2019-08-18 - Ghost Hunters

After their meeting with Rebecca Carr and Byron having told the other two that he, himself, had met a ghost, he asks if they'd care to continue with the conversation upstairs. His place. It is getting late, but his mind is still pondering on things that were said. With their compliance, he leads them to the elevator and presses that lovely PH button. Taking them all the way to the top. "Now, I cannot guarantee that I'll be able to convince the person this ghost is attached to to let us test this with her. But she seems to have a mind of her own."

There's this quiet 'ding' sound and the doors open, leading directly to his apartment door. "Make yourselves at home. While I don't have quite the offering that Miss Carr did, I can offer coffee, tea or any amount of alcohol. I might just need to heat some of that up." Once inside, he works at loosening his tie, but he doesn't fully undo it.

"What's it like? A ghost? I've always wondered?" Alexander waits until they're in the elevator to ask; he may have hesitated before accepting the invitation, but once it's done, his natural curiosity comes to the fore, and he stares with interest at the man. As if he might see traces of 'ghost' clustered around him, somehow. "Did 'she' have an actual mind you could sense? Or touch?"

When the door opens and he's invited in, Alexander sort of roams, restlessly, his leather satchel held in a protective sort of way. "Coffee. Would be nice. If it's not any trouble," he says, after a long moment. His attention seems elsewhere, perhaps thinking through the information gained from the interview, and this new idea of ghost contact.

If nothing else, Rebecca's recounting of her experience was helpful - not just to introduce more mysteries to her family's convoluted family tree but also to explain what she had experienced to someone who is qualified to dissect it.

Byron's whisper after their egress from Miss Carr's residence has those dark brows winging upwards. "Are you serious?" Isabella murmurs, before pivoting on her heel to follow her childhood friend towards the elevators, her hands sliding into her pockets. The moonstone pendant swings in every step, scattering shards of color against the pale fabric of her top. Shifting her burden, the folio of documents tucked under her arm, she boards with her companions and heads up.

Her friend's offerance of a drink has her turning grateful eyes in his direction. "Scotch," she tells him - unnecessary in the end, other than to let Byron know that she wants some. He is very familiar with her preferences by now. Setting her things aside carefully, but freed from her encumbrances, she moves directly towards where the double doors lead out into the balcony overlooking the water and leans against the frame. She can't seem to sit and stay put today.

Byron was, in fact, already thinking of heading to the bar. He does know Isabella's preferences and his own, but Alexander's request has him working on heating the coffee up first in that lovely espresso machine. It honestly, doesn't take very long. It's state-of-the-art. He does use this time to pour out a couple of glasses of scotch simply enough, one of these he extends to Isabella, making it just the way she likes. "I have no idea. When I said that she has a mind of her own, I meant that she had a personality. An attitude. I can't say that I felt anything from her, but just the idea of ghosts and people returning from the dead, as with Doctor Marshall." So he's been told, his head slowly shakes, "I don't like the idea of anything coming back from the grave." And he has his reasons.

His eyes follow Isabella to the terrace, though he remains in the kitchen for that coffee to fill up one of those large and wide-mouthed coffee cups.

Alexander's roving has him not-quite-following Byron to the bar, studying the offerings there, and perhaps paying particular attention to what alcohols seem to be most often chosen by the penthouse's owner. Although the espresso machine does draw a brief distraction, and a smile. But once Isabella has her drink, Alexander comes to hover by the woman, instead. Not quite touching her, but watching her with an obvious concern. Even as he answers, "Things that are dead should stay dead. But that doesn't seem to be happening as well as I might wish, of late. So knowing the capabilities and...mental presence of a ghost is likely to be useful." A glance towards Byron. "I don't suppose this ghost would consent to be attacked? We still don't know how to stop a ghost, if necessary."

Nothing under eighteen years of age, Isabella had told Byron once, and she takes it neat, no ice - absolutely nothing to dilute its potency. Though with two glasses of wine and now asking for a more stronger liquor to fill her relatively empty stomach with, she has devolved into a deep, contemplative silence only broken when the handsome entrepreneur steps over and hands it to her. Fingers pluck the glass from him and she flashes him a quick, but absent smile.

Green eyes lower to her drink until Alexander's taller shadow falls over her. They lift to find his darker own, brimming with concern. There's a smile there also, but like the one she has flashed to her childhood friend, it doesn't quite reach its usual expressiveness.

After a sip - she is nursing it at least, and not chugging it, she speaks: "My aunt used to tell me that ghosts tend to be moving memories," she muses, her contralto low in an effort to mask whatever is trying to push out from underneath the surface. "Impressions from lives that came before, repeating the same moment over, and over and over. But the one that you speak of doesn't seem to be like that, if she has a personality." She chews on her bottom lip. "There are cultures in the East that believe malevolent spirits manifest as burdens on someone's back. Who is this ghost attached to?"

She takes another sip, and she sinks further into Alexander's shadow, lowering her hand and letting the tumbler dangle from it. Her eyes gravitate to the water even as she listens.

Near the espresso machine, there's a various packets of sugar and flavoring. The milk is kept in the refrigerator nearby. There is one thing that Byron thinks it's best to bring up and he says he retrieves the mug to set down near all of the goodies for people who don't really like the taste of coffee, "She could pick things up. Carry them around. Open and close doors if she wanted to, I guess, but she could also move through them." He then gestures to array of offerings near the coffee mug, "Help yourself. Milk is in the fridge."

Pushing off from where he was leaning against, he takes a couple of slow steps through the kitchen. Byron wasn't really keeping count on how much Isabella had to drink. It wasn't his job. But he is watching her now, knowing that she had /something/ to drink earlier. Lifting his own glass to his lips, he responds to her inquire before taking a sip, "One Alistair Carver." He then goes on, "And I have no idea if she'd allow it or not. Nor am I inclined to ask Carver if we can borrow his ghost."

Alexander offers a brief smile to Byron. "Thank you. For the coffee." He leaves Isabella for a moment to retrieve the coffee cup. The various add-ons are left behind as he returns to the woman's immediate bubble. He frowns. "Alistair Carver. What an interesting person. And I suppose it makes sense...if ghosts can't do things, then how could they haunt people? But how does a pile of memories remain coherent and present?" A frustrated sound. "There is so little we truly understand."

He reaches out, his hand cupping under the dangling tumbler, steadying it. With his other hand, he offers the coffee cup to Isabella. "Trade you?"

"Why do I keep hearing about this guy?" Isabella wonders, abruptly, that virid-gold stare moving over towards Byron and Alexander both. "Who is he, anyway?" The last she heard, he was involved with the Ring, at some point, though he was conspicuously absent when all of them slowly but surely succumbed to that entire trouble, and dragged other persons loitering in the periphery into the chaotic vortex it caused.

She seems to be barely conscious of Alexander reaching out to steady her tumbler of scotch, until he actually makes contact with it, glancing at his fingers for a moment, and then up at his face. There it is, the familiar, stubborn line of her jaw - but there must be something in his expression that has her sighing, and deciding on some degree of compromise. She takes one last heavy swallow of her drink, before depositing the rest of it in the investigator's waiting hand, though this is not without great reluctance. She takes the coffee instead.

"Thank you," she murmurs, the alcohol hitting her stomach, warmth blossoming through it to spread over her chest. She takes a quiet sip of the coffee.

"Is there a way to find her and ask her?" she says. "You said she seems to have a mind of her own, does she always follow this Carver person, or can she move independently? If the latter, that might be a good sign, I think, yeah?"

"He's not worth your time." Byron is quick to say when isabella inquires about Carver. "He's the one who couldn't keep the ring away from Lilith when I'd asked." It's his turn to walk over to the terrace, glancing out at the darkness over the bay. "He's a lot of things and I can't say whether they are good or bad. He can enter the other realm or dreams." He's still not sure what the difference is himself, "So I'm told. And may have witnessed it happening if we weren't all slowly being driven mad by worms."

Turning to the pair he considers, "Carver's ghost? She sometimes shows up at the Pawn Shop." He then reaches for his phone, "I'll ask." Most likely not Carver, but Lilith.

Alexander takes the scotch, raises it in a little toast to Isabella, then drains it himself. There's a playful wink at the woman, before he takes a breath, letting the unfamiliar burn of good alcohol slide its way down his throat and into his belly. He plays with the tumbler as he turns towards Byron, following the man with his eyes. "Interesting. Several people with that ability seem to be popping up of late. I've seen someone open a window there. It's...distressing, but intriguing." He gives Isabella a quick, sidelong look, before looking back to Byron. "The worms." A shudder. "That was a hell of a thing. You did well, though. And the Brit...that would have been Carver?"

He's not worth your time.

Isabella bursts out laughing, though it sounds a little strained - low, smoky from everything else that she has imbibed, but filled with the impression of a coil finally reaching its limit and snapping violently. "Ah, fuck," she says, sounding somewhat breathless - and it's exceedingly rare, indeed, to hear her say any expletive, much less that one, rolling her head back to rest it against the doorframe. "Why'd you have to say it like that, I'm definitely curious now."

Green eyes do follow Byron as he occupies the other side of the terrace and she takes a deep breath of the warm air, the distance of the ocean. "It's too far..." she murmurs, so low that it probably only reaches Alexander's ears.

Mention of Carver's Veil Walking prowess seems to rouse other things from within her, lifting her free hand to press against the side of her face. "Sid used to do that, when we were children." Her tone is absent, drifting - as if stepping out of her body. "He pulled me along all the time, sometimes even without meaning to. He told me never to let go, every time we went."

Alexander's wink has her smiling blithely, pressing a kiss in the air towards him. She delivers it as if it's the most natural thing in the world, or the most exaggerated.

"I didn't know they were dopplegangers, by the way," she says, pointing a finger towards Byron, and then Alexander. "I just thought they were worms. I had to find out from Minerva. Worm dopplegangers. It sounds gross." She takes another sip of her coffee as she waits for word on Carver's ghost.

With Isabella's outburst, Byron doesn't look amused as his eyes flicker in her direction. His shoulders lift at her curiosity and he murmurs, "It's your headache." After the events surrounding the ring, among other thing, something to do with his own pride probably, there's this animosity that he obviously holds towards Carver. One that humor probably won't fix.

Byron knows he'd mentioned that Vivian and her party found their way to to Marshall's office without a hitch, but he comes to ask now, "Who else can do that?" Eyes turning to Alexander, before his phone vibrates in his pocket where he had stuffed it into after the text sent. Licking at his lips, his eyes on the message, he starts to send another forth. "Seems she's missing." It's all said matter-of-fact, he's just letting them know. "Lilith said that something went wrong in the..Veil." He's never heard it called that before. And if he did, it slipped his mind. He goes back to tapping out a few more message exchanges. "So yeah. She's gone. I'm sure he'll figure something out since he likes to think he knows everything."

There's no response as to whether the Brit at Addington Park is Carver or not, but the silence given, may probably have answered that one.

"He certainly seems to get around," is Alexander's only vocal opinion on Carver, although he studies each of his companions in turn - the curiosity, the animosity. He rolls the tumbler between his hands. "But chasing him down likely isn't the most efficient use of our time, especially if he can slip Over There." He frowns. "The Veil. Hm. The ghost is gone? So, I suppose there must be some way to harm or stymie the things."

Byron's question gets a frown, thoughtful. "A bartender at the Pourhouse, for one. Teresa. She found the map to the asylum, over there, and brought it back. I think she'd be more than willing to make more excursions." But he doesn't look like he approves of Isabella's reminiscences, and as she presses that kiss into the air, he extends an arm, intending to gather her close and give her a place to lean against him, if she likes. "It was incredibly gross," he says, regarding the dopplegangers. "I did not give a good account of myself, to be honest. Thorne did, though." A nod in his direction.

"Never heard of anyone else who could outside of my brother," Isabella replies after another swallow of coffee. "And apparently this Carver guy." There's a curious sidelong glance towards Byron, noting his cool and unamused exterior when they speak about the Brit two out of the three people in the room seem to know, or at least have met. Those vibrant eyes lid, watching the blast doors of her childhood friend's demeanor slam shut. Even as inebriated as she is, she can taste it in the air - as always, this intensity only surfaces from Byron's almost perfectly composed exterior whenever Lilith Winslow is concerned.

Observations that she, thankfully, keeps to herself.

"What do you mean something happened in the...Veil?" She's never heard it referred to that way. "So we have no ghost? Should we be worried? Alexander keeps saying the rules are changing..." Her voice drifts off thoughtfully. "I could only ever find them," she says in quiet reminiscence, word that would hardly make the investigator hovering over her any more approving of these small glimpses of her childhood as a user. "The doors. Where to slip through, never to make a door myself..."

She's gathered up easily by that reaching arm, her shorter, more slender frame bracketed against the hollow of Alexander's shoulder. "I think at this point, the two of you more about the Talent than I do. Minerva, also...she demonstrated, when I visited. She may be as strong as the both of you." Her face turns against her human brace, squeezing her eyes shut in an effort to clear her head.

"So, our first contender is gone," she murmurs. Her eyes lift to look at Alexander's profile, and then Byron, her lips pressing together. "I can't believe I'm suggesting this, but what now? Should we go ghost hunting?" Mention of Teresa has her furrowing her brows. "Is she part of the quest to find the asylum? Who else is going? That place is..." She squeezes her eyes shut again. "...so many things can go wrong over there..."

The Veil It surely sounds better than referring to it as 'The Other Side' or 'That place'. Or dreams. It's still confusing.

Byron nods slowly, scrolling through his message to reread exactly what Lilith had said. If there's something more, what he stated is the most important bit of information. "Makes me wonder, for all of those who can venture into this Veil, does that mean it's unsafe? That they shouldn't be going there?" His tone grows louder, "What I'm trying to say is Vivian's been traveling through it as of late. The next time that she has a little thing to do that will take her in that direction, should I stop her from going?" He follows up with, his tone tense, "It's hard for me to think of this as a doctor-patient confidentiality thing, which is barring me from going myself."

Byron doesn't sound overly worried, but he has no attachment to Carver or Carver's ghost. Though when Alexander mentions this woman with a map, he asks to confirm, "A map to the asylum? Interesting.. The way to Doctor Marshall's office was opened, but not the way to the asylum." It seems that Byron had no idea that Isidore could venture into the the other place, the Veil, but now it sort of makes sense.

Then something Isabella says has his gaze turning away again and he's nursing his own glass of scotch, "I've barely scratched the surface of my abilities." So he's learning every single day by everyone else around him! Stepping forward, out onto the terrace, he feels a chilly night breeze sweep through his hair, this look of contemplation in his eyes.

Alexander starts, just a little. It might only be noticed by Isabella through their contact, but he murmurs, "You can see the places where a door can be opened? Interesting. Also...worrisome. May I ask you not to explore that particular ability without someone with you?" He runs his fingers over her arm, absently. Which might also be an answer to Byron's question, or at least Alexander's opinion on the matter. But, after a moment, he says, "I think it's dangerous. In the...Veil? In the Veil. But I don't know that it's dangerous in the same way that getting lost is. When we visited the Archivist, there was no one intending to harm us. No torment, no torture, no need to murder a doppleganger of ourselves to be freed." A slight touch of dry humor there. "I think it's an unknown country, and should be treated accordingly. But I suspect that doing your best to support Dr. Glass will be more effective than trying to stop her, and thus encouraging her to just go around you and perhaps venturing in without support." A shrug. "But you know her better than I."

"I could show you the map; I have a copy on my phone." He doesn't make a move to get it, just yet, but his eyes track Byron as he moves to the terrace. "Do you want to?" he asks, head cocked to one side. It seems to be a genuine, curious sort of question, as if poking at a mystery.

Does that mean it's unsafe?

Should I stop her from going?

The empty internal room she once shared with her twin feels larger at the words, threatening to pull her out of the frame Alexander's body makes and drown her, to push her down into the depths so she could slumber. Isabella's lips part, tension crawling over the line of her shoulders as the old, remembered fear manifests in her blood, icy spines of sensation twisting down her spine. Just thinking about it makes her skin crawl, tightens her lungs and traps her breath within it, slowly poisoning her veins with nitrogen and leaving her delirious and lightheaded. Her breath quickens slightly, burning against Alexander's collar. Yes, she wants to tell him, green-gold eyes brimming with the sentiment. Don't let her go.

I'm sorry, Leela.

"...would you be able to if she really wants to go?" is what the archaeologist says instead, her voice soft and barely audible, but somehow carries. "How often has she been going through? Byron, how often has she-- "

It's the look that he wears now that gives her pause, that enables her to push through whatever she's struggling with, but the start that she feels from Alexander's body has her turning her face to regard his profile. Explore the ability? It may be the alcohol, the strain that has only grown from their interview with Rebecca, and the tumultuous something she feels from Byron. And the fact that Vivian has been making trips there is...

...it can't be helped, with that open expression, twisted in remembered agony. Not to explore the ability? She already has.

Her eyes gravitate away from him, to focus on Byron instead. "How often are you doing that?" she asks, quietly, from around the hard knot at the back of her throat. "Trying to scratch through the surface?"

"Can any of us stop anyone from doing anything?" Byron says with a laugh, which comes off more as a scoff. "That goes for myself as well, but." He says turning back to the others, resting against the terrace railing, "It depends who asked and what was asked of me. The reason. I might just practice some good common sense if everything fell nicely into place." Staring up into the mostly cloudless skies, it doesn't take him long to thing, when he responds, "Twice. As far as I know. She happened upon it the first time. Then was led there by the Doctor's... nephew? You might've remembered him, Bella. He was a huge jerk back in high school." She may have remembered a Summer kid who bullied a teenage Byron for sure.

When these questions are asked regarding his own abilities, he chooses not to answer directly. Perhaps feigning not having heard them asked. Instead, he steps forward, curious about something else. "The map? If you have the map, then they can just go right to the source, can't they?" Without jumping through hoops and finding a damn car.

It's hard not to feel Isabella's distress, even counting out the actual psychic powers and close contact Alexander has with ehr at the moment. He doesn't call attention to it, mindful of the woman's pride, but his hand slides up to her shoulder, squeezing a gentle reassurance. "Dr. Glass is new to all the crazy here in the Harbor, but she has never struck me as a reckless or foolish person," he says, quietly.

"Easton," Alexander murmurs after a moment, when the doctor's nephew is mentioned. "Was he a huge jerk in high school? I didn't know." He watches Byron as best he can, weighing the man's reactions. "He seems all right, these days." When Byron steps forward, he transfers the tumbler to the hand of the arm around Isabella, and pulls out his cell phone, showing them both the picture of the antique map of Gray Harbor and all its many Xs. "I think the current theory is that the asylum is at one of these spots, but not always the same one. The car is needed because it's been there before, and because...well, we might have to go to all of the damned things in one go."

The doctor's nephew? She had come across him recently, but at the moment is unable to place the reference; there is too much liquor in her system for her to be able to drag the name out of the confines of her memory without help. The aside, however, is helpful in pulling her out of the sinkhole Isabella has found herself in. "Which one?" she asks. "There were a lot of summer kids, usually from Seattle..." She didn't have many close friends, but the archaeologist was always the outgoing sort when she was young; something that hasn't really left her in her adulthood.

The squeeze on her shoulder drains some of the tension away, and as always, the young woman is quick to recover. She lets the uncoiling of these serpents away from her, malleable, almost boneless against where she leans. When Alexander does her the favor of supplying the name she doesn't remember, though, she blinks, pieces falling into place, remembering the smug, perpetually self-satisfied youthful face in her childhood memories and Time evolving it to how the bartender of the Two If By See looks now. "...that was Easton?" It's incredulous, almost to the point of utter disbelief. "What...how did he lose his leg?" She remembers his gait, when he left her hospital room.

With the map out, she turns her eyes in that direction, her old, inquisitive curiosity brightening her darkened eyes. She squints carefully at the image on the screen, noting the apparent age of the piece of cartography digitally inscribed within. "....you want to drive a car through the Veil to all of these spots?" she asks. In the same tone as someone could say Are you INSANE?

Yes, Easton Marshall. Byron remembers those days well, if not fondly. When Alexander speaks up for Marshall's character, Thorne's dark eyes rest on him for far longer than they should. Rather than anger within them, he hides that behind this look of amusement, in that 'That's adorable' sort of way. The edges of his lips even tug up into a smile. Something that he hasn't done throughout this entire conversation and for who knows how long before that. "The kid with the ugly clothes." He smiles when he says that. This may be the Byron that she knows. Not the one to show his anger, but to keep it hidden and in check. Despite the insult.

"Yeah, he's the 'bartender' there." He'll say nothing about the leg, even if he probably thinks that it served him right. Probably. So his shoulders lift into callous shrug and he downs the rest of his scotch, only now going in for a second glass. "Unless this is a really large car. From I heard, it's a Caddy? I highly doubt that a large group will fit in it. Not with a... corpse." Yep, he pours himself a drink with that thought in mind.

Alexander meets Byron's look with a bland one of his own, holding the gaze as long as he does. The insult draws only a soft huff of breath and he adds, "I don't believe it was ever meant to be a large group. Although Dr. Marshall's corpse was, I admit, not one of the companions I'd thought we'd have. But I understand he has to drive the car." A shrug. Shit be weird, yo. Alexander doesn't question it.

As to Isabella's question, he says, "I believe it was in the service. I don't know the details, however." But the rest...well. Shit be weird, yo.

This is the Byron that she remembers. Even while inebriated and sinking into the arms of her life's latest complication, Isabella can still read his moods. Those heavy lids follow him as he moves to get another drink, silent - considering the bit of tension that has just passed between Alexander and her childhood friend, she knows better than to address her concerns out loud.

It'll have to be later, in a separate conversation.

"...the car is a cadillac," she repeats flatly, and her expression changes into a look that is indescribable when the two of them start talking about riding in cars with corpses. She has not been told any of this. "....why does a corpse have to-- did I get drunk enough to fall into a second sequel to Weekend at Bernie's I never watched?" she wonders. "Do I need another scotch? I think I need another scotch."

This little moment going on between Isabella and Alexander doesn't go unnoticed by Byron. He may be surly and only semi-annoyed throughout most of the evening, but this sudden closeness between the two is quietly noted. Standing at the bar, he takes another small sip from his glass. He doesn't so much as stare at them, even if his gaze lingers upon them from time to time. A curious thing.

"Doctor Marshall was the man I'd mentioned earlier. The one who was murdered by an invisible killer right in front of Vivian. It appears," He sighs, taking another sip, "That when they went to retrieve the keys to his car, the corpse reanimated. I guess?" You probably needed to have been there. "I know that Easton Marshall doesn't want me anywhere near this thing." This animosity towards the former bully continues to grow... "But I do want someone keeping watch over Vivian. I know that she's set on going. This was her thing. Something that she feels she can help with."

At Isabella announcing that she needs another scotch, that look of amusement returning to his features. "Are you sure that you can handle this, Miss Reede?" He looks as if he may be preparing to refill her glass, "You know how much I loathe drunks and lushes."

"I don't think you need another drink, Isabella," Alexander says, quietly. Mind you, he doesn't try to stop her from getting that drink if she wants. It's just an observation of his opinion. He adds, "It won't make any more sense when you have one. Sometimes, you just have to accept that the world is unreal and horrible." Alexander's lifelong coping mechanism summed up in a single sentence.

"Miss Whitehouse has asked me to accompany her, and thus I will," he says to Byron. "I will do my utmost to ensure that no harm comes to anyone who goes on the trip, for what that's worth." A pause. "But it is dangerous. We all know that."

Were she sober and in her right mind, undisturbed and unmarred by the difficulties of the day, Isabella will readily blame the scotch, while reminding the rest of the world that Alexander Clayton is a gentleman, and was definitely of the disposition to offer his services as a human crutch.

But her eyes are half-shut, her sun-touched face half-buried against Alexander's shoulder. The vibrant shade of her irises are reduced to thin crescents, but they retain some alertness, still, when they're trained this way towards Byron as she listens to what he says about how the death Vivian witnessed ended up being horrifically temporary. "So another zombie," she mumbles. "Okay. Okay. It's not as if I hadn't seen those before - outside of the Veil, even. I do agree with Ronnie, though - someone ought to watch Vivian if she insists on going."

Normally, she would be the first to volunteer. The fact that she isn't is...

And it is dangerous. But Isabella remains silent once more about her own misgivings, no matter how much she wants to scream. The scotch is helping. "Alright, B, you don't have to guilt me about the drink," she mutters, instead, clinging to her usual good humor. "And I can't exactly rebut Alexander's logic in the state I'm in." A single green eye trains over to the investigator's profile. "We already talked about this. You promised me."

She takes a quiet inhale. "Alright, well. First thing's first. The Addington meeting, and then...I don't know. Maybe find a ghost, test the theory before Alexander and Vivian have to go through the door again. Does that sound reasonable for an agenda?"

"Violet Whitehouse." Byron says the name out loud as he tries to remember what she looks like, "I was supposed to speak with her regarding festival sponsorship. You gotta admit, her curiosity shop will draw a lot of attention during a weekend Masquerade. Can't say I've seen much of her as of late, but I've been busy myself." Far busier than he'd like as most of this had nothing to do with actual business. Whether he believes Alexander can protect Vivian or not, and it sounds that Alexander has doubt himself, Byron just nods slowly. Maybe he's not really paying attention, his mind elsewhere as it tends to be often enough.

"Right, the Addington meeting." Another sigh escapes him as he reaches into his pocket for his phone again to check his calendar. "It's been a while since I've had to do any business with Margaret Addington." A thoughtful pause, "Are we sticking to the plan then? I recall one of you would rather us not split up."

"I promised," Alexander agrees in a murmur to Isabella. He gives her a quick, warm smile. "I don't know that ghosts exactly grow on trees. But I wouldn't mind seeing one, and at least trying to see if it has a mind to speak of. That's interesting information, no matter what else we deal with. And Violet Whitehouse is a good person."

He falls silent for a moment, thinking about the upcoming meeting. "If we can separate the two, that'd probably be best, but if we can't, then we'll just question them both." His attention rests on Byron. "You understand, of course, that if the Old Lady isn't...amenable to the topic of discussion, there could be social and financial consequences?" Which are, of course, more likely to come down on the up and coming businessman than any of the others involved.

Alexander's smile is returned by her own, before her head turns further to press her mouth gently against the hollow of his shoulder, the softness of it barricaded by his clothing.

To Byron's statement, she grouses quietly. "If we can do it, we will, but we ought to be prepared for the possibility that we might not be able to. In which case, we're going to have to be similarly prepared to bluff our way to the answers we need, or at the very least, exaggerate the threat to her person by telling her that she's next on the Ghoul's list," Isabella murmurs. "Banking on the idea that she'll try to use us to get in the way of those designs. Willing meatshields, ready and willing to protect Her Majesty from the evil machinations of a serial killer's shade." Her tone is unforgivably acerbic. "Which inevitably means we can't trust everything she says, but would be at least guaranteed the fact that she'll tell us something to give us a fighting chance if she doesn't want to die."

With the man addressing her childhood friend and bringing up a very good point, she closes her eyes to think for a moment. "We're going to need to come up with something convincing to try and insulate him from that to at least cover that eventuality," she decides. "Ronnie and I know how to cover each other's asses when push comes to shove, but to have something prepared would be ideal."

It's difficult to say how Byron feels of the Addington matriarch. That is the line that shares his blood after all. He listens to them both, sipping silently at his scotch. "Whatever the outcome, I am hoping for Addington support in all of this." For the festival. "They are the most important name in town." So it's clear that he's not about to risk Addington sponsorship if this goes awry and if anything, he was planning to outright speak business to her without any notion that something more was going on.

"If we need to plan ahead, I don't mind. Making up any number of excuses and lies to ensure that we do nothing to raise her ire." He's most likely talking to Isabella, "We don't have much time to work something out, but I'll try to set a date to do just that. I'd say that I'm surprised at your own animosity towards the woman."

Alexander reaches up and tousles Isabella's hair, gently. "I don't argue with any of that," he tells them both, not bothered by Addington hostility. "But may I suggest it's something better worked out in the light of day, perhaps? I could drive you home, Isabella, if you'd like. And that way you could both get some sleep, and be able to face the many and varied challenges that Gray Harbor provides on a more even footing." And yes, for a moment, he really does sound ten or more years old than them both, somewhere between amused and a bit exasperated at the entire situation.

I'm surprised at your own animosity towards the woman.

"Queen Bee Syndrome," Isabella quips in a soft, rolling drawl. "Town's not big enough for the both of us."

Another thing she'll have to tell Byron later, once the two of them have a talk, but with Alexander being sensible, she nods, closing her eyes briefly as his fingers tangle into her hair before she slowly extricates her head. "I'll get you the keys," she tells him, shifting away so she can gather her belongings. "Why don't we meet at the Boardwalk for lunch tomorrow, B? We can catch up then." There's a glance at her childhood friend.

Satchel and folio taken, and with just a slight listing of her steps sideways, she manages to find her keys and hand them to Alexander.

Sensing that everyone looks ready to go as it is getting later in the evening, Byron, with his own glass of scotch in hand, escorts them to the door. "I have to meet with Hyacinth Addington tomorrow as well, but I'll have time earlier in the day. I hear that the popcorn shrimp is excellent on the boardwalk." He'd always been a fan, ever since he was employed at the Fried Fish stand at twelve going on thirteen. His gaze is then cast on Alexander, "Drive safely." He knows the man rarely drives, so it just has to be said. "I can't say that I'm looking forward to this meeting with the Addingtons, but.. business is business."