2019-09-06 - Change Is Inevitable

The visit to the hospital was an exercise in frustration, and Isabella Reede has significant doubts that she would be able to quell it without some assistance.

Shopping therapy is a tried and true tradition, though unlike the person she is presently thinking of, she doesn't really think of clothes and accessories. Her mental list is largely comprised of books, field equipment, the occasional bit of newfangled technology that promises to make her professional life somewhat easier - different kinds of paper, different kinds of pen and ink. While to say that she is utterly immune to the charms of something pretty would be an exaggeration, it doesn't change the fact that when she indulges herself in exploring the limits of her pocketbook, it's hardly for fashion. Today is no different.

Whenever August steps out of his office, or whatever he might be working on, he'd find her standing out in the warm night - the last vestigial traces of the Summer clinging to the air and making themselves known by way of temperature. There's a light breeze, rustling the assorted flora surrounding the building. She has stopped on the narrow shell path leading right into the building, her slender figure clad in her typical style - jeans, a loose top and a light jacket, her moonstone pendant resting against her clavicle, her bootheels solid and planted on the ground. Her hair is gathered up and secured to the back of her head by a Bic ballpoint pen, pieces framing her face - locks that follow the stirrings of the restless air.

Her green-gold eyes are fixed on the gothic greenhouses and the canopy beyond, the structures so arresting,the style so unexpected, that she has stopped to admire them, her hands in her pockets.

August is nearly always the last one to leave. Tonight's no different; Cy departed about an hour ago, and now that he's sorted out the schedule for another couple of weeks, August can too. His black Outback is curiously missing, the smallest work truck in its place. He's in a dark blue 'SHOWBOX' t-shirt, pale jeans, and workboots, with his workbag slung over one shoulder and a heavy set of keys in hand.

He stops short when he sees Isabella, wary until he recognizes her. "Oh, hey." He folds the keys into his hands. He starts to say something, stops. "Heard about Erin. Itzhak told me." He arches an eyebrow, as if to ask 'how's she doing', knowing that 'is she alright' is a firm 'hell no'.

She turns around to blink at August's broader, taller form, green-gold eyes taking the opportunity to adjust to the light, and when recognition settles in, Isabella nods. There's no smile, especially with the first thing he brings up. "She almost didn't make it." The last told straightforwardly, finding no rhyme or reason to beat around the bush about it, turning so she could face him in full, her fingers tucking into the pocket of her jeans. "But she got lucky in the end." Curiosity has her angling her head, assessing her companion's face under the dying light of day.

"Does Alexander tell you about what he works on a lot?" she wonders. The question is more inquisitive than it is actually interrogative, unable to help but wonder just how much August knows. She knows he is privy to some - the experiment, in particular.

She seems to realize that he's closing, and a sheepish expression falls on her face. "Sorry, I lost track of the hour. I'm here because of Erin, actually, but not because of what happened to her. She bought a house, recently, she was in the process of moving when..." Her voice trails off. "And between you and me, she seems to be under the impression that she somehow caused what happened to her, for daring to live her life her own way. I was hoping I could get her something for her new house, and I thought a plant would be..."

She shifts, looking somewhat awkward, never accustomed to even acknowledging that the softer sides of the human emotional spectrum exist. There are so many words, piling behind her teeth, but what she settles for is a helpless, almost resigned: "...nice. Something to brighten up her new place."

"Glad to hear she made it," August says with a nod. A solemn, if heartfelt statement, given how many haven't at this point.

He shrugs and makes a face in a 'I know some' sort of way. "I get the feeling he's...self employed." A small smile for this delicate description of things. Then, "I know someone else who looks into the 'weird' stuff. So that's not too strange to me, at this point." 'Looks into' is also a delicate wording, but he's entirely aware of the stigma people like Alexander and Eleanor face from the more mundane residents of the town.

Flipping his keys, August nods at the exterior. "Just so happens I know the owner. You can have a look around while no one else is here, if you want. See if you find anything you think she'll like." He raises his eyebrows to see if she's interested in that.

"He is." His diplomatic delicacy in describing what the man does has Isabella smiling, at last, a hint of gratitude present on the line of her mouth. She may be casual about it; sobriety keeps anything about her relationship with Alexander hermetically sealed, kept under jealous guard at the exclusion of all others, but she's too expressive even when standing still that the affection - bone-deep infatuation - threaded in those two words is undeniable. But August's outward confession that he also knows someone similar has her blinking. "You do?"

Lips quirk upward higher. "So do you help him or her out on occasion, too, or...?"

There's a glance at the exterior, and that smile broadens into a grin. "Yeah, I remember. You mentioned it when we ran into you two at Two If By Sea - Miss Lake." There's another curious glance at the gothic greenhouses. "They're lovely," she murmurs. "What do you keep in them?" She gestures to the structures, her interest evident on her face.

August's mouth twitches in an almost smile at the way Isabella talks about Alexander. He nods in confirmation to the rest, equally wary of what all he reveals in terms of personal details. "I do. I mean," he shrugs, looks aside, "drove through here three years ago, couldn't leave. And now that I know what it is that's keeping me here, it seems stupid to not help out the people trying to do something about all of it." Especially the ones you're dating, probably.

He points at the left greenhouse. "That one's all perennials that need a certain temperature and humidity," now the right greenhouse, "same, but annuals," and then the Quonset canopy, "anything that doesn't have specific needs outside what we get right here at the shop. Some of the plants do great outside but some don't. Worth every penny on keeping the stock in good shape putting those two in. And, thanks. I liked them enough, I got a smaller one out back for my personal stuff."

"Is it too personal of a question to ask why you couldn't leave?" Isabella asks; she could simply pose the query straight out in retrospect, but August is a friend of Alexander's, and save for what he does for a living, what he used to do for a living, his incredible hair and the fact that he's dating Eleanor Lake, she knows next to nothing about him. The syllables are mild, making it evident enough that she won't take any offense if he answered in the affirmative.

And something that's keeping him here. The look on her face is suggestive enough that she understands that well. "I left for a time," she tells him. "I thought it was going to be forever, and I think I almost made it. Eleven years. A decade and change and not even in the same continent. This place..." And here, she laughs, though there's no humor behind it. "It's like a vortex."

It seems stupid to not help out the people trying to do something about it.

"You're not afraid?" she wonders, quietly, watching his profile after a few moments of silence.

It's a simple question, she knows, which opens up the doorway to a plethora of answers of varying complexity. But her attention falls on the greenhouses again. "What do you grow in your personal collection?" she asks. "And I think...it'd be nice to get her a flowering plant, that's easy to care for. Maybe something that can thrive indoors, or indirect light?"

"Not too personal," August says, "but not much I can really describe except..." He's quiet a second, then, "It was the first time I felt like there might be an answer to the things that had happened to me." A sideways glance at her, to see if she knows what he means.

"Afraid? Definitely." He thinks of the Dream, of his personal demons brought here, to Gray Harbor, coughs a humorless laugh. "But I can't not do something because I'm afraid." He gets a distant, wry look. "Maybe especially because. Anyways, not like most of us have any idea what we're doing. So," another glance at her, "I'm in good company."

He thinks over 'flowering', 'indoor', and 'indirect light'. "Kefir lily, maybe. Just have to not overwater them. Some of the air plants can do okay too."

She knows, and it's plain on her face when he shoots her that sidelong glance - but not out of personal experience. What he finds on features too expressive for their own good is the fact that Isabella is painfully aware of what this place is, what kind of mysteries plague it and what kind of answers it may have hiding in its most secret crevices...

...and she is also painfully familiar of the costs.

After a moment of gauging his expressions, she speaks up. "I can appreciate that," she tells him and that's the honest truth. "I think those answers can get expensive, though. I'm sure you know that." The fact that he deems it worth the risk, though? She can't help but wonder about the vague shapes of his history, what had happened that made him decide one way or another. Questions, perhaps, for another time. "I hope you find what you're looking for, though."

Something about his steady reassurance - about being afraid in spite of having the look of a man that is more than physically capable, not to mention the power she senses from him, unwinds the subtle tension on her shoulders. "Alexander mentioned you were like a river running through a dark forest, when the three of you were bridged," she tells him. "If nothing else, I think that's promising. Water and silence have a way of cutting through the bullshit." She winks at him at that, meeting his glance.

After a pause. "The entire sordid business is coming to a head one way or another," she tells him, and after searching his eyes, she ventures: "...I don't suppose you know anything about pine wood and any special properties that stuff around here might have regarding people like us?"

His last suggestion heightens her interest. "A Kefir lily? I don't think I've ever...but it sounds nice. What do you mean by air plants?"

"Thanks," August says of Isabella hoping he finds what he's looking for. His tone turns contemplative. "Kind of suspect I already have," he murmurs, maybe not intending it to be out loud. A small smile, then he moves on to the other topics at hand. "Yeah, that seems about how I am in there." He thinks of recent events, adds, "Mostly," with a small smirk.

"Pine wood, and us." He tilts his head, looking thoughtful. "Well, it's a soft wood, with good strength and elasticity, easy to work. I's the cheapest thing to make a casket out of, hence the whole 'pine box' business." He pulls a face, shakes his head. "Can't think of anything that'd pertain to our sort of skills, though, that's specific to it." He shrugs. "Except me, I was in Forestry for a while." He doesn't seem to think that's relevant to her question, though, if his off-handed demeanor is any indicator.

On the topic of house plants, he says, "Kaffir lilies are cute little things, come in some really nice, tropical colors. Another option's hoya, which is a climbing shrub, and good ol' cyclamen. I keep plenty of those, they're both popular." He considers. "For a native, we have lily of the valley, those like shade, so you can grow them indoors." He shifts, folds his arms. "Air plants are Tillandsia. They basically don't need soil. Just a little substrate--something to hold onto. Lot of different kinds, some of which bloom. I've got a small collection of them because they tend to be popular with people who want something out of the ordinary. You do have to keep them reasonably warm, a lot are tropicals."

Kind of suspect I already have.

He may not have intended for it to be out loud, but Isabella tilts her smile at him regardless, and responds to it - never really of the personality or character to let anyone get away with most things. "Is that a bad, thing, a good thing, or the best thing?" she wonders, her other hand finding her pocket and rocking back on her heels, each enumeration clearly delineating the differences between each option. But her eyes are alert and attentive, chasing every tic and nuance of that serious but almost serene expression.

The 'mostly' gets a grin, her grin taking a turn from slight to downright effulgent. She lifts her shoulders in a shrug, exuding an air of such exaggerated innocence it's a miracle the Sheriff hasn't pulled up to lead her away in handcuffs. "Hey, there's always exceptions to the rule," she tells him. "Life would be so predictable otherwise. Personally, I really like those." Exceptions. Deviations from the status quo.

At the very least, she learns something new about pine that she didn't before. "It was worth a shot, though some part of me isn't all that surprised you know about that also," she tells him. And after a moment, she ventures, carefully: "We tried looking for it, the original. That was why I was with Easton that night." Why the copious amounts of alcohol though? Then again maybe the bartender just drives everyone he knows to drink in irresponsible amounts.

She remembers the bit about him working in Forestry, and she nods. "Yeah, I think I do remember that - in our first conversation." She has an excellent memory. "And I remember your aversion to working for Ag companies because of NDAs."

With the plant talk, she listens - she knows absolutely nothing about plants, and this is a foray into a subject where there is very much a clean slate within her, waiting to be filled with details and information that she hasn't had cause to learn until now. Those eyes sharpen, her academic attention narrowing to a hard, diamond-point focus. "I don't know what kind of heating system she'd have in her house, albeit it's probably not a problem for an Addington," she muses. "But I've been in tropical areas before, and I don't see Erin electing to keep those temperatures unless she has to. Would it be too much trouble to get a Kaffir, if they're not native here? In the brightest color they come in?"

August hesitates (so he probably didn't mean to say that), considers what kind of 'thing' it is. "Not a bad thing. Good, yes. Best," a small shrug, "we'll see. Still working on that part." Some of his good humor fades when she talks about exceptions. "Less an exception, more...things changing. Storm comes through, reshapes the coast. That kind of thing." He says it as mildly as he can, but it's not hard to tell there's a but more going on there than he's letting on. He softens it a touch, saying, "But that's not always bad, either."

He seems surprised to hear they were looking for the original. "The original? Can't imagine it's not degraded already. It wouldn't be dirt, but pretty close to it. I mean, assuming it was just a pine box. That was kind of the point of those, along with how cheap they were. They break down pretty fast, if they're thin enough." He seems to want to ask more about that, but doesn't. Probably not the best time for an in-depth discussion about...that.

"Well, not just the NDAs, but that too. They're pretty ugly a lot of the time. Not saying Forest Service's all unicorns and rainbows but they're no Monsanto or DuPont." He says those names like they're four letter words.

"They can do okay in," he gestures around them, "our cliamte even if the house isn't too warm, but definitely a Kaffir might be a better start. I have some in stock right now, already in pots for selling. Hoyas and cyclamen too." He tilts his head. "If you come by tomorrow I can pick out the best ones, and you can see if I've got some pots you think she'd like too. There's always the basic terra cotta, but I carry a few fancy glazed ones too."

There is more under the surface, and Isabella twigs on it; unsurprising, maybe, considering the kind of attention she's giving him. But she doesn't pry, never one in the end to seriously impose herself on another's inner life. "Change is inevitable, I think," she tells him after a few moments' worth of silence. "I told Alexander that a few times. How when it comes to people, nothing ever completely stays the same." If anything, the changes in the investigator within the last few months would attest to the fact. In the calculus of the human condition, variables shift constantly, keeping it in a state of constant evolution.

When the man puts it that way, she nods. "It was worth a shot. Honestly what I really wanted to look for was the original receptacle that the bones of the Ghoul traveled in, the thing that carried it from there..." She gestures. "To here. When they came to our possession, they were already scrubbed. Even a powerful reader like Alexander or Doctor Faust couldn't pick up anything. I thought while the bones might be, maybe the container wasn't, and if we could just read it...maybe we'll know just who the hell disturbed them, and if we could find the Ghoul's original resting place, maybe that, too, could be read and we'd be able to figure out how to shut him down once and for all. But Easton kept dreaming..." She pauses. "He kept dreaming about unearthing the box, as if he had been there. I walked around those images, using the bridge, it...was so detailed. I helped him lift the casket."

She manages to suppress a shudder - she doesn't like to use, the alcohol had been necessary to keep her calm. She tilts her head back to examine the skies, expression contemplative. "Doesn't change the fact that we'll need a new one, and three people to put him there. But..." She smiles ruefully. "It was useful. If he tries again for something else, maybe he'll be able to find something. Not that he didn't find anything when we tried." There's a quiet frown. "He found a door, located at the Murray House, and it's open."

The big companies, though, are familiar, and there's a faint wrinkling of her nose. "Ew," is her stressed reaction to that.

The invitation to come back, and even the fact that some Kaffir are in stock, banishes the growing shadows on her face; she lights up visibly, the full brunt of her grin directed August's way. "It's not too soon? You don't mind? I can stop by tomorrow, definitely. I'm probably keeping you from getting home, huh? I'm so sorry, I didn't..." She fishes for her smartphone and checks at the time, looking genuinely embarrassed. "Oh, wow, I had no idea it was so..." She groans, and presses her fingers against the bridge of her nose.

"It is," August agrees with an easy nod. "Forest fires aren't fun, but they have to happen. That's just how it is."

He licks his lips at the mention of 'scrubbing'. "Hm. So someone can...remove the memories on things." That seems to fascinate him. The reading, less so. "Mmmm, yeah. Reading. Can't imagine reading any of that stuff is fun." He pulls a face, reluctantly admits, "I can do that, if you need someone else to try. I'm okay at it--probably nowhere near as good as Alexander, but." He contemplates remaking the casket and reburying the Ghoul. "I guess that might be worth a shot. Making one's easy enough, it's just a box. Pine's cheap as hell." He squints, maybe confused about her mention of 'the three', but doesn't ask, because he's distracted by mention of the Murray House. He sighs, groans. "Fantastic. That fucking place again." More directly to her, "We've been looking into that--Minerva, mostly. She was going to try cleansing the sight. Haven't heard from her about it in a while, though, maybe her research stalled.

Of how late it's become, he says, "Not a problem. And, not too soon, unless you want to wait until Erin's out of the hospital, in which case I can set a couple aside." Belatedly, he explains, "That's what the private greenhouse is for--things I'm holding for people, plants that need some help, special projects. Not a lot in there, usually. Just a little space here for myself, I have a proper one at the cabin."

"I honestly had no idea that could happen," Isabella confesses. "Scrubbing. Not until Alexander and Doctor Faust read the bones. But I guess it makes sense? If you can use healing to kill, like the Ghoul has been doing, if you can detect emotional impressions and even find a person based on said impressions, maybe you can erase them, also." His views on reading are shared by the woman standing with him, judging from her expression, though interest flares over her face. "You're a reader also, or...? Is it a secondary talent? If you're offering..." She pauses. "Thank you, August. Really. It means a lot."

And it does. The Ghoul took from her, slaughtered her mother in cold blood, and in the seat of her spirit, rage remains, white-hot and unaddressed.

That falls off the wagon, when he mutters about the Murray House. "I just found out about the Murray House, recently that it...eats children?" There's something incredulous and horrified in her tone, after everything she must've experienced already, some aspects of this town are still too galling for her to contemplate. "If you're going to continue it, be careful," she murmurs. "If there's a doorway and it can't be shut, it..."

Her mind travels back, to what is inside her own family home, and she suddenly looks very interested in a spot past August's shoulder, but the air around her is undeniable. Sheer, palpable terror, the kind that makes a person weak at the knees, faint with fright - the strain that comes with some degree of post-traumatic stress.

But she takes a slow, deliberate inhale, and his voice and how he directs her attention helps. She flashes him a smile. "Sounds good," she tells him. "I'll see you tomorrow, then? Thanks so much, again. For the advice...on the plants, and the offer, and..." She stops, briefly, and she laughs, finally, leaning hard into the emotion - relieved, constantly, that she can do so, still, after the several trying weeks she has had. "You're really very nice. I'm kind of sad it took something like this to get us in the same space for a real conversation."

"Yeah, seems like it makes sense--the abilities all seem to," August takes his hand, turns it palm up, then palm down, "have two sides. Not always in the same way, I think. I know I can't open a door into Over There, like Itzhak can, but I can feel them." He starts to say something, stops. "And I can make fire--not that great at it but I can do it--and I can stop other people from doing it." He pauses, shrugs. "Haven't needed to do that much, though. I'd say the...mending's my strongest, though." 'Mending' sounds like a word substitution there.

He says, "No need to thank me," and waves a hand. "Really, there's not. This guy might be coming after specific families right now, but it's not staying that way. I think we all know that. I can do a lot of random things, it feels like, so if any of them help, I'm happy to pitch in."

He grimaces, nods in confirmation of the Murray House's...particular appetites. "Emotionally, at least. Physically, in that it traps them. We got one little girl out, so. Stands to reason if Itzhak can open a door, he can shut it. So maybe that's what we need to do--find that door, and close it. Lock it, throw away the key, maybe collapse the house for good measure." He tries not to sound like he'll enjoy shattering load bearing walls, doesn't actually succeed. (Fuck that house.)

He doesn't comment on her time out in the least. These are something he's more than familiar with. "Tomorrow," he agrees. "And, you're welcome. This isn't the first time it took something...odd to get me to talk to someone, so. I guess it's just how it is in this place." He smiles, rueful. "Stay safe."

"My brother said the same, when we were growing up," Isabella murmurs, and while her contralto is low, it is threaded with longing. Isidore's genius in various aspects of the Talent would have been useful in this entire endeavor. "Sword and shield, cutting and healing." She uses his terms, and while it might not be apparent to others what she is referring to, they are used from memory, and done absently, because she remembers, and can't help but remember, and the longer she stays here... "Now reading and obfuscating."

Eleven years is a long time to be away.

"I'll keep that in mind," she promises, making note of what he says. "I'm not as exercised as a lot of you in It, and I don't go beyond the little tricks if I have to use at all, but it isn't as if..." She hesitates. "So far I've let the others tackle the angles regarding the Talent. I basically just stuck to the other stuff - ideas, mostly. Organization. Research." She lifts her shoulders in a shrug, smiling ruefully. "Sometimes it feels like nothing at all, in the end, but I think Alexander would only get frustrated and vehement if I ever said that around him. You're right, though. It's complicated by the fact that if we destroy the vessel without having something around that can contain him, he might just escape....and then we'd have to deal with an uncontainable spirit who kills, so we have to be extremely careful with how we approach this. And even if we do manage to save the vessel....he may never be the same again."

She pauses. "The spirit's been living inside of a man's head and body for half a century, August. You live inside a person that long and he becomes you, and you become him. Even if we found a way to separate them, to rip the Ghoul out root to stem...that's going to take a toll. But what other choices do we have? None of the alternatives are great either. It has to end, and fast."

Mention of Itzhak returns her smile. "Alexander's mentioned him, too," she says. "He's a mover, yeah? Like me...probably more practiced than me." Almost everyone is, despite her enormous potential. But the glee he fails to suppress is noted, and it broadens her smile into a grin. "If you guys go for it, tell me about it?" she asks, fishing out her wallet, and producing her card to hand to August, bearing the famous logo of the University of Oxford and marking her as Isabella B. Reede, a senior research assistant for the School of Archaeology.

"If Itzhak's like me and Easton, he'd be able to find the door and close it, yeah. Easton's confident the thing's definitely there, I watched him find it."

But with goodbyes underway, she smiles back. "It probably is. I'm reluctant to subscribe to it, though. But yeah, I'll try. You, too, August - stay safe, please." With a wave, she turns and starts heading for her Jeep.