2019-12-17 - Turkey Sausages in Parmesan Tomato Cream Sauce Over Pasta, With A Side of Bad Decisions

Autumn is ending.

Alexander's visitors can feel it in the air when they arrive at 13 Elm; darkness has settled, a heavy blanket rendered all the more so by the brewing thunderstorm clamoring from a distance, terrible light crashing through the clouds and highlighting the faraway boundary between sky and sea. Wind and icy rain batter at the windows, rattling the panes. Shutters that have been kept open in the summer, if not just because its current tenant doesn't have airconditioning, have been kept locked since September started and now there's definitely a serious risk that the gale-force gusts outside will simply tear the wooden frames off and leave holes in the walls. Lamps flicker along the street.

It's the visible power fluctuations that ultimately bother Isabella Reede and she warily eyeballs one of the lightbulbs within the living room, before checking to make sure that her laptop battery is fully charged in case the worst happens. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, never one to sit properly in a place in which she feels most comfortable, leaning over the low coffee table to peer at the glowing screen in front of her. She's hardly said a word in the last three hours - at least, not to her lover, or the cat, or the bird, because she is finally down to the last thousand words of her thesis and has run savagely headlong into the worst thing any academic can ever encounter within the home stretch of dissertation drafting:

Writer's Block.

She has been staring at the same point marked by her blinking cursor for half an hour, and realization of that leaves her groaning, her forehead finding the worn wood and resting there, unmoving. She's dressed comfortably, as she always doe whenever she's not expected to be too presentable - shorts, warm knit socks that pull up to the mid-thigh, and a loose cashmere sweater with a wide neck that droops off one shoulder to bare the strap of something expensive and Parisian underneath. Quality lingerie is a vice she indulges in regularly, well before she even fell in with someone who would appreciate it regularly (a covert confidence booster, though she would never admit that to anyone); today is a deep purple.

A hand reaches out to blindly grope for her empty coffee cup, and finds the cat instead. She doesn't seem to mind.

August arrived earlier with a few odds and ends in a reusable canvas shopping bag rather than his usual large box of fruits and veggies. He's a man on a mission, and that mission is cooking. After that cryptic comment the other night, August was sure Alexander owed them, so Alexander is the one doing the cooking while August supervises.

He arrived bundled up against the weather in a proper alpine, insulted jacket that's dark red and orange; under that is a snug fit, black, merino wool sweater. Denim jeans and his workboots round things out, because it was a work day (but he'd have worn this anyways because of the weather). Now he putters around in the kitchen, lending a hand but mostly just giving instructions. There's a lot to prep.

If nothing else, Alexander doesn't seem to mind playing cooking student/assigned to PK. Since it's inside, and the house is...sort of warm (as Alexander has only just dared to turn on the heating, other than a space heater a safe distance away from Luigi's cage to keep him warm and happy), he's dressed more comfortably in sweats and an overlong t-shirt advertising a local music festival. He's been careful to be quiet around Isabella, not wanting to disturb her concentration, but he's keeping an eye on her, nonetheless. And when she reaches for her empty coffee mug, he leaves off from following August's orders for prep work, and instead grabs another mug, fills it with coffee, adds what she likes, and pads into the living room to put it by her. And give her a kiss on the hair, before returning to his duties. "What are we even cooking?" he wonders, eyeing the odds and ends.

The black newly repaired Rolls Royce Wraith pulling up just outside of Alexander's house announces Byron Thorne's arrival. He'd been thinking of Clayton's words since the night of the cocktail party. Just the statement relayed to the small group was enough to pique his interest at the very least. Despite the fancy, shiny and expensive car, he's dressed casually for the evening, having changed out of his own work attire (A suit) before making the journey here-- donning a slightly baggy hunter green sweater, some dark jeans and black boots.

Dinner is not his goal, really, but he does bring the dessert in the form of a box of assorted pastries in hand from Vyv's shop. In the other hand he holds a carton of four large hot mocha cappuccinos. After a quick knock at the door, then being let in, he expects their discussion to be of a more serious matter, but things feel lighter when there's a pair of guys cooking in the kitchen. "Hey, Bella. Clayton and Roen."

Setting the pack of coffees down first, then the box, he reaches for one of those large warming cup o' Joes, popping the cover protecting the space to drink from and then taking in that much needed drink himself. "Thought we could all use a little pick-me-up. Glad that you're working on dinner though or else we'd be eating chocolate croissants right now." He then laughs a little at that, "Not that that's a bad thing."

She finds the refilled coffee (black with just a splash of cream) with the groping touch of her hand, and the pressed kiss on her hair has Isabella smiling, though it's quite hidden by the coffee table. She's largely let the two men in the kitchen work in peace, though there are curious glances over that direction now and then as they bustle. With Byron arriving and with mocha cappuccinos, her head lifts when her childhood friend steps into the living room. "The couch is all yours," she tells him as she pushes a mountain of textbooks and scholastic articles on one side to make room for the things he has brought. "I don't think I'm moving from this spot for the rest of the night. How is it that the moment anyone hits the home stretch it's suddenly an uphill climb? I feel like I'm trudging on Mount Everest, here."

Not that it wouldn't be a trip she'd be opposed to. She would be all about it if she was a more experienced climber. The sight of the coffees shifts that smile into a broader grin. "You're so kind to resupply my IV," she teases. "Anyway the dinner is a bit of a last minute decision, I had no idea it was even in the cards until August decided to feed us again."

"Turkey sausages in parmesean cream tomtato sauce over pasta." August points at each ingrediant as he says that mouthful: the sausages, now browning in a five quart pot; the pasta, whole wheat fussili; the fire roasted tomatos in a Ball canning jar; a small plastic container of fresh grated parmesean, and finally the reusable glass bottle of cream. Ice cream and soup bowls have been pressed into service as prep bowls, containing sliced red onions, fire roasted piquillo peppers, red and orange bell peppers, diced peppadew peppers, and crushed garlic. "Pefect winter meal. Fills you up, heats up the house."

He asides to Isabella, "I don't write in order, so I wrote the end first, then just edited once I'd filled in the rest." He snaps his fingers and points at her in a 'this is how writing in order fucks you' kind of way. "And I know how easy it is to not eating when you're writing the thesis. I had roommates feeding me the whole time."

He nods a hello to Byron, eyes the pastry box. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he says, bobbing his eyebrows. He might steal one for Eleanor. (He will.)

There's nervous hovering from Alexander as he has what could actually be called 'houseguests', and not just 'people who have come over to steal my napkins' or 'people who need to be comforted and/or punched'. "Hey," he tells Byron, and flashes a quick, brief smile at the coffee. "Caffeine is always appreciated. Thanks." He takes one of the cups and retreats to the kitchen, as if obscurely grateful to be able to put a counter between him and...everything else. As far as cookery goes - Alexander is fine when active cooking is required, but he doesn't have a lot of focus or patience, so August is going to have to save at least one item from burning up or catching on fire tonight. Probably.

As he takes a sip of coffee, he says to Isabella, "I think we put off ending a big project sometime, subconsciously, because we've been working on it so long that we're not quite sure what comes next. Even if we know what comes next. It's just a psychological thing? Maybe." A shrug. "Either way, you'll get it done." Blue Bell, seeing Byron, stands up, stretches, and wanders over to try and rub beautiful white fur on his pants. The outfit is clearly not complete without it. "Sorry," Alexander mutters to Byron, and clicks his tongue at the cat. Who, of course, ignores him, but does try to include August in her prospective worship circle.

Byron will just stand here and enjoy his cup of coffee even while he watches Isabella push all of her text book and study materials aside. "I'll join you in a bit." Rather than settle down immediately, he turns to overlook some of the cooking being done, especially when August tells them exactly what's being prepared. "Now I'm glad I came over today." Dark eyes reach into his jeans pocket to retrieve his phone. Probably checking to see if Lilith had messaged him. "We just finished decorating our tree." The one at his place, not the one at Lilith's shop or the large ones in the lobbies of each of his buildings. Those were done earlier. "After what happened at the Addington House, I'm glad that that's over with."

Noting the cat wandering up to him and marking him with her fur, Byron crouches down to give the cat a bit of a scritching, "True. True." He says of the eating of pastries right now, "But a home cooked meal sounds just as awesome."

I know how easy it is to not eating when you're writing the thesis.

Isabella side-eyes the couch, her expression an emphatically guilty one when August says the words. "I've been better about it in the last couple of days," she tells the Combat Botanist, having it within her to sound faintly sheepish. What she doesn't say is it's because Alexander has been around prompting her to get something in her stomach before she keels over from starvation. How she managed to survive by herself in the houseboat before that is a mystery - though anyone who knows her will probably, and correctly, credit her perpetually stocked cheese drawer for sustaining her.

Alexander's theory plants a half-exasperated look on her. "I need my brain to be working with me, today, not against me!" Exclaimed in a moment of girlish, frustrated petulance that gives her the impression that she's about to pout in the next few moments. It doesn't happen, because she buries the urge against her refilled coffee instead. She suppresses a smile and fails miserably watching Byron scritch Blue Bell.

"That sounds amazing," she concurs, about what August and Alexander are making for dinner, and she slowly stands up from the coffee table....except she's been in the same position for a while and she collapses on the couch instead. Instead of righting herself back up, she instead rolls over and buries her everything in the pillows, dark hair left in a rare loose state spilling over the armrest of the couch.

...she might end up falling asleep before dinner even starts.

August runs a hand along Blue Bell's head, scritches under her jawline. Then promptly washes his hands as he directs Alexander to keep turning the sausages so they don't burn on the pan. Blackening isn't quite what they're going for. He's perfectly happy to prevent fires and burning. It's his speciality, being a stop-gap against catastrophies.

He reassures Isabella, "You'll get there." An arched eyebrow for Byron's tree-trimming success. "No more cursed stars or snow globes, or living ornaments?" He tilts his head, looking thoughtful. "Ellie and I kept ours, they seem to be okay." He's doing a little better over the last couple of days; that bath bomb Eleanor got really did the trick. A good thing, too, since he was a mess after the funeral.

Speaking of which...

"So," he says, leaning against the counter and folding his arms. He looks at Alexander. "What've you got for us."

"My cherub's in the bedroom closet. I guess it'll stay there until I screw something up and it pops out and kisses me on the nose," Alexander says, with a quick grin. He turns the sausages as directed, and clicks his tongue at the cat again when she starts to move towards the enticing, meaty smell. This time, she actually pays attention, although not without another visit to Byron to get scritches and leave more of her fur before sauntering, tail in the air, to jump on top of the sprawled Isabella. Luigi, much less interested in new humans, is in his cage, peering out at everyone with beady-eyed suspicion as he jumps from branch to branch.

And then August has to bring up the actual reason for calling people over here. Alexander coughs. "Right. Yes." A long pause. "So, the flower that was left at Isabella's house. I read enough from it to get an idea of where it might have come from - with a little research. So I went out there. It didn't go as badly as it could have?" He's not dead! That's something, right? He drinks from his coffee cup. "He's got a greenhouse, Over There, and can let people in, or out. It's filled with those goddamned flowers."

"I wasn't foolish enough to acquire one of those ornaments." Byron says with a smile at his lips, before taking a sip of coffee. "I can only imagine how much the Addington's repair bill is going to be, needing to clean up all of that water damage. Either way, despite nearly suffering from hypothermia or worse, it ended on a... festive note, I guess I can say." A thoughtful pause, "Almost as if someone wanted us to come together in Christmas spirit." He didn't really give it /that/ much thought, but it's the first thing that came to mind while he was pulled into singing a Christmas carol.

August brings up what was probably on everyone's mind and it was the real reason for them (at least for Byron) to be here this night. He knows why Alexander wanted the flower, but listening to Alexander tell them of what he'd found, Thorne keeps himself occupied by bringing the cup up to his lips for a long, silent drink. There's no interruption on his part and when the cup is eventually lowered, those dark eyes turn to Alexander, his expression one of indifference, mostly. "So where is there?" He finally asks.

"Someone wanted us to come together in Christmas spirit while treating Addington House like Animal House," the archaeologist remarks with a quick grin towards Byron. "I'm accustomed to thinking that things are perpetually awful here, but sometimes I'm reminded that the town's also got a sense of humor, sometimes." Blue Bell's soft paws find her belly after that graceful leap upwards into the cushions with her, and Isabella reaches up to stroke her silky white fur, smiling faintly when she sees those blue eyes peering down at her, listening to what the men in the room are talking about from her position on the couch. That meandering touch freezes, however, when the words actually sink into her tired brain.

To her infinite credit, she doesn't jerk upright suddenly and give Blue Bell a rude dislodging. But she senses her tension anyway the way all animals might. Worried, frustrated eyes move over to the kitchen area, her delicate jaw set in that hard, stubborn angle. "You went to his place alone?" The last word is stressed, pitched higher than the syllables that came before it. "Are you serious? What the hell were you thinking?!" Were August and Byron invited to act as buffers? She's off the couch like a shot, turning to face the kitchen fully as she stalks in that direction.

August had been prepared for something like this, and oh so casually gets in between Isabella and Alexander, facing Isabella. "Let's try to remember that we also have to talk about what he found out. Then we can discuss," he looks over his shoulder at Alexander, "at considerable length, how fucking dumb it was." No heat, just tired resignation. Well, he is friends with Itzhak, after all, He Who Dives Head First Into Things Of Questionable Nature.

He goes still, eyes unfocused. After a second or two of this, he says, "He didn't hurt you. I mean...physically. Or infect you, or anything." Which is a relief, because it only just now occurred to August that Peregrine could have easily given Alexander a lovely case of rabies.

They really couldn't get rid of this motherfucker fast enough.

"Maybe even Gray Harbor likes to have a little bit of Christmas cheer on occasion," Alexander murmurs - but that's about all he gets out before Blue Bell recognizes the way the wind is blowing and hops to the back of the couch instead. She will watch the fireworks from here, thank you. And if one of those sausages gets dislodged in the process, well, it might be a very Merry Christmas indeed.

Alexander hunches his shoulders at the tone of Isabella's voice, and possibly only doesn't turn and flee because everyone else is between him and the front door. "I. Yes. I did. I was serious." There's a long, long pause at her last question. "I took a knife, Isabella. It shouldn't be hard to figure out what I was thinking." It's said softly. "It was a mistake," he allows, stiffly. "I don't think there's a point in discussing it at length." He takes a quick breath, lets it out, and attends to Byron's question. "An abandoned house. Out on the Lonely Highway, not that far from Oak. And no," he shakes his head to August, "he didn't. He had me dead to rights - those damned flowers knocked me right the fuck out. Instead I woke up in a very nice chair, covered in cobras. And we had, uh, a talk, I guess you could say." He sighs. "And then he let me go."

It's usually never a good thing to stand between a bickering couple. Often, you might look the other way or offer calming words. Byron doesn't expect Isabella to want to kill Alexander, especially with Clayton's possible getting hurt in any way is what spurs her to anger and concern, but he's sure that Alexander (and the rest of them) won't be hearing the last of this until everything calms down. Unlike, August, however, he's not going to physically step in to interfere-- It's not like Alexander had a half-dressed woman in his bedroom bad, after all.

Byron also can't fault Alexander for taking matters into his own hands when the opportunity arises. It's not as if he hadn't done something similar in the past.

Whatever annoyance that may have stirred up just moments ago, seems to have faded for the time being. While he's read about the strange rabies outbreak at the hospital, even recognizing the name of the organ donor, it's not something that he'd brought to any of them at the time. "The outbreak at Addington Memorial. That was him too, wasn't it? But why?" It's only then that his coffee cup holding hand lowers, his posture relaxing, "What is he trying to accomplish? I don't believe anyone there-- the hospital staff had anything to do with what happened at the church." He means /US/. They have nothing to do with those who thwarted his plans. Though, he does cast a somber look over to August, "Sorry about your friend."

To what Alexander further mentions, Byron asks, "I suppose he didn't reveal his grand plan, like a villain doing a monologue." A pause for an idle sip of coffee, before adding, "If he did, he wouldn't have let you go."

It is absurdly telling that Isabella doesn't even blink when Alexander confirms, oh so quietly, that he had set out to kill the man in question; she is a commander's daughter and threats to the greater populace, like this one seems to be, must be eradicated with extreme prejudice. But the dismissive words he adopts brings a flicker of a more open and vulnerable emotion over the young woman's features - as if he'd reared back and actually slapped her. It is brief and evocative, until her expression hardens again because she is always so quick to recover.

She doesn't reply to August, but at the very least she seems willing to let this information exchange happen. Instead, she turns away so she could find the bottle of Scotch that had been set aside in the event she or Easton visits, dumps a few glugs into her coffee cup and sets the bottle down with a quiet clack on the counter. She moves back into the living room after a solid swallow of the spiked coffee and returns to her work at the laptop, green-gold eyes narrowed into slits as she reviews the last words on her screen before typing with sharp, rapid keystrokes.

...and she's an incredibly fast typist. Whatever dexterity failed her in music seems to have been given new life in more mundane endeavors.

August breathes a sigh of relief when Isabella doesn't try to get around him and come at Alexander. They can do that later, without witnesses. (And August is reasonably sure Alexander will get to explain himself.)

He half-turns so he can face Alexander and Byron but still serve as a buffer should Isabella change her mind about when that explaining happens. A quick shoves of the sausages and an 'I've got my eye on you' look for Blue Bell. "We don't need to discuss it," he agrees, his expression telegraphing that he only means himself and Byron. "Except to say, we don't know if he's like me, or if he is to what degree, so a knife might have been meaningless. He could break it before you got to him. We don't know if he's strong with matter, so he could be tougher, and be able to take the knife from you. So going at him--solo or otherwise--until someone like me can get a read on him is a bad idea all around."

His eyes shift to a point on the floor. "We don't know for sure the rabies was him, but," he grimaces, "I highly doubt James was infected with rabies on his own. I mean it's possible, but given it was James and we know Peregrine killed him," a plate in the cupboard rattles when August says that, "it'd be a hell of a coincidence if not." He glances from Byron to Alexander. "What'd he want to talk about?"

Alexander shakes his head at Byron. "No such luck. He kills hope. I'm not so sure it matters about who was at the initial wedding, although the...narrative flow of using a survivor of that to be his next victim and his instrument of his next attack probably pleases him. Which, if he decides to stay with that theme, means his next victims will probably be one or more of the three who survived the rabies attack, if there's a way that their deaths can turn into a pleasing sort of spectacle."

His teeth click shut when that look comes down over Isabella's features, and guilt twists his expression. The stove is abandoned without a thought (no, seriously, this is why cooking is a hazardous endeavor for him), and he starts to try and make his way over to where she's typing, unless stopped by the August-buffer. Which he will try to eel around. "He admitted that the rabies was him. And don't break my plates." There's a shrug at the last question. "Mostly, why I was there, how I thought it was a good idea, how I was hurting my friends by doing stupid shit, and what I thought that he was doing." Something that isn't a laugh, but still has a trace of bitter humor, emerges. "It would almost have been like a therapy session, if not for the snakes, the drugged flowers, and the chance of horrific death."

He frowns. "There are a few things, though. He carries a pocketwatch that may not have a face. He checks it often. I don't mean that the machinery is exposed, just that...in his glasses, it's reflected not at all. He never takes off the damned glasses. And the fountain in his greenhouse is a...rather horrible thing. Lovecraftian, even, all tentacles, teeth, and wrongness. I don't know if that's just a...theatrical prop, for him, or if it means something. For all I know, he's more of a despair cultist than the rather utilitarian servants of the Shadows that we've seen up until now."

While Byron can't say much about anyone else believing they can handle things on their own, his eyes do follow the path that Isabella takes now; watching as she spikes her coffee with some Scotch before settling in to,m possibly, work on her thesis, all without saying another word. Meandering over in that direction, he reaches out to give her shoulder a brief little squeeze, though stepping aside to give her some space. He knows of this mood that she's in. It's a dangerous one.

His gaze shifts to August before moving onto Alexander with his theory of what may come next. "The survivors of the outbreak are all still at Addington Memorial?" He reads the news, but he doesn't often go prying and bothering hospital staff unless it's something connected directly to him or someone he cares about. He expects that something Alexander might do. "I'd say, we find ways to monitor them, but something tells me that's not gonna be easy at all."

He doesn't add much more to this until Alexander delves deeper into his experience with Peregrine, some of which is brought up really does capture his interest. "When we were pulled in due to receiving those mystery invitations." A pause, as he thinks back on that moment and the horror they experienced there. "Our host or ... hosts, were similarly attired to what you're describing right now-- all the way down to the tentacles... or shadow tendrils that either came from them or was attached to them." It was dark, who can tell. He told Alexander that he would show him 'the woman', the sole survivor. Right now, however, it might be a good idea to show him in full just what they saw.

Drawing in a deep breath, then exhaling quietly, Byron projects an image in the center of the room, looking a hologram in the center of some sci-fi futuristic boardroom meeting. He stares at this 'vision' attentively, trying to get in all the details that he remembers, making it slowly form before everyone's eyes.

Poor August, left to make sure dinner isn't a complete disaster.

Her typing stops, fingers coming up to rub her nosebridge, a burgeoning headache blossoming from the back of her skull, a Springtime rose throbbing against bone. It isn't because of the Scotch, or even her frustrations with her thesis but rather ever since Halloween and whatever wounds to her psyche that Isabella has been attending to since Alexander's foray inside her mind, she can detect almost everything now - wounds on the physical body, stray emotions from passing bodies, minds in any state of activity, physical space and how objects are situated within, data from other users based on how strong or weak they are on every aspect. The input into her brain has been so massive that she has taken to diving again despite the infinitely colder season (and luckily, she has the expertise to do this safely and with little risk of exposure), treating the Pacific as her very own sensory deprivation tank in the early mornings. Even now, she can sense Byron's, August's and Alexander's minds, potential and life energy twisting around the space close to the kitchen before two of them start to disperse from the collective.

The squeeze on her shoulder from Byron has the green-eyed archaeologist looking up, and while her face retains those undercurrents of fear and concern-laden fury, something about her razored aura gentles a touch. She drains her spiked coffee before she rubs her face with both hands in an attempt to focus on two things at once while the furnace of her temper churns in her stomach. She doesn't look up when she senses Alexander's approach, unless prevented by August; Anger is a vice, a failing, but it also motivates her like nothing else and it doesn't help to hear about the snakes, drugged flowers and the fact that for a few moments, he was held captive by an extremely dangerous creature who could have killed him at any point during that endeavor. There's a glance when Byron presents the image before them.

"They all seem to have the same dress code," she mutters, leaning against the couch and tilts her head back, shutting her eyes as she attempts to think. "If he is one of Their agents, it would make sense. If he's something else, then it's probably likely that he is well familiar enough with Them and agents of Them to pass himself off as one, which means contact in some way. Maybe multiple ways. As for monitoring the survivors, it's probably a good next step...there were six victims in the article, but only three survived. Shouldn't be hard especially if they're still recovering in the hospital. But..." She frowns thoughtfully. "I think it's too early to assume that he has a pattern. A theme, maybe." Attacking hope. "...but I don't know if we should be assuming that he has one, especially if he's dramatic. Patterns speak to predictability, and predictability in a plot is normally frowned upon by the artistic director types, isn't it? That's what Sid used to tell me..." There's a glance at Byron. "He loved theatre." As the investor would also know.

"And he doesn't seem to be following any set script, if that's the case. He leaves me flowers, reduces my house to a null space, but didn't really lie in wait - I was home before Ronnie even came to visit, he had the opportunity to do...something, so why didn't he take it? And he hasn't done anything else - I've been out and about and I haven't seen anything strange save for the Erinyes. And then he lures Alexander..." Strain ripples through her voice. "....into a trap, but forces him into a chair, talks to him, and lets him go?"

August doesn't stop Alexander; after all, someone has to make sure dinner doesn't burn. He does give him a look, though, both sympathetic and strained. He nods at Byron, considers the image of their Host against the descriptions of Peregrine. "Could be coincidence," he agrees, though it makes him wary. Another person drawn in by their use of power? (He stops that line of thought immediately, not least because the idea of being responsible for James's death is nauseating.)

He pulls the sausages, drops the peppers and onions in, letting the rendered moisture deglaze the pot. After a time, he says, "A bouquet of those flowers was delivered to James' funeral. I read one, trying to see if I could trace where the bouquet came from." He makes a face. "It wasn't pretty. If Ellie hadn't been there they'd be doing major repairs on the funeral home." He rubs at his eyes. "But I saw, some kind of hospital. An old one, though, like it was a really old memory. Think like, 40s, 20s, that kind of thing. The flowers were growing there, soaking up everything going on. Pain, misery, loss...all of that." He looks askance at Alexander. "Maybe they started there, with him, then he moved them to the Other Side."

Alexander perks up, visibly, when Byron says he's going to show them something. When the projection comes up, for a moment everything else goes away as the investigator moves to inspect it. He knows this is silly; the illusion is still in his mind, even if Byron's 'showing' them like this, but this doesn't stop him. "Those glasses look pretty familiar," he agrees with Isabella. "I've never seen Peregrine take them off. He's got better color sense than this guy, though." He crouches to study the tentacles winding around the flesh, reaching out a hand as if he could feel them, with a look of utter fascination. "But this almost looks like this guy is being puppeted by the source of the tentacles. Does he even have his own...sense of self, or is he just a convenient flesh puppet? Oh, I wish I'd been there."

He shakes off the fascination, heading over to where Isabella is, and carefully avoids Byron as he sits down near Isabella, his folded knee almost but not quite touching hers. He watches her, then says, "I don't know that he was luring me into anything. Or that it was actually a trap, as opposed to a...reaction to my trespass. If you want to believe what he claimed, the intrusion wasn't intended to scare you, and the null room was intended to provide respite from Dreams for a night." He breathes out. "I don't know that he's lying about his intentions. I don't think he feels threatened enough to find lying worth it." A pause. "But that means that he's still...interested in you, Isabella. Wants a conversation, he said." He looks up towards Byron, then back to Isabella. "I don't know if any of us can stop him, if he's determined about it." It's not an admission that he likes making.

His eyes flick to August. "He's got an air about him. A way of speaking. I could see him as a doctor. And he said that he had hope, once. Maybe that's his origin point, but...he looks in his 50s, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's older than that. He implied it, in our conversation, and time works differently Over There, sometimes. If he's spent a lot of time there..." He frowns. "And Isabella's right, about the theme versus a pattern. And even if it is a pattern, it leaves us waiting for him to make his next move. And that's likely to be bad for people. I'm sorry. I should have gotten something from him. We could track him with that."

"Whether he's a flesh puppet or not, the one that got away was connected to the darkness in a similar fashion. Along with the rest. I don't know if they have a hive mind or are connected in some way." Byron relays, leaving the illusion up for a moment longer before allowing it to fade from view. When August mentioned that it could be a coincidence however, he simply nods. "Could be. The Actors dressed nowhere like that, so why the similarities here could be anyone's guess."

Looking between them all and listening to each of their contributions, he asks, "Why concern himself with Isabella? Hasn't he done enough for her? This way of appeasing her by allowing her dreams to not be tarnished by... who knows what, the Dark Men? Why? Why does he even bother?" Taking a sip from his cup now, he then asks, "Why doesn't he just come out and speak to her himself?" He obviously doesn't mean while she's alone, but he's curious about that too.

With a soft sound of frustration when he lets out a sigh, "So there may or may not be any use of keeping the three outbreak survivors under surveillance and here we are, not knowing who he'll affect next." To Alexander, he then asks with a shake of his head, "Is there any reason why we don't just visit him the way you did to sort things out? As a group." Says the lone wolf who prefers to handle his own problems on his own. "This place that he was at? Does it move? If you brought us to where you were tracking him to begin with could one of the..." It's so weird to say Pushers or TKers for this, so he'll say instead, "Those who can find doorways. Could they sense something?"

It's difficult to ignore the investigator under normal circumstances; with his potential crackling through her newly-hyperaware senses like lightning, enough to make sensation spiderweb in fits and starts over her skin, she almost looks at him then when he settles next to her. She resolutely, stubbornly, focuses her gold-shot irises to her laptop's screen and starts typing again, her jaw set and a frustrated tic pulsing at the tender hinge where it meets her neck - fiery, red life rushing through the thin life-giving vein that stands out faintly at the tension braiding over her shoulders and framing the hollow of her throat. It's a miracle that objects aren't rattling around her, tapping out their own furious rhythm against his belongings, but maybe she's slowly finding her sea-legs again with respect to the abilities that she had attempted to leave behind for over ten years. She is no genius; she is not a savant like her brother, but she learns, and re-learns, fast.

It might just be whatever volatile maelstrom she's trying to suppress, because whatever apprehension or terror she might harbor about having someone so dangerous wanting a conversation with her only tightens the line of her jaw and lashes lidding over her eyes, darkening their usual color and leaving those amber shards to stand out further, rendering those irises look more golden than green. But everything else seems to filter through the haze, at least, and she stops typing in favor of thinking instead, her brain churning over new information - it wasn't a threat, but wants a conversation, and she can't help but go back to the fuzzy memories at the Church....

"So let him talk to me," Isabella says, every ferocious and determined note of the statement imbued with the white-hot intensity of her ire, fueled as they are by multiple elements. "He knows where I live. Maybe I can provoke him into doing something revelatory or inadvisable." Byron's questions are sound though, and she lifts her fingers to press against her eyelids. "If he's circling back, I wouldn't be surprised if all of us involved in the Church debacle wouldn't be having conversations with him at one point or another. I suppose..." And she smiles thinly, dark humor playing on the curve. "It'd be too much to hope that he was genuinely sorry for orchestrating things so I received an invitation." She has many problems, but overuse is not one of them, as Alexander had pointed out in a prior conversation...until she was forced to act as a Glimmer-battery on Halloween.

She doesn't opine either way, to Byron's idea, but she makes a quiet and thoughtful noise there. "Traversing in his domain that he controls might be a bad idea in this juncture without additional intelligence. Anything can happen in the Veil. Detection, though..." She chews on her bottom lip. "Maybe."

After a moment, she addresses both August's and Alexander's contributions. "Would explain how he pulled off the rabies outbreak in Addington Memorial. If they were from transplant organs like the article suggested..." And there's a sympathetic look towards August, because the donor had been his friend. "...and if Yule wasn't able to find any taint in the corpse when it came to him, it speaks of someone well versed in not just medical procedures, but hospital processes."

"Use you as bait?" August says, because he knows Alexander's going to read Isabella's suggestion like that. He makes a face. "Not really into that. Only if he's willing to have someone else there with you. But," he nods at Byron, "preferably, all of us. Or at least a few." He stops as soon as he's said that, shakes his head. "On the other hand, I think you," he glances at Alexander, "mentioned this could all be a way to draw a group together and lock us into a Veil trap of some kind. So..."

He adds in the garlic, setting it to brown; the sweet, heady scent fills the kitchen. Next come the wet peppers, to deglaze the garlic. Then the tomatoes, and back in go the sausages, to simmer with everything else for a spell. He gets it all mixed up, puts on the lid, sets the egg timer.

He dismisses Alexander's apology with a wave of his hand. "I didn't think to check his Art before he left the church, so don't beat yourself up over that." He considers the idea of a theme, or a drama. "Maybe. But there's another possibility. Maybe it's no coincidence he hasn't come around me or Eleanor. The flowers I sensed, they shoved an ice pick in my head. You? Got a location to go to. Once we know how strong he is and in what ways, we'll have ideas of how to deal with him. So, logically, he wouldn't want us to know." He looks to Isabella. "You could tell, if he agreed to meet with you, so maybe I'm off on that. But I don't think it's a coincidence he nulled your room, either. If he talks with you in a null room, you can't read his Art."

"I feel like the actors were...opportunists. After spending some time with Duncan and Madeline, I don't get any sense that anyone had any grand designs or deep connection to the dark. Maybe the leader of the troupe. But if the others are like those two, they're mostly just scared and willing to hurt people to not feel as scared." Alexander shrugs. "I don't get the same vibe from Peregrine. But then, he also seems to work alone - although I imagine he would have to have had some conspirator to taint those organs. There's a lot of checks and tests that go through at every stage of the process. But it could be a nurse who spread the disease right before they went in, or a doctor, or...hmm. I don't know enough about hospitals to know."

There's a shake of his head at Byron. "I don't know. He said he found her intriguing, and that's as far as we've gotten." He looks at Isabella, as if trying to will her to look at him. When she doesn't, his head droops, and he stands up, quietly, and slinks back towards the kitchen. "If she wants to meet with him, I won't stand against it. I want to, but Isabella isn't helpless. I don't have the right." He comes back to hover near August, looking mutely at the man for directions to take up the cooking again. He needs something to do with his hands, clearly.

"I can take you back to the house, but I think it was just a passage to his...area. I don't know if would open to the same place if you tried it again, anymore than you can open a Veil door in the hospital and go directly to Marshall's office in the Asylum. Location, like everything, seems to be a bit...relative, Over There. But I don't mind taking you."

The look on Byron's face clearly says 'God damnit, Isabella', but he doesn't quite voice that out even if August is i complete agreement with him. Alexander, however, seems keen enough to her try this out, only because he knows there's no way to stop her. Byron knows this to be truth as well, but hell if he's not going to try. "Roen's right. If we do allow for this to happen, if there's any way to reach out to him, then we all need to be prepared for it. Whether that means we wait with her or observe from a close enough distance to act if anything goes awry." If put in this situation with Lilith, he'd probably vote against it completely.

When she brings up the possible WHY of her receiving the same invitation that they all did, Byron will mutter, his tone unamused, "That's nice of him then. Or maybe they got you and Clayton confused. Bureaucratic confusion and not only did you receive one of those by accident, they pulled in the wrong person at the time." That's not true, the hatted man with the sunglasses had one of those annoying overly wrought out nicknames for her too. He knew she'd be there.

To Alexande he then adds, "What about the Actress who got away?" So many women being the lone survivors of these engagement. "Unless you think she was their leader. Which could be fact, because we were too absorbed with trying to survive that it was difficult to tell who was who." Except he clearly has some memory of Keene's voice in their minds.

However, when Dr. Marshall's office is brought, that brings a lift to his brow, "You can't? I know that Vivian went back there again with Marshall. I figured they went to the same office, in our world, that she did the first time around. But then again, what do I know about the Veil or Dreams. I sometimes can't even tell them apart."

That stubborn set in her jaw remains only up until Alexander moves away; she's incapable of blocking the lash of sadness and guilt there, and she doesn't have to be a reader to be able to sense it. Heat pricks traitorously underneath her lashes.

With August and Byron protesting, Isabella says nothing more for the time being, and she moves to stand up instead. "I don't intend to do anything rash," she tells them both. "But we've got a good tear on ideas, I just need to...mull over them some more." She forces the words through the growing knot behind her throat.

She's saved by a phone call before she can embarrass herself further, dighing it out from her back pocket to read the caller ID. "It's Dad, I have to take this," she tells the group, before she starts moving away to slip into the bedroom. The door shuts behind her.

"Something to ask your friend the Medical Examiner," August says to Alexander. "He might have a better idea. Or might be able to point you to someone who does." He raises his eyebrows in a suggestion that, if nothing else, it's a point to start at.

He watches Alexander return the the kitchen, gives a nod to the pasta. "Get that boiling--make sure to salt the water--then when the egg timer goes off, we pull the sausages, cut them into four to six pieces each, add them back in." Plenty to keep Alexander occupied for a spell. Instructions given, he moves aside to give Alexander space.

He watches Isabella go, sighs. "You do have a right to protest her doing it, you know. Not prevent, but lodging a formal complaint is acceptable." He gives Alexander a sidelong look, leaves it at that, turns to the subject of the Veil instead. "There's no telling, at any given point in time, if a spot will take you where you expect. Just because it did a couple of times doesn't mean it always will." He shrugs helplessly. "That said, there's no reason to not check it out again, as a group. We'd want someone who can open doors in and out though."

You know the look a needy dog gets when its favorite person in the whole wide world has just shut the bedroom door and locked it out? That is the look, or as well as it can be mapped to an almost 40-year-old human face, that Alexander turns and gives the bedroom door as Isabella goes in there and shuts it behind her. He sighs, once, softly.

Then shakes his head at Byron. "I...hope not. I couldn't bear it, if she was dragged over there when it was supposed to be me." A weary beat, before he says, tonelessly, "Megan. Her name was...is Megan. I think she's joined forces with Alice Whitehouse, and they've either broken themselves and others out of the Asylum, or Alice broke out, found her, and they've gone back to release people. I don't necessarily see her as a leader type, but I could be wrong. And no - I don't think so. Or, at least," he takes a breath, "I think they were able to find the place because Dr. Marshall wanted them to find the place. If Peregrine wants us to find him, it probably won't be something we'll enjoy."

He attends to the instructions August gives him with probably too much attention. It's definitely an excuse so that he doesn't have to look at anyone else. "Isabella is an intelligent, thoughtful woman," he says, quietly. "I respect her judgement, and she said she'll think it over. I trust her to consider the consequences of what she decides." He adds the pasta to the boiling water. "And I'm pretty sure she'd punch me if I tried to register a complaint after what I did."

Isabella might say that won't do anything rash, but Byron knows better! He spent a good part of his teenage years with both Izzy and Sid. He knows what she's like. Does he bring this fact up? It's so very tempting, but as he tends to do if there's something he wants to say, but decides to refrain from acting on it, he takes a silent, judgmental sip of his coffee. Then she's off, speaking to her dad, and he's quick to add before she shuts that door, "Izzy, tell him that I said Hi. And 'Happy Holidays!'" There's even a smile on his face when he says this.

The Asylum is brought up now and Byron just has to nod as he watches as dinner is near finished. Or so he hopes. "I can't say I knew the Whitehouses very well." They were considered just as crazy as Crazy Clayton after all, "But I guess there's no way to obtain anything that belonged to Alice. Or else you would've done that by now." He's speaking to Alexander. Still, he's considering that whole situation. It's a different monster than what they are dealing with Peregrine. "I wonder why they are doing this." Megan and Alice. "And just who they are letting out... besides that one guy who interrupted the occult meeting."

"Readers and Healers or Menders, whichever you'd prefer to be called, are all a dime a dozen. Door Finders are a rarer breed." Byron states the obvious. "We know of a few. Ones can find our way back out though?" He's only heard at just how powerful Itzhak is, but as he's not a Pusher, himself (or a spiritualist), he has no idea just how powerful the other man is. "So that's the plan. Grab this Finder and head off to where Clayton went last to see if there's anything of interest to see? I mean, what else can we do?"

It must be a very quick phone call because the the conversation only lasts a few minutes and hopefully food is ready, because Isabella is the type to eat her feelings. The door swings open again, a curious glance to the door that seems always locked, before she wanders back into the living room. Her expression has managed to maintain those determined, resolute lines but something about her demeanor has softened, if not just because of who she had just spoken to. She addresses Byron first when she returns, sinking into the arm rest of the couch and tucking her hands in her pockets.

"Dad says 'hi' back, and that he hopes to see you during the holidays," she tells Byron of Captain George Reede. "He should be back after this week."

She falls quiet as she attempts to catch up on the conversation, leaving her silent for a few minute as she mulls over what has been said. They seem to have shifted gears towards the Asylum. "Last I heard, Easton's bringing a gang to Addington House to see if they can find a door that can fit the Key he's got, in. If they can find a way into Doctor Marshall's office, there might be information there. Records on patients, the people he's handled personally." Her fingers lift to absently toy with the moonstone pendant there. "Hopefully the records in the Archives in the Veil are the only ones that are encoded. The last time I was able to read something from a hall of records type room through the Veil, I was infected by the flu. Hopefully none of us will have to be altered biologically or psychically to be able to read whatever people manage to find in Doctor Marshall's office."

With that, she pushes off the couch, so she could slip into the kitchen and reach for the bottle of Scotch. No coffee to mix it in, this time, so she looks for a short glass.

"Either way, it sounds like Winter's ramping up - Summer was active, but it's nothing compared to this month, or even the last." She turns her eyes to the group. "I've been thinking about revisiting a few threads that were dropped during Gohl's rampage in the city and that might require learning more about the city itself. And we won't find those answers on this side."

With half an eye on Alexander's work in the kitchen (though it's not so necessary here), August says, "Gotta agree--anywhere he wants us to be, we don't want to be. On the other hand, I'm not sure how we can draw him out. Not without bait," he cuts a look to Isabella as she returns, "but I don't think we should do that, either." He tilts his head at Byron. "Not sure what you mean? I can find a door, hell," he gestures at Isabella, "so can she. Easton and Itzhak, they can just open one wherever they want. It's less about finding it, than being able to get back out. Not sure who all can do that other than Itzhak."

And while they're on the subject... "Shapers a dime a dozen?" He arches an eyebrow. "That hasn't been my experience. There's more of the matter workers than there are people like me or Lilith. Especially ones at a modest level. A lot of people seem to have some skill with matter work." He shrugs about that. "Maybe it's because matter workers are tougher, so they survive better? Shapers can't heal themselves. Mind workers, like you and Alexander, I know or have seen probably a dozen, all incredibly strong. Might just be random, might not. But they seem to be the most numerous. Really strong matter workers aren't common, though--I think maybe I've seen two or three of those, so far." It's an odd spread of the Art, to be sure.

A grunt of agreement with Isabella. "Guess that's how it goes. Winter's the season of decay, clearing out the old for the new." He grimaces, thinks of forest fires and volcanoes. The cycle is brutal and implacable.

Alexander gives August a side-eye. "Inadequate data, unless any of us can be said to have done a full census of all the town and its people with abilities. I'm not sure that it matters, anyway. A random psychokinetic is of no use, and may even be an enemy. Or at least might break under pressure. Only someone who has shown themselves to be somewhat useful should be trusted to take us to the Veil. I'd recommend Easton or Itzhak over anyone else that I know." He's still not looking at Isabella.

"And, no," Alexander shakes his head to Byron. "If Violet had anything, I think she would have shared it. And her father doesn't...he's not very cooperative. Besides, I'm not sure I want to. I'd like to find Violet. I miss her. But Alice?" He takes a breath. "I read something she might have had a hand in, and it was the darkest hatred that I've ever experienced. It felt old. I don't know what she's intending to do, but...did you know there was a reappearance of a serial killer on the East Coast that hadn't been seen for years? And there's another series of murders here, where the culprit seems to be stealing organs from the victims. Thinking about Gohl...well. I know that some of the Asylum's inhabitants were considered quite dangerous. And perhaps made even more so by the torments they've faced."

He grimaces, and stares down at the boiling water. "Dr. Stevenson doesn't remember much about her time there. She wasn't able to help much."

"Marshall's collected a bunch of Pushers?" Byron goes back to calling them that again. It's difficult to get things straight when a group can Push/TK and Find stuff. Then again, describing Spiritualists is a pain in the ass too. "To, possibly, help locate the his uncle's office inside of the... Addington House museum? Interesting." Though after listening to what August has to say, his own brow furrowed, he has /many/ questions! The first thing he does say, in regards to Easton's search crew is, "Do we know who he's taking? I figure the majority of them would be Pushers as well, right?" Because why not!

However, coming back around to it all, Byron can't help but give August this quizzical look after taking in everything that he's said, "And how do you know that? You can the Talents of everyone around you?" He's more curious about /that/ part than the actual census that Alexander brings up. "That's a lot of information to take in and sort in your mind." August also calls them Matter Workers, which is... an odd way of naming it, but whatever works.

Alexander speaks of Violet, but Byron isn't going to ask whether he believes her to still be alive. He's asked that of others and their missing before. He then murmurs, "It's strange that someone's stealing organs and one the organs of a donator was contaminated. I know, two separate cases, but interesting." His eyes on whatever is happening in the kitchen once again, he then adds, "I was wondering when shit was going to hit the fan regarding the Asylum release. But it's hard to determine what is happening due to that and what is happening.. because our world is a crazy one." Especially Gray Harbor.

"Easton can," Isabella says, voice reflective of quiet contemplation. "At least, he has the ability. He's strong enough, even back during the Summer when I first taught him how to look for lost objects consciously. He's probably stronger now, after everything else he's been through since then. I just don't know if anyone's taught him yet, but I know he intends to look up Itzhak to learn." She used to, remains unsure if the ability is one that she can reclaim, but the remembrance is bittersweet, and doesn't leave her tongue. Instead, she takes a solid swallow of her scotch. "I should probably ask, I see him semi-regularly at TIBS these days."

The subject of reading has her moving her eyes to her tumbler, unable to suppress a grimace. "Would parse, the age. One of Their agents was the source of the Erinyes myth and that's been around since the prehistoric Greeks. And she did say that we've been treating all of this like a battle when we ought to be treating it like a puzzle instead." So let's do that. Words she doesn't say, but are intensely, heavily implied.

Taking a sip of her scotch, she listens to everyone else's contributions. "Hospitals have an intake and check-out process, I'm assuming sanitariums and asylums do, also. And every job with an organization has a formal exit interview before someone leaves to pursue greener pastures. Maybe there's a reason why nobody remembers much of their time, there. Even if they were willingly released there are safeguards in place to ensure that nobody knows what actually happens there, including people who work there. I bet it's built right into those administrative systems."

Byron's question earns him a nod, regarding Aspects, at least. "When you're strong enough in the mending discipline, you can. August can do it, obviously, he's the strongest in that. Lately, I can, also. Alexander does, too."

"As I said," August says, returning Alexander's side-eye, "in my experience." He huffs a laugh. "Easton and I talked about that; it'd be good to know what everyone can do, except, that could also be used against us. It's a tricky balance, knowing what we're capable of, but keeping it from Them and Their lackeys." He nods at Byron. "Exactly. Oral tradition. Then at least it's not as easy as stealing records." Of Alexander's point about it being a matter worker they can trust, he can't disagree. "Easton or Itzhak. Either of them can take us back out. That's the tricky part--getting back."

He makes a low sound, echoes Isabella, saying, "A puzzle." Silence while he keeps an eye on the pasta in the water, nodding for Alexander to stir it now and then so there's no sticking. The egg timer dings, and August offers over a fork and a steak knife, along with a plate to cut the sausages on. "Toss 'em back in the pot once they're sectioned."

Presently, he says, "That sounds more like the...reaping, if you want to call it that, isn't entirely intended to kill us. After all, if it did, what would they feed on?" He wrinkles his nose. Seed corn, Itzhak had called it. Well that was true enough.

"Easton's taking some people to check things out," he confirms. "I'll be going with him. A balanced group is better than not--if you're too heavy in any one Song, you're missing something valuable. The best shapers can pull people back from dying. The best mind workers can diffuse a fight with an illusion." He pauses there to look at Byron for a few seconds, focusing somewhere on his collarbone. The sensation is brief and fleeting, like someone running a finger on the back of his neck. Then, "You've got a touch of the shaping gift. Not a lot, but...it's there. Same for the matter gift."

Alexander takes the knife. He holds it like he's going to stab someone with it, but his cuts are neat, sharp, and practiced, and he keeps his knives very sharp. He barely needs the fork to stabilize the sausages, and before long, they're sliced and ready for the next step. He tosses them back in the pot without hesitation, then goes to wash and dry the knife, testing the blade, then giving it a little touch up sharpening. Just in case.

"If they wanted to just kill us, they could," he says, quietly. "But the larger groups we gather in, the more we encourage each other to use abilities. For things they don't need to be used for. Which makes us larger targets." He shrugs. "But, at the same time, it's easier to survive a Dream with someone else there with you. Being alone is...hard." There's a nod, finally, towards Isabella. "I'd like to find records when we go, if possible. I want to know what they're doing over there, to who, and why." He grimaces when Isabella identifies his healing abilities. "I hardly use them. Only if it's important, and I'm not anywhere near an actual healer."

"As for the organs..." Alexander looks up and gives Byron a lopsided smile. "At the risk of putting that look on your face, Thorne, I'd point out that when you're talking about ritual killers, those who receive some sort of psychological gratification and symbolic satisfaction from a specific ritual of murder, organs aren't that uncommon to be an object of fixation. Many organs have symbolic significance, and there's a primal intimacy to opening someone up and seeing everything that makes them a living person, or made them a living person laid out before you. It's not as unusual of a coincidence as you might think, although it is an interesting point." Which he looks like he might chatter about further, with great enthusiasm, unless someone stops him.

"You stop by at TIBS most nights and you don't even call to say 'Hi' or send out an invite?" Byron asks Isabella, looking her over with a curious lift of his brow. Look, The Apartments is right near that bar! His lips crack into a smile then, his gaze looking between all of them now, "So... all of you are going exploring with Marshall into the Addington House and I wasn't invited?" That could be him joking too, but there's no smile that follows it. He instead tacks on, "Interesting. Let me know what you all find out."

First Isabella tells him of this 'mending' ability, on top of letting her know that she's suddenly a mender too. He's about to say 'Are you really now?' but what August says, on top of his talking about Songs of all things, without clarifying, has Thorne's attention turned his way. "You call our powers songs? Well, whatever suits you, I guess." However, when he mentions abilities that Byron has NO IDEA THAT HE HAS AND PROBABLY NEVER WILL, he can't help but laugh. It seems that everyone and their grandmothers have multiple things that he can do EXCEPT HIM. "You're telling me that I have the same powers as you and Lilith as well as..." Whatever this matter gift is. "Being a Pusher? I think I'd know if I did. If it's a part of me. Especially, with what we've been put through. Our lives being in danger." So yes, he very much as doubts about this. But it does plant a seed in his mind, because imagining harboring that kind of power.

What gives him pause now is when Alexander talks about people in that gleeful way about organs and how.. intimate cutting someone open is. After a quiet sip of his coffee, he'll make sure to say, "Sorry I asked."

She hardly ever uses any of her abilities, no matter how strong or weak. But she's quietly examining her glass when Alexander addresses her, tilting it to watch liquid amber slide close to the rim. "I would think that Death is ultimately useless to Them," Isabella finally says, her expression alive, but inscrutable. "If they feed on pain and suffering. Of any sort, physical, emotional. You need to be alive in order to feel. Probably why the agents focused on the healers, because they can take it away. The physical hurts, anyway."

At the curious lift of Byron's brow, she furrows her brows at him. "I go when it's really late - last call," she explains. "So around two am and I don't want to just assume that you're still awake by then. You run every early morning. And I thought you didn't like Easton, why would I force you to hang out with someone you don't like, did that change?" She has absolutely no idea that Byron and Easton had recently gone to Vegas together - as usual, she's one of the first to receive ridiculous information, but absolutely late when it comes to the social gossip in the city. "Not going to the House, but we'll definitely keep you posted." She always does, anyway, even if Alexander constantly texts him, anyway - it's just another excuse to spend time with him as much as anything else.

She listens to the litany about organs with the quiet, academic interest of a scholar who never turns away the opportunity to learn from an expert in their field; Alexander's as close to the city has in that and related subjects as they come. She drains her scotch quietly at that, however, and sets the glass down.

August gives Alexander a Look. "Can we not? With the people organs." And a nod at Isabella. "Like she said--not Addington House, for my part. The Asylum. I mean, maybe that's how we get there? Not sure, I didn't really ask. They needed someone to make sure people don't get banged up too bad, so," he shrugs. He thinks of the terminology, says, "Itzhak calls them songs. I think that's just how he experiences it. For me, it's more like...nature. Or art." He pauses a moment. "I could show it to you, if you want. I've got the mind art. But...I seem to remember you're not a fan of the link."

His phone buzzes, and he tugs it out of his pocket, takes a look at the notification. "Mmmm. I'll be right back." He points at the egg timer. "That's for the pasta. When it's done, get it draining, pull the mix off the heat, stir in the cream, then the cheese." He swipes a finger over the phone to take the call. "I'll be right back." Then he heads out the back door to take his call in the lovely, inclement weather.

Alexander sort of wilts at Byron and August's replies, even though they should not be unexpected, when only one person in the room has a deep and abiding passion for murder by organ harvesting. His shoulders droop. "Sorry," he says, quietly. He takes a breath, let's it out. "And I'm sorry, Thorne. I'm only going because of Violet, really. She asked, and I promised. Even if she's not...here, anymore. I have to at least try to find out what happened to Alice. She'd want that." A pause. "I'm just hoping that Alice didn't kill her and her doctor."

He gives August a nod at the instructions, and turns back to stare at the egg timer, as if focusing on it might make the timer move faster. His fingers tap out a rhythm on the countertop, an erratic drum beat that resembles no clear song or melody. "I think everyone sees their abilities a little differently. Based on your experience with them, and how you use them."

It's difficult to keep track of where anyone is going with Easton, but when the kinda sort things out, Byron can only slow nod though he's parsing everything said. "You're not going to the Addington House, but you are going on a quest," That's quite the nerd thing to call it, "with Marshall?" Then Alexander apologizes first for the disgusting chatter about organs just before dinner, which he really should apologize for, and then for... Byron's not sure what. He just stares at Alexander, giving another slow nod. "There's no need to apologize to me about that. I can't say I really knew either of them that well." Though, with their family life, they probably found themselves at the Gilford's at some point. "I hope for your sake and Alice Whitehouse's that she is okay."

Then something Isabella says does draw his attention. "Bella, Marshall is my tenant. I've gone on a personal dream of his mind's making." There's this sweeping look that he gives Alexander and August now as he's about to spill the reason why Isabella might think that he disliked the bartender, but he refrains. "We had a boy's night out or two at his bar and we even went to Las Vegas with Geoff after Marshall's break up." He doesn't go into that, even if he's sure everyone in this room knows, but who knows what August knows!

Speaking of August... Byron murmurs, "You can project it to the rest of the room like I'd done earlier. But like I said, if it hasn't manifested, whatever it is that you see," Lilith's never mentioned it, "Then it's probably nothing."

"...so, you went to Vegas with Easton and you didn't invite me?" Isabella returns, lifting her brows, but by the way she's visibly suppressing her smile, he'd know that she's only being difficult. "I had no idea." Four words that illustrate, without going into detail, the evolution of Byron's relationship with the bartender/ex-marine. "Next time, then, Ronnie. But if I end up texting you at close to three in the morning, you better not complain." There's a quick wink there, though her heart isn't really in it.

No comment on the organs, albeit Alexander's brief dissertation on it was a fascinating one; she doesn't seem to mind it in the least, not when she can learn something new. With her scotch finished, she pours herself another one, though this time, the amount is a smaller one. She doesn't intend to get drunk, though at the moment, the urge is almost overwhelming.

It won't take long until dinner is fully prepared, but with information exchanged, there'll at least be something good on the table to drown out the taste of certain present and future bad decisions before August and Byron are sent on their way.