2019-08-14 - The Die Is Cast

Summer is ending.

It isn't just the cerebral recognition of a season transitioning to another, but something else that is intangible and difficult to define; she can taste it in the air, and feel the chill that promises a tumultuous Autumn and a potentially deadly Winter. That restlessness, the undeniable sense that something is lurking just out of sight - unstoppable, inevitable - has lingered in her bones almost since from the moment she returned to her hometown two months ago, as persistent as an unwanted burr, and so much so that what ought to be the safest few months in the year hadn't felt that way at all.

Getting shot five times was just the whipped cream on that particularly twisted sundae.

The sun has almost sunk, but not without a fight, the top of it clinging to the distant line of the Pacific and emanating one last burst of color before it yields to the night, as it must every day. It is still light enough to see the clouds overhead, fluffy and distant, leaving fields of endless blue and indigo in between. It isn't quiet, despite the thoughtful silence that has blanketed her since they left Two If By Sea, electing to walk on the shoreline on the way back to her residence; the high tide rolls up to chill her toes and soothe her skin from the humidity and the stubborn heat, echoes of surf and foam filling their ears and punctuated, now and then, by the distant cawing of seagulls. Her sandals dangle from the hook her left index and middle fingers make, her other hand in her pocket, her jacket slung on the loop that arm creates. Her satchel rests against the curve of her hip, on the other side of her.

Water is good for her. Water calms her, and helps her think. A decade and change without Isidore's balancing influence within herself, she needs it now more than ever.

Green and gold eyes slant upwards sideways to regard her companion in her periphery; especially without her shoes, Alexander looks significantly taller than her, his haggard but handsome profile bathed in shadow and the scant traces of starlight just appearing in the horizon, a reflection of his inner landscape translated into the corporeal, waking world. This particular hour suits him, Isabella decides privately, the minutes that hang on the cusp between the day's end and when darkness comes alive - it fits his nature, his work...what he seems to believe is his purpose.

"Elias gave me a crash course on the Weber family history pre-Gray Harbor when I visited him," she begins, her leg bending by the knee, flicking her foot upwards and sending drops of water scattering into the surf. "They weren't from here originally, but settled in relatively quickly after the city's official founding. He'd have to do more research about the things I asked him, but what he did manage to tell me is enough to make his family's ties with my own somewhat strange. I saw Doct-- Minerva, also, before I ended up in Likely Stories."

Alexander slouches along at Isabella's side as they walk in the dwindling twilight. He likes the shore more than he might easily admit; not for the usual reasons - or not just for the usual reasons, although he's not immune to the beauty of the waves, the sparkle of the sun on the water, the intrigue of the depths - but rather because it gives him an entire part of his mental 'range' that is blessedly quiet and still, broken only by the soft, simple minds of beasts even when he reaches in that direction. So, despite the perhaps less than successful attempt at social interaction they just came from, he's relaxing rapidly now that he's out with just her, and a few other lovers and families walking along the shore. The lights of firepits can be seen, young adults laughing and playing around the fire, tempting each other to come splash into the waters.

His wariness means he can't ignore them; his gaze searches the deepening twilight, assessing each as a threat or not, before roving back to the woman at his side. But even so, he's relaxed. For Alexander. When she looks up at him, he's wearing a faint little smile, barely visible in the dark, watching her with dark eyes even as she watches him. "Elias Weber and Dr. Kosimar. You have been busy, Isabella." It's fond, as if he recognizes that all the energy she built up during her hospital stay had to be discharged with productivity. "I assume the visit with the good Doctor was about whatever she witnessed with William Gohl during your unfortunate incident? And what is strange about the Webers?" A pause. "More than that everything involving the Baxters seems to be a little off-center to say the least."

There is no smile, at least when Isabella tilts her face upwards in an angle to look at him, but to see him watch her this way, the aura around him so palpably different from the mechanical defenses he has kept up with Rick Carlson and Dante Taylor, finally draws one out, faint and touched with a slight curiosity. She remembers a time in her life when her tenacity often drove others away, finding it too difficult in the end to handle, instead of drawing them to her orbit and the fact that this particular satellite has decided to keep on doing so can't help but be rather baffling to her - a woman who has spent most of her adult life never staying in one place for too long, accustomed to the transience of her own life and the necessity of treating her personal connections the same way.

"What's strange about the Webers is that they're witches."

There's a meandering step forward that lists her body closer to his, but it is a swaying motion with the way she walks, and nothing resembling the desire to feel his warmth, however indirectly, the shifting of her weight rounding the curve of her hip against her satchel. Toes slip further into the coarse sand, unbothered by the uneven grains. The coasts of the Pacific Northwest are nothing so fine as the powdery beaches of other places, but that is the very thing that appeals to her about this side of the world - its beauty is rough around the edges, utterly imperfect, and interesting because of it.

"Before they moved to Gray Harbor, they fled the Northeast due to the Salem Witch Trials," she continues. "They settled here, eventually, but despite their best efforts to hide their history, the rumors were pervasive. From our visit with the Archivist when he oh-so-helpfully constructed your side of the family tree with Post-Its, we found out that Dorothy Weber married Preacher Lindon Baxter - I told you the night we met that I didn't know who he married, but that I knew that she belonged to the Weber family. Now we know which specific one." She takes a deep breath. "I asked Elias about the possibility that perhaps she didn't know her own history, otherwise why would she elect to marry someone with clear religious inclinations, but he said it was unlikely. Everyone in their family knows where they came from and they embrace their roots and own it, rather than pretending they don't exist. So the question is, ultimately, why she would marry him when their family was uprooted due to religious persecution. Also, it was the 1800's. Families had a say on marriages - the fathers, especially."

She tables the topic about Minerva, for now, but undoubtedly, she will circle back to it. She always does. "I'm waiting to see if he finds anything. But it had me wondering whether that photograph actually was one taken before a witch burning - or if it's something else entirely. Maybe it wasn't a trial. Maybe it was a sacrifice - by the time it happened, the practice doesn't really happen anymore. I'm not an expert - Elias would know more than I do, but he was emphatic that it was more common in the 1600's and 1700's and virtually unheard of in the late 1800's. But I can't conclude that definitively, hopefully Elias' efforts turn up something."

"There are a lot of oddities with that incident," Alexander admits. "America never really burned witches in the first place. We hung them. Burning was mostly a European phenomenon, and actually reserved more typically for heretics and infidels rather than witchcraft, specifically." Because of course he knows about the differences between ways that horrible things were done to largely innocent human beings and why. When she lists closer to him, he doesn't flinch away as he often does with others; he hardly even seems to acknowledge it, which is perhaps more about his growing ease in her presence than indifference to her.

"But, regardless, it's still strange. A woman who understands that she is from a line of people often considered witches, marries a preacher who sacrifices a group of women - including his own family members - with the ostensible reason being given that they were witches. Even if they were sacrifices, I can't imagine they were willing. Burning to death is a deeply unpleasant way to die, and it takes a surprisingly long time, when we're talking about a pyre, rather than smoke inhalation from a house fire, or something of the like." He looks down at his feet, and the sturdy leather dress shoes that are slowly getting coated with wet sand. "The Weber woman, too, may have been a sacrifice in her own fashion. Ransomed for her family's safety, perhaps. But why would they trust such a bargain when the man was killing those related to him by blood?" He grimaces. "Again, a case where I lack the data I want. Mister Weber's research, should he uncover anything, would be interesting."

She listens to Alexander, green-gold eyes imbued with that intense, diamond-sharp focus, if not just because she is learning something new. Her field requires an intimate relationship with history, but to say that she knows much about witch hunting practices in recent centuries would be a lie, and holds a place as far from her actual specialities as they come.

"You never told me who those women in the photograph were," Isabella says after a thoughtful silence, turning those curious eyes back at him - even in the darkness, his eyes burn like embers, reflecting his own inner light. "You seem to know conclusively that some of his family members were part of the women who were to be immolated. Were you able to identify all of them?" The implication is clear, and she trusts his intelligence enough to fill in the blanks: Was Dorothy Weber one of them? "Where was his wife in all of this?" appended quietly after the question.

It would be interesting - more necessary than interesting to the archaeologist, who is closer to this than she prefers, but she would clearly like to know also, if not just to have enough in her growing arsenal to prevent others connected to her from dying or disappearing. "I intend to send him a copy of the picture. He asked for it and he said he'll get back to me. He seems very enthusiastic about his family lore, and he was always interested in the occult from almost ever since I've known him, though now that I know where he and his family came from, the academic shine in it makes sense." She rolls her head back, the hand in her pocket leaving it so she could curl her fingertips against the back of her neck. "Truthfully, I'm reluctant to involve him. He was always sweet, and had a good disposition towards others. I haven't read him in yet, I'm waiting to see what he finds before deciding."

"Two Baxter women, two Addington women, and two Whitehouse women, I believe," Alexander says, with a shrug. "I don't remember their first names right off hand, but it's in my notes. I can send you their actual names. I don't know that I could tell you which woman in the photograph is which, mind you. And I haven't been too forthcoming with the info because I would prefer Miss Whitehouse not be further harassed." He grimaces. "She has already experienced too much unhappiness and isolation because of rumors about her and her family." Something a man known as 'Crazy Clayton' feels more keenly than most might. "And I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on the potential...difficulties regarding further publication of Baxter and Addington associations."

He sighs. "I don't know Mister Weber. Normally, I would say simply tell the truth and if he is interested, he will be interested, and if he is not, then he'll tell you in pretty plain tones to get out of here with that crazy shit." It sounds like a quote from somewhere in Alexander's own history - possibly repeated in many situations by many people. "But I can understand not wanting to endanger people. I never expected my research project to uncover such," a long pause, "potentially explosive revelations. I still wonder if, somehow, stirring up interest in the Baxters was what awakened the Ghoul. I regret involving you and Thorne, and the effects it has had on...many of the people of Gray Harbor."

"You mentioned that Miss Whitehouse has a sister that may be held in the same asylum the Ghoul was?" It's a question that isn't really a question - Isabella remembers it, unsurprising that she would have a good memory for details and facts, and the things that people have said to her. "And I know, I just wanted to know whether there was someone you didn't recognize in the photograph, because I keep wondering where his wife was in all of this. For all we know, she could have died before the incident depicted within it, but none of that explains why she would marry him." She pauses, face reflective of clear hesitation, before she continues: "You said his picture had dark tendrils? Have you ever seen that before in your history dealing with things here?"

His expression of regret - honest even there - has her shaking her head. "First of all, that's inaccurate," she tells him, and while her voice is quiet, her tone is light, arching a dark brow at him from where she stands. "Byron introduced me to you, and once that happened, I involved myself. That was my condition in exchange for information, including the fact that I'm a Baxter and directly descended from the man in the photograph. I didn't give you much of a choice. Second of all, you told me that Baxters have been disappearing or dying for generations well before the killings started. If you're right, something else is at work there - the Ghoul might be part of it, but it's apparent to me that all of this has long, poisonous roots stemming into the far past."

Her steps slow and stop. The wind unfurls the dark ribbons of her hair as she watches the ocean for a moment or two. "There might be more to that, also," she tells him. "The incident between the Ghoul and Sheriff Addington."

Alexander nods at the question which is not a question. As she slows, so does he, and he mirrors her stop, turning his eyes to the ocean, letting the wind play with his overlong bangs. "Yes. That's our working assumption right now. Maybe." He grimaces. "There seems to be some confusion on whether she might have escaped the asylum and is - for some reason - not making contact with her sister deliberately." His voice lowers, as if Violet might hear him EVEN FROM HERE. "I have wondered if the sister might be deliberately shutting her out to torment her, for finding a new relationship with her doctor. Miss Whitehouse says she finds that improbable." His tone suggests stronger language was used. "But I won't rule it out until we've had a chance to search the asylum."

He takes a deep breath, and sighs. "I don't deny that you have entered into the situation of your own free will, Isabella. I just wonder if...if I hadn't poked and prodded, if perhaps things would be different." A shrug. "Regrets are useless. I can't take it back, and the only way out, at this point, is through. Alea iacta est." And yet, still, it's clear that the guilt and worry tugs at him a little.

But her last statement whips up his everpresent curiosity - the surest sign that, even if on some level Alexander might want to leave things be that he is constitutionally incapable of it - and he turns his gaze from the ocean to the woman. "More? What do you mean?"

Her eyes close at that, listening quietly to Violet Whitehouse's plight - the fact that her family had been involved in the picture, also, didn't escape her notice, and now her sibling is lost in the other world. She braces herself for the next question, though this isn't apparent - it is easier to hide her more volatile self the closer she is to the water, where the cool, noisy rush is almost enough to douse some of the firestorms of her nature. "How deep is her connection to her sister?" The words are so low that the only way he can hear her is the fact that he is standing nearby, dwarfing her within his ominous shadow - and in a way, hiding her also. It is strange, in the end, how something that looks and feels so threatening can also make her feel safe, not that she would ever admit it to him or anyone.

The latin phrase has her tilting her head at him, her usual mischief - never one to be shelved for long - brightening the golden motes within her eyes. "Are you Julius Caesar now, crossing the Rubicon?" Isabella asks, and while she doesn't laugh, her voice makes her mirth clear enough. "You're surprisingly bold when you want to be, Alexander Clayton."

The question of the hour drops, and she folds her arms across her torso, sandals swinging in the breeze from her hooked fingers. "I spoke to Minerva, like I said, because - as I showed you - I remember her speaking with the Ghoul before I..." She makes a face, an emphatic grimace that makes it patently obvious that she finds something shameful in the idea. "...succumbed to my injuries. She showed me her own memories, and they're...she's very skillful, Alexander. I can project vivid images, but not like the way she does. Hers could move, can make you feel as if you were actually there. You can hear the subjects' voices, as if they're in the present. She might be strong enough to match you."

She takes a breath, and turns so she could face him directly, meeting his eyes in the dark, letting herself be swallowed up by those deep-set pinpoints of living night. "The Ghoul might've been set up by Sheriff Addington," she tells him. "When they took him while I was unconscious, he was screaming about the Addingtons. About who they really are, and about what they really do." She pauses, lips twisting downward in thought. "That they call him a murderer, but that everyone knows who the real killers are."

"Alexander was, ultimately, a conqueror," he reminds her, with a half-smile. "Although I've never felt very much like one. And certainly not like a Caesar with his many ambitious transgressions." It doesn't stop him from sidling closer, and if she allows, resting his hands gently on her shoulders, the movement more comforting than intentionally sensual, a reaction to her bracing herself. He's done that often enough himself to recognize even the subtle symbols of it in others. "I understand their connection is very deep. Enough for her to know that her sister remains alive, even if she isn't speaking to her, at the moment."

He hums softly at her grimace, studying her in the dark as best he can. But he doesn't chide her for her shame, nor try to convince her not to feel what she's feeling. There's a thoughtful nod. "I thought she had to be fairly strong. I don't think I've ever tried to touch her mind, nor she mine, but she stands out quite sharply." His head tilts to one side as she turns, eyebrows going up. "Isabella." A pause. "There haven't been a lot of murderers who have admitted their crimes. It's always someone else's fault. And the Addingtons have crimes to answer for, I'm quite certain - I still believe it was Margaret who burned the funeral home, and engineered the unjust commitment of Officer Johnson's family member. Why? That, I still don't know. But no one gains power and wealth without harming others along the way." He grimaces. "It doesn't mean that William Gohl isn't a serial killer. And we know that he's killed innocents here, and now, as a ghost."

Alexander was, ultimately, a conqueror.

She doesn't need the reminder, being who and what she is - Ancient Rome and Greece belong in her list of specialties, and perhaps what spurs her to reply to him with laughing words: "If we're going by that, I'm suddenly wishing I was named Arabia, instead," she says, flashing him that brilliant, wicked smile; in the deepening dark, it cuts through the black like a scythe. Alexander the Great's last frontier, unable to ultimately conquer it before he succumbed to an illness.

Lashes lower - underneath the shadows they cast, her eyes are reduced to thin, brilliantly green crescents, until toil-roughened hands find her bare shoulders, his right thumb lying over the thin white line that mars the smooth tan of her left shoulder. She allows it, because how could she not, knowing how difficult such gestures usually are for him, and she is perpetually starved for every little one that he deigns to give her. Her gaze lifts at that to meet his own, her earlier laugh fading into a rueful smile, slightly exasperated - but more at herself. She says nothing about Violet's connection with her sister, though there is a quiet, aching sort of envy he can glimpse within those expressive irises. It is something she cannot begrudge Violet Whitehouse.

If only...

"I know," she says, her head lowering, taking a step closer towards him, though there's enough of a distance that save for his hands, she doesn't touch him. But eventually, a hand does lift, to hook a finger gently into one of the belt-loops by his hip, as if to anchor herself to him with that single tenuous hold. "Minerva also mentioned that the Ghoul said that some people were more honest about their crimes than others, I'm assuming that means he did kill those people, and that he enjoyed it. But I'm more interested in what he said before that - who are the Addingtons, and what do they do? If they had the Ghoul cornered the way they did, why didn't the Sheriff just kill him? It isn't as if he wouldn't have had cause, or reason, they had the convenient excuse of a shootout right there. So why?"

The mention of the fire has her head tilting back again to look at him, loose strands of dark hair tangling over the curve of her cheek, spooling over the side of her throat and into the white-gold chain of her pendant, though in the darkness, she can barely see the finer details of his face, save for the way ambient light reflects in his near-black stare. "....she..." There's a pause. "...I think I'm missing something. Why do you think Margaret burned down the funeral home? And Margaret Addington as in the same one with whom I'm going to attempt to butt heads with along with the rest?"

Alexander raises his hands when she turns, but only long enough for her to turn, before he settles them back into place. Conscious of her still healing wounds, there's no escalation to the touch, aside from the brush of his thumbs in a gentle circle against her collarbone, something he doesn't even seem entirely aware that he's doing. His expression is still blank and focused, thinking about darker matters. The quip about Arabia does get a quick flash in the dark of his teeth in a pleased grin, even if he doesn't pursue the playful challenge. At the moment, anyway.

Instead, when she steps forward, he sighs. "An interesting question. Based on what Dr. Glass said, it was at least implied that William Gohl was allowed to run free, because he was doing what the dolorphages or those who run the Asylum wanted him to do. And once he was captured, he was sent to the asylum. Which would imply that someone involved in his capture and confinement - whether it was the whole of the Addington family or at least one member in it - is aligned with the dark. And had a purpose for him. Perhaps his murders covered up something else that the Addingtons were trying to do that involved needing death." His gaze goes distant, staring at the ocean. "The old Addington sawmill, the abandoned one, has always had stories around it. Lumber is, itself, a dangerous job that maims and kills many of its workers. Not a bad way to hide if you were murdering a few others, here and there. Or just inviting the shadows to feed off of the pain."

He shakes himself, and looks back down at her at the last. A faint smile. "Maybe paranoia. The image I saw of the burning funeral home had a powerful, adult woman standing before it, in front of an expensive car. She was accompanied by a younger man, likely related to her. It was...the late sixties, I believe? She is in her late seventies or early eighties now - she would have been somewhere in her early thirties, then, I think? Right age. Right social class. And Thomas Addington has always been the Old Lady's less brilliant shadow. And who else in town would have felt she COULD burn a local establishment, stand there and watch it burn, then drive off...and yet an innocent woman is abused for the crime? It would have to be a person with not just wealth, but influence, wouldn't it?"

He gives her a very stern look. "I'm going. To the meeting. And we are not 'butting heads' with the woman if we can help it. Even if I'm completely wrong about her role in the past, she's dangerous. We're going to be as polite as we can manage to be when asking if Thomas knows any magical rituals for stopping a ghost that might have a very good reason for wanting to kill Addingtons." He breathes out, sighs. "Although it still doesn't...I don't understand why your mother, or Penny and her brother. Nor do I understand why Erin's parents have a different methodology from all the other murders. It is maddening, Isabella."

It's that quick grin that banishes the darknesses of her own imagination for just a moment, when he reacts to the quip and makes these visible impressions that he is aware of the challenge in her words, reminded once again that for all of their differences, some of their more significant interests overlap, and find commonality within one another. Her pupils visibly shrink in returned pleasure, intellectual stimulus compounded by a physical one. The roughened pads of his thumbs roll in those comforting gestures, warming her skin and delivering their own muted electricity, but tempered, ultimately by what she knows is in there, lurking underneath her skin and abutting against the soothing pass of his right digit - the screws and bolts keeping one side of her braced, keeping her together to prevent her from falling apart. A stop gap, of a kind, to stand in for certain pieces of her that are missing.

There's a question there, but ultimately she doesn't ask it, left to wonder in the dark whether it would be enough for him, in the end, to be so attached to half a person.

Those green eyes study the hollow of his throat from the collar of his shirt, when he starts talking about the dark, and the Dolorphages, the feel of her once again stepping outside of her body, as if she could disengage herself spiritually from that aspect of the conversation. But she can't help but listen, because it is important and all the moreso, because these are his words, spoken in his voice and she knows that in spite of his misgivings, this constant battle with himself, he is trying to address a need that he senses inside her that she is unable to tell him. She is both terribly aware of how fortunate she actually is, especially after all that she has endured....and is just as painfully cognizant of the fact that she might not deserve it.

"I don't know how successful we're going to be separating them," she says at last, her voice lower in deference to their changed proximity. "I wish we could, I wish it was guaranteed - she'd have all of the control in that conversation, if we can't. I suppose we'll deal with it then, we're just going to have to be smart about it." Her stomach tightens; she wants to ask. How much he knows about them, how he knows that they feed, but the words don't come, stuck forever in the places inside of herself that she has resolved to bury, for as long and as tenaciously as she can. "The way you describe your suspicions, the arrangement sounds almost Faustian." Her tone here is light at least, though levity fades again. "Not like there aren't any other historical equivalents - I'll tell you about Tartini sometime. Have you looked into the history of the saw mill at all?" Isabella pauses, and her tone here is resigned. "Should I be asking when I probably know the answer to that already?"

She feels him shift, and so she tips her head back to meet his eyes again, catching that faint smile and is unable to hold back her own. "You're the investigator," she reminds. "I'm just invested. But you're right - by process of elimination alone, she's the only one who could fit the bill, and you're right in that if we just knew why, maybe some of this would get cleared up." She pauses. "Andi Johnson's sister is directly from that branch of the family, isn't she? I know she's autistic, and I hate to impose on her, but if this meeting with Margaret is unsuccessful, maybe it's worth asking her if she knows anything. Because I think you and I both know that our chance of success isn't at all guaranteed there, in the event we have to cerebrally tangle with her."

The stern look gets a grin, the Trickster in her surfacing to the fore, but shelved again immediately when he tells her that he has decided that he is attending after all. That all of it is maddening. If she's being driven insane by the confusing web they've found themselves in, there isn't any of that on her sun-touched expression, eyes growing hard as marbles and lit from within by the luminescence of her nigh-near inexhaustible determination. Softly, and with utter seriousness, the words follow, spun from these precarious, bladed edges of her: "I don't care if I find out why. I just want to find him, do what I can to rip his face off and use it as a scouring pad."

After a moment, her head lowers again, slowly until her forehead presses into the hollow of his shoulder, her eyes closing. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she wonders, her voice barely above a whisper. "You were concerned before. What changed?"

"I haven't, actually. Investigated the sawmill's history, much." Alexander lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Technically, the deaths there have always been labeled as accidents. And, if I'm honest, I've never wanted to draw the Addingtons' ire if I didn't need to. It's far too easy to run someone like me out of town." His mouth twists. "I'm crazy, but I'm not suicidal - there are things that I don't poke at in Gray Harbor, both socially...and, for that matter, criminally. At least, that I don't poke at any more than I need to. This Baxter mess is the closest I've come to drawing any Addington's eye. Intentionally, anyway."

Alexander squeezes her shoulders, lightly, then drops his hands away from her body. "And maybe it is. Faustian, I mean. The Baxters owned the land, then mysteriously sold it to the Addingtons, whose star has never truly fallen since then, while the Baxters have been consigned to shadows and death. Hard not to suspect there's something more sinister than just a secret feud between the two families," he murmurs, turning to scan the beach, as if people might be listening to their conversation. No one is, of course. Or, at least, no one visible. His shoulders hunch a little anyway, and he starts walking again. If she doesn't walk with him, his soft voice will fade rapidly as he says, "The sister doesn't know anything about her heritage. And I don't believe Officer Johnson wants her in any way involved in this. Or her parents." He goes silent, but only for the space of a few breaths. "I do care why. And I am still concerned. But I'm also curious - and my good intentions have never lasted long against my curiosity." It's dry and self-depreciating.

"Besides," Alexander adds, thoughtfully, "I'll be curious to see if Thomas Addington recognizes my heritage without being told. If he does, then it means they've been tracking the bloodlines. Which is interesting. If he doesn't, then I'd be interested in hisreaction to being told that I'm Gohl's blood. It might tell us quite a bit about what they know about this whole mess, whether they choose to share it with us, or not."

"Wow. Color me surprised."

Maybe it's the voice of experience, though it's strange to hear him actually say that, and Isabella is forced to introduce other pieces into the ever-shifting portrait of him in her own mind. He doesn't appear to have many qualms horrifying anyone with what he knows, but stays away from outrightly aggravating those who hold the reins of power in the city; it's easy to hold onto the vigilante impression he exudes effortlessly, but how he approaches that problem is surprisingly pragmatic. Once released, she straightens up and picks up her pace; even barefoot, the quick, big city stride that she favors doesn't leave her, hopping over a beer bottle or two and glowering a little before she decides to add onto her burden and picks them up, letting them dangle by the necks as she moves to toss into the nearest recycling bin she could find. Mild irritation is present on her features, but one that vanishes quickly.

"Well, once we confront Margaret Addington in her throne room, maybe there'll be hints there, also," she says, finding the rise out of the beach so her feet can find the winding, concrete path back to the docks. "Not that my hopes are relatively good there to begin with, if all of that's true - they're too comfortable holding all the cards, I don't know if she would reasonably part with any of them unless she finds it in her advantage, somehow." The idea of being relegated to pawns in some supernatural powerplay grates; the hinge of her jaw tenses faintly, that precious, lifegiving vein throbbing at the side of her throat. But she flashes him a quick smile sideways. "I know you care why. I would, also, if this wasn't so close to me. Unfortunately, it is, and I can't help it." She takes a deep breath. "The logical parts of me know that the questions and the answers to them are important, I just don't trust myself at the moment to view them objectively. I'm trying. It's not as if I don't know how to work under pressure." But it's difficult - and that, she doesn't say out loud, despite it being evident.

The rest of his words, however, earn him a look - and one that's openly exasperated. "Weren't you just telling me earlier that you don't want to draw Addington attention to you?" she asks. "And now you want to go in there and tell them 'Oh, by the way, I'm related to the shade of the thing that's out destroy you and your family' just to see how they'd react?" Her expression twists, and one that she tries to hide by turning her face away. "I promised I wouldn't tell you what to do, or dictate how you work - but I'd like it if you took some precautions if you're going to make yourself a target."

"I said '...if I don't need to', Isabella."

It's quiet, although Alexander does give her exasperated look a sidelong smile of his own. "I've thought about it, and in this case, I think the information to be gained may be worth the risk. If Thomas is open with us, if we get something useful that doesn't require disclosing my heritage, then I won't. And I'll be relieved not to have to. But it's worth the risk in this case because Gohl has been killing people in a way I can't predict and can't stop. I'll do whatever's necessary to end that."

He raises a hand. "Which also plays into why I think, perhaps, we might get something useful out of this, even if we must face the Old Lady, herself. Gohl appears to be killing Addingtons. Even if she, for some reason, might be fine with trimming the family tree and not care about the non-Addington collateral, I think she has to have wondered about what happens when he works through the extraneous branches and comes after her. Having a group of agents who can get their hands dirty and have already involved themselves," a quick, sidelong glance, "and who have a reason to be invested in stopping the Ghoul...that's a valuable tool. Of course, once our usefulness is ended, that calculation may change." He sticks his hands in his pockets. "But that is, in some regards, why it's good to all go together. Miss Addington - Erin - seems like a good woman who isn't caught up in all of this, not knowingly. Thorne is new money, but money nonetheless, and I suspect he would fight back against attempts to discredit or drive him away. You're from a respected family with people who would be very upset to see you disgraced or disappeared. It leaves me as the soft target, I suppose - but at the same time, I'm the least threatening. Everyone knows I'm crazy. If I started ranting about Addingtons, no one would care."

He holds out one hand, offering to take the bottles if she'd like to pass them over. "I don't intend to make myself a target, Isabella. Not unless it's necessary. But it would be interesting data to see if they choose to see me as one, anyway."

"Lawyer in a past life," Isabella can be heard grousing, somewhere next to him.

She expels a heavy breath, forcing her own bangs to dance over her eyes. "If Thomas is open with us, but I don't know if he would be if we don't manage to separate him from his sister," she says after a pause, lifting a hand to rub at the bridge of her nose before blindly passing him the bottles, catching the offerance at her periphery. "Which means the risk of you having to reveal that fact..." And one that she has tried not to reveal to anyone except those within their circle of trust, and even then, just one: Vivian Glass. "...is probable, if you're following the parameters of your own private risk-benefit analysis of that situation. Which means I already don't like it." Another grouse. "You really do drive me crazy."

With the conversation circling back to the Queen of Gray Harbor, herself, she reaches up, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "The problem with allowing ourselves to be used this way is that we won't be able to trust anything that she says, even if she was so inclined to say something, and at this juncture, misinformation is just as bad. I think I covered this before, that day in the boat with Erin, in the event that we needed to bluff our way to answers by suggesting that she's going to be next if these killings continue to rampage." Indicative, at the very least, of the young woman's ability to think several steps ahead despite her temper and just how personal all of this became for her so quickly. "I suppose that also lends to the common sense idea that she would have to give us something to ensure that we succeed in stopping him, otherwise there'd be nothing else standing between her and him. Hopefully, that's enough."

His assessment about her and their companions in the next big endeavor has her shifting her attention towards him, brow furrowed. "I don't know if I ought to be flattered or perplexed by that," she says, her feet finally hitting the wooden planks leading towards the Surprise. "I'm over a decade estranged from Gray Harbor, the Reedes weren't particularly influential and I'm squarely..." She gestures with her fingers. "In that strange, gray limbo between townie and outsider, half-in, half-out. I'm nobody, here."

She pauses once she reaches her threshold, then turns to look at him, expression determined, but resigned. "I don't like springing the trap if we don't have to." She lets out a small groan, rolling her head back. "But I reluctantly acknowledge the occasional necessity to do that so that we know there is one in the first place."

"There's no sin in precision, Miss Reede," Alexander returns, mock huffy. He takes the bottles, weighs them in his hands, then tosses them lightly up in the air, like maybe he's got this crazy idea that he's going to juggle them.

This is a failure. SUCH a failure. He has to stumble out of the way of the tumbling bottles, then laughs at himself as he bends to scoop them up again. This time he just holds onto them, like a sane person.

"I suppose what I meant is exactly that, Isabella. You'd be missed in the wider world. People out there expect you to stay in contact, and if the Addingtons tried to destroy you, you can just leave. Your colleagues are not gonna care what they think or say. A fiefdom is only so big." He gestures expansively with the beer bottles. "Being able to move beyond it is power of its own kind."

He chuckles. "And I'm sorry. I don't mean to drive you crazy. But you're right - sometimes we must brave the trap in order to disarm it. You know it. I know it. Neither of us has to like it, of course. But I remain curious." Of course he does. "The Addingtons are still a bit of a question mark in all of this, and they don't react well to subtle investigation. So, we'll see how blunt goes."

He grins, just a little, teeth showing white and fierce in the dark for the briefest of moments. "Maybe your boldness is rubbing off on me."

There is indeed no sin in precision. And ever so alert when it comes to spotting disaster before it happens, Isabella's eyes go wide at his attempt. Fingers lift, lips parted to call out in warning as the glass bottles sail in the air. No sound leaves her, however, but her reaction is instinctive when the objects halt for a few seconds in mid-air before she suddenly releases her control; it's abrupt, akin to touching a cast-iron skillet on top of open flame with a bare hand. She retracts from the thoughtless demonstration of ability as if stung.

He's able to avoid them, thankfully - as if he didn't have enough injuries to deal with. But his boyish laughter is enough to soften her expression, though this does absolutely nothing but confirm her earlier statement about how crazy he drives her. He does have the good grace to apologize for it, and that gets a quiet and almost petulant sniff. "Well, I hope at the very least you're doing this for more than just curiosity," she says. "Otherwise, you and I are going to have words, and I don't think you've actually ever seen me seriously upset." There's a ring of truth, there, but the statement is done mostly in jest, inspired by his sudden foray into good humor. Her hand closes over the latch of her door.

Maybe your boldness is rubbing off on me.

She slants a single, green-gold eye over the curve of her shoulder. "Fantastic, because that's exactly what I need," she says, suddenly laughing, her head tilting back when mirth forces her body to unwind, tension unspooling from her ribcage and the line of her shoulders. "Someone who takes inspiration from the way I approach problems and any other circumstance. Have you seen Vivian, lately? Have the two of you talked about the concept of enabling yet? Because this? This isn't helping." She gestures between them. "I'm bad enough. Seriously. I thought being older and more world-weary, you'd be the one reining me in. The responsible adult between us. What happened to that? It can't be me, it's supposed to be you!"

There's a glance at her door, sighing. After a pause, she tilts her head towards him. "Do you want to spend the night?"

A heartbeat or two of silence descends, and as if realizing what the words sound like, she lifts up both her hands. "Not like that! I can't. I'd die. It hurt enough this morning trying to reach for the coffee tins without a step stool." Self-deprecation seeps over her expression. "Though some part of me can't believe I'm saying that either. " She doesn't explain it though, suddenly concentrating on the area past his shoulder.

Alexander doesn't miss that split second halt of bottles; he doesn't need to reach with his mind and taste her glimmer to guess what happened - or how fast she shied away from it. It turns his amusement into something more thoughtful, less enjoyed. He doesn't talk about it, though - nor does he pretend to not have noticed - that much is clear in the way his eyes linger on her. But he restrains his curiosity.

"Curiosity, Miss Reede, is a cardinal virtue. And I believe we agreed that I would not try to tell you what to do, or what not to do. I'm not sure how I'm expected to rein you in if that's off the table...surely you don't expect me to provide a good example?" Alexander finds a bin as they walk down the dock, and in the bottles go. He brushes his hands carelessly off on his slacks, and considers her, head cocked to one side. "I fear I am often an enabler."

And then she asks the question. His eyebrows immediately go up. As she hastens to clarify, he can't resist: another of his brief, bright laughs in as many minutes rings out. "I think it best I head home, Isabella. There's no use tempting fate and possibly leading us to greater bodily injury. But," he leans in close and unless she dodges, kisses her forehead, "don't think it's not a temptation," he murmurs, less than an inch from her skin.

Then he straightens back up. "It was nice. Having a drink and a talk with you. And the walk along the beach. I enjoyed it. Thank you."

I fear I am often an enabler.

"You could have told me that before you kissed me," Isabella remarks, ever so quick with her return fire, her expression radiating exasperation and good humor in equal measure. "But I suppose I'm just going to have to get used to it, penduluming between caveat emptor and carpe diem when it comes to you."

That quick, bright laughter has her leaning against her doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest and looking faintly satisfied at the words he speaks. "Well, it seems like you're not an enabler when it's actually rather dangerous, so I guess I can keep you around, after all," she replies, tilting her chin up in that familiar, defiant angle. "At least I've not completely misjudged you." She's clearly being facetious throughout, however, judging by the laughter in her eyes.

They shutter when he leans in, his breath stirring her bangs, his mouth warming her skin.

Don't think it's not a temptation.

"I'll think what I want," she murmurs, ever incorrigible, tilting her head back and kissing the air close to his cheek, before leaning it back and giving him a languid, lazy smile, that velvet look softening the vibrant color he finds within her lashes. "Goodnight, Alexander."

Alexander rubs at his neck, looking sheepish. "I suppose I could have. But I thought it was obvious. What with the cults, and all." There's a hint of wry self-mockery there, as he adds, "You don't generally join cults if you're an independent minded sort, accustomed to standing up to people. But I'm happy that you'll consider keeping me anyway."

He doesn't linger over the kiss, although his tongue flicks out briefly when he pulls away, like he might manage to taste her skin against his lips. There's a brief sigh. "Goodnight, Isabella." It's soft. "Don't die." And then he turns, shoulders hunching and head ducking, and walks away into the night.

"Stop saying that, oh my god!" He'd hear her call behind him. "I've already cheated death last week, have a little faith!"

It's the sort of tone that he could expect an object flying at him at any moment, but there's exasperated laughter instead, before Isabella's slim shadow spins around and heads into her residence.