that the questions they want answered is not in the Archivist's wheelhouse. "If this is not your department, we would appreciate if you could kindly direct us to--" Right, what Alexander asks, "where we can find this information." His voice then drops into a murmur, "And prevent him from killing others."

She's so angry she can hardly speak; despite everything else, what remains of her heart are still within her, somewhere, buried deep within the miasma of more volcanic emotions, can't help but twist violently. That piece of information was the last thing Alexander needed, already so determined to bleed himself out on the altar of his cryptic sins that she doesn't know if he even has the stability to accept the fact that history is just that. They can choose to learn from it, or discard it, but in the end...

....it changes absolutely nothing.

Not to her.

She will let the others deal with the Archivist, worried about his falsies. She tucks in the reminder to speak with the Addingtons about William, reminding her of Erin's message.

But she has one other thing to do.

Isabella turns to leave the office, her walk suddenly turning into a quick trot, before an all out run, in an effort to look for the typists' pool and the severed feet of an overseer that they have.

Ask the other departments, he said.

The rest of the weird creatures were on the floor, shuffling paper daily. They have to know.

Don't they?

"The Addingtons." Alexander's still in the happy still place where he doesn't have to process any of this shit immediately, so that sounds pretty calm. "All right, then. Since we're here, why do Baxters get erased or murdered or disastered away from Gra--"

His voice breaks off as Isabella turns and starts to run away. "Fuck! Isabella! Don't split up in here!" He gives Byron a quick, agonized look, torn between not splitting the party even further, and running after the archaeologist.

"The Addingtons. Got it." These two may have some blood ties to William Gohl, but Byron Thorne had a blood link to the Addingtons. Not that mattered. He wasn't an Addington, himself, and if you asked him, he could care less that they were being murdered now. Most of them. He knows a few of them, either personally or in pass--

Isabella's outburst has his often composed demeanor change slightly and he looks as if he may be trailing behind, "Where do you think you're--" He knows where she is going. Back through whence they came. He catches Alexander's looks, the other man can see the slightly agitated piercing intensity within his dark eyes as he shakes his head. To the Archivist, he is polite, "It seems that we are on our way to find these other departments. Thank you for your time and information and I hope that you make good use of those bones." He pauses a moment, before murmuring, "And I hope that we didn't shoot ourselves in the foot after we'd given you most of them in our collection." There weren't many more of them to burn or find a way to get rid of now!

He looks as if he's about to turn, his eyes on the pink thing when the Archivist asks its' own question. "They are... still there. Your eyelashes. They look fine." They don't really, but no need to be rude.

Everything is closed. Surprisingly, Isabella doesn't say or do anything in frustration.

When both men catch up to her, she's leaning against one of the columns holding up the vaulted ceilings of City Hall's old architecture, her hand gripping her phone and her thumb scrolling through all the messages that she has received within the last two days. She finds the one she is looking for, her determined, focused expression half-lit by the glow of her small hi-definition screen, the images within reflected in the emerald color of her eyes. Both hands access the digital keyboard to tap out a rapid message.

She looks up whenever they arrive, pushing away from the pillar to stow away her phone. "Erin and I have been corresponding since...a few weeks ago. She was with me when I burned the rest of my collection. I told her that I need to speak with her as soon as she can."

She pauses, her eyes moving to Byron, and then to Alexander, holding there. "I said I might bring others with me, once I do."

There's definitely some hurrying to catch up with Isabella, Alexander's expression torn with concern that they're going to round a corner and she's just going to be GONE. Or worse than gone. When she's alive, and back in the real world, he breathes out a sharp huff of relief. "Miss Reede, please do not run into the lost places like that. It's not safe." See? That sounds mature. Adult. Not at ALL like he wants to reach out and shake her until her teeth rattle.

No, that comes a little later, when something she says has his head jerking. "When you burned the rest of your...collection? Your collection of..." his lips press together. "When? When did you do it? This is important. If you please." Clipped, urgent, but still holding on to 'polite' with his fingernails. Maybe Byron is rubbing off on him.

Okay, are those hearts in the pink slimy fish's eyes? At first, Byron just stands there and blinks and rather than quirking just one brow, he lifts both up in this 'huh' sort of way. "I-- I will. Talk to the Addingtons. Bring up William and Thomas and all that good stuff." He doesn't smile back in return, not really. Another blink soon follows. When he's given the last little tidbit about the other departments being closed he nods, "Thanks. And... thanks for the information." Turning to follow the others back into the typing pool room, he has to murmur, "This does explain a lot about Clayton, not gonna lie."

Going pass the rows and rows of typing creatures of all sorts, once Byron takes note of the supervisor type, his eyes divert immediately. No need for that to be the last thing he sees.

Once he's finally outside, the dark gray skies now greeting him. He doesn't raise his umbrella this time, allowing the rain drops to soak into his the fabric of his suit. "The other departments close after 4:30pm." He decides to toss out. After hearing the mention of Isabella, Byron considers, "I can touch base with Hyacinth Addington as well. See if either of them know of anything or would be brave enough to do their own research on the matter."

She knows it isn't safe in the Lost Places. Isidore called it something different, when they were growing up. When he would take her by the hand and lead her through the woods. When he would tell her to hang onto him, and to never let go.

To trust him.

She must sense that need from Alexander to grab her around the shoulders and shake her, though, for that familiar stubborn tilt of her jaw returns - a sure sign that she's about to get difficult - but when he switches tracks to something else entirely, she nearly grabs him and turn the full brunt of that gold-and-emerald glare right at his face. "The night of the day..." You passive-aggressively threw me out of your hospital room. "...I visited you. It was trying to get me to bury it. Over and over again. It wouldn't stop yelling at me, and I was tired of inanimate objects trying to compel me to bend to their whims. Why?"

Her attention moves back to Byron. "We're just going to have to come back and ask the Other Other Department what other departments we can rattle the cages of, then," she says, though confusion settles on her features. "Hyacinth...Addington?" She's heard of Erin by virtue of her being close in age, and she's been all over the papers, but this new face is unknown to her.

Alexander can't even be angry. If he hadn't pushed her out of the room, he'd probably KNOW this already, and he recognizes that. His eyes close, and he gets that look again. The 'yep, this is what the universe wants for me' look. Quietly, he says, "Because I felt it. Around midnight? I burned alive in my hospital bed. Or so it felt like. And I haven't been able to be cool since then. At night, I feel it again. Every night." He reaches up and rubs at his chest. "You had the rib cage. That explains that." His breath hitches, his eyes remaining closed for a moment longer as he adds, hearing Byron join then, "So could we maybe not destroy any of the other bones that weren't just eaten by an Archivist?"

Then he steps away in short, sharp steps, and turns his back to both of them so that neither can see his face. His voice, when it comes, is a little shaky, but still...okay. Yes. Let's call it okay. "We can't just come back. Not by ourselves. There are people who can open doors into this place, though. I know of one. But let's start with the Addingtons. I suspect that stupid questions won't get answers. We need good questions."

Byron is a little late to the party, but he catches some very key points in this conversation. "Woah. Woah. You started burning up? Like excruciatingly painfully?" Then Alexander says that he hasn't been able to get cool since then and Thorne's eyes lower to stare at one of Alexander's hands. There's this little twitch in his arm, being brought to life by this curious need to feel this heat for himself. Is Clayton really burning up? But he refrains him and that arm stills.

"My set of bones have all been eaten. Did you feel that too, Clayton?" This could be a joke or it could just be a genuine question. He does have to agree, however, "Clayton is right. It was difficult for us to get the first appointment as it is. They only contacted me this time around because they knew we had the bones. It's not going to be easy getting another one set up. Unless, maybe, we knew which apartment we needed."

Then to the topic of Hyacinth Addington, "She works for the Zoning Commission and Historical Preservation. I've had to contact her a few times in the past for various projects. She's... hard to miss." With that robotic leg of hers.

Because I felt it.

Isabella's growing flush suddenly drains away from her face as she stares at him mutely, eyes wide and lips parting, watching him as he imparts those quiet words to her. Some part of her had dreaded that perhaps burning the bones would have caused her mother's death, that the blame would be on her - but something has been targeting the Baxters for generations, there was no good reason to automatically make that assumption. Meanwhile, Alexander's low baritone confirms another consequence entirely and something sick and vile lurches at the pit of her stomach, words coalescing in a hard knot somewhere at the back of her throat, like something hooked and barbed, liable to tear out her jugular if she forces it.

"Alexander, I..."

Teeth clutch at her lower lip. "...it makes sense..." she says at last, though the words come out in a pained, ragged whisper. "You have some connection to him. You're from his side of the tree." She knows what it looks like now, she is far removed from Elizabeth's line. Her murderous ancestry stems from Lindon and Robert Baxter, not William Gohl.

But that opens up other possibilities, too. If William and Alexander can be linked that way, wouldn't that mean...

No. Her lips press tightly together, remembering all the things that Isidore can do, how talented he was with his Glimmer, how he made it look so effortless. How he could do the impossible, even when he was young. And she knows. She knows. It's too dangerous. She will not even consider it. Eyes brimming with the things she is unwilling to say fix on Byron determinedly. "Maybe if we talk to the Addingtons, we'll know what to ask," she says at last. "I think that's right, we'll need to ask good questions, and we can't make informed queries without information. I'll handle Erin Addington, you can get in touch with Hyacinth, and maybe once they've said they're willing to meet, we can all sit down together and think about the next steps. Does that sound like a doable plan for now?"

"Yes, Thorne. Like excruciatingly painfully." Alexander's voice has gone from even to flat. Completely, utterly flat. "And no, I haven't felt anything new yet, but if parts of me suddenly start digesting I will be certain to let you know. Since you find it entertaining."

He closes his eyes, letting most of the conversation wash over him. "If the connection goes one way, it might go the other." Of course he's already thought of that, and his voice remains flat as he says, "Make sure to let the Addingtons know. It might be that they can do something to me that will trap or destroy Gohl, since they apparently put him down last time." He takes a breath, still not facing either of them. "Is that all, then?"

"If the connection goes the other way," Byron pipes up, his eyes looking towards Alexander despite the flat tone to his little joke. Thorne doesn't apologize for it. "Then when Lilith tore into your leg like that, William Gohl's shade could've felt it too." Or when Byron shocked Alexander, but he doesn't remember doing it.

A lone look is given the security guard that seems to be approaching them now as they make their way to their cars. "Right, I'll contact Hyacinth Addington and let you know." He then adds, this for Alexander, "I asked Rebecca Carr if she knew about her family history. Why they were so interested in the bones then. I don't know if she'll be able to get any helpful answers, but it's something." Reaching into his pocket for his car keys, he finishes with, "I'll make the inquiry on my end and keep you up-to-date."

"No."

The syllable is hard and decisive. "Even with a talented mentalist - even if we somehow decided to eviscerate Alexander on the spot or use his blood to establish a connection and....I don't know, scry for the bastard, it's too dangerous. There has to be another way."

There has to be.

Isabella takes a breath, and nods towards Byron, listening to what he learned from Rebecca Carr. "I'll do the same," she says quietly. "When I get a call or message back from Erin Addington."

Yeah, Alexander likes where this conversation is going. Or, wait. No. That other thing. The opposite of like. His head ducks and he gives a full-body shudder. He doesn't answer either of them, although he must have heard all...of that.

Instead, he just starts walking, shoulders hunched, still limping a bit on his bandaged leg, through the drizzling rain.