2020-03-16 - Notes Left Behind

She has spent a good portion of the day following her routine - as if she hadn't left the country a couple of weeks ago. A run at sunrise, followed by a shower and breakfast in the morning with Alexander before the two of them vacated the house to oversee various pieces of business. She had returned first, once the evening hours had rolled around, then slips into the bedroom and changes out of her clothes for the day. She's left in shorts, a tanktop and an Oxford hoodie half-unzipped over it, as well as thigh-high socks, her hair bunched up in a careless arrangement and pinned to the back of her head with a small claw clip.

Isabella has prevented herself from looking at the portfolio her father had given to Byron last night, but with it just sitting there and with nothing else to do, there's no delaying the inevitable. Unwilling to open it in the more guest-friendly areas of 13 Elm, she opts to go through the folders in the bedroom instead, tucked on the other side of the mattress and on the floor and pulling out the partitions carefully. Some part of her thought that it would be a more difficult enterprise than this, digging into the things she barely remembers, but curiosity always wins out.

The portfolio was divided into three main sections - one for when her mother had been taking her twins to doctors' visits together, and one for her brother, and for herself, when the two of them grew older and their needs started to diverge. It's really only Isidore's file that she needs, but she takes out all three anyway, sorting them out on piles on the floor before opening the oldest folder and looking into it - pages full of small, but feminine script, and all meticulously made and organized, all reflective of a young mother going through her first spate of children, and the excitement and apprehension unfurled in those papers. Seeing the familiar penmanship and how detailed Irene was about their health all through her life is almost too much. The archaeologist doesn't even manage to get through the first page when she tilts her head back against the mattress and stares upwards at the ceiling, examining the cracks and tracing each to where they lead into the paint; whatever she can do to ignore the traitorous stinging underneath her lashes.

She puts that folder away and reaches for Isidore's.

Alexander has been working in his office. He's been unusually quiet ever since he went out to check the mail, but there's been the occasional sound that suggests that he's been texting and typing quite a lot. Mutters that don't make much sense (except the swear words) can occasionally be heard, and the door isn't fully closed, but it's pulled most of the way shut. But - thanks to being a ridiculously strong empath, it's not hard for him to notice when Isabella goes quiet in the other room. It nags at the back of his brain until he finally stands and comes into the bedroom, studying her, then the files, then her again. A construction paper shamrock is loosely held in one hand, but his attention is on Isabella. "I imagine it's hard."

She's about to open the file when his presence slips through the door. Isabella's head tilts along the mattress to look over at him, fingers on the folder and a faint smile tugging on the corners of her mouth - not that his words aren't true, but she finds it within herself to give him that much. "The most worthwhile mysteries are always the most challenging ones," she tells him, glancing down at the file in her hand. It gives her an excuse to hide the expression in her eyes. "It took Sir Ranulph Fiennes twenty-four years to find the Atlantis of the Sands."

Fingers lift to push through the loose strands of hair framing her face, returning her attention to him and patting the space on the bed next to her. "Taking a break for arts and crafts?" It's hard not to notice the bright, St. Patrick's Day green construction paper clutched in his hand.

Alexander smiles, just faintly. He's already shoeless, so there's nothing stopping him from carefully crawling into bed, trying not to disturb the file, and eeling his way over to lie beside her. Not quite touching her, but close enough that he can feel her body heat in the cool air. "You'll find it faster than that," he says, with playful certainty. A glance down at the paper. "I wish." He hands the shamrock to her. "A love letter from persons unknown. I and the Addingtons going to the mill received it." He opens the 'card' to reveal the newspaper article and the 'Maybe you'll be lucky' inside. "Anne didn't get it, even though she's going."

"Less than twenty-four years to find the actual Atlantis?" Isabella wonders with a sudden laugh, appreciation and affection playing over her features. "You're biased and sweet."

She eases into a sitting position, her back against the headboard and watching him as he crawls over to lie next to her. One leg bends at the knee, her heel on the mattress; her arm closest to him stretches outward to gently stroke through the curling strands of midnight-black on top of his head, watching them slip through her digits. "They're getting long again, do you need another haircut?" she asks; it's more of an offer than a suggestion.

There's a glance at the construction paper before she reaches out to take it, opening it carefully and touching the copy of the newsprint. "Did you try asking Yule if he got one? If he didn't, it'd probably be why Anne also didn't receive one - they're neither Baxters nor Addingtons." She scrutinizes the article quietly. "1960, hm? February, June and October." Looking down to meet his eyes, she inclines her head curiously. "Did you try to read it?" she wonders. "Question two, is that what you were doing in the office? Trying to see if anything strange happened around the mill in February, June and October of 1960?"

"Yes. You've found a whole other dimension, Isabella. Is a lost city that much more difficult?" Alexander reaches up to touch his hair as she brings his attention to it, his fingers threading through it, revealing the gray among the black. "If you want. It looked nice last time you did it." He sounds largely indifferent to his hair, except whether or not she likes it.

"I was planning to. Haven't had a chance yet; he's been busy at work. But it's my next step. But yes," a bright smile at her, "I thought so too." A shake of his head to her other questions. "I haven't tried to read it. I will research it, but I need time to do so. I was mostly thinking. And talking with some people about it. Patrick. Vincenzo."

"Could you imagine if the entire world knew what was hiding here, Alexander? It'd be turned into a black site just like that. Most likely I'd be laughed out of Academia before I even started if I wrote a paper about it." Watching striations of silver bleeding into his black locks has Isabella smiling, setting the file down on the floor so she could turn on her side to face him more fully. She starts looking for those threads of gray through his hair. "I'll give you a quick cut before you meet the Addingtons tomorrow." She leans in to press her lips softly on his forehead.

"What were you thinking about?" she asks, toying with a black-and-gray curl, though her attention is largely on his face and his well-loved features.

"They wouldn't remember it. And if they could remember it, they'd try to find out how to use it, exploit it." Alexander's voice is pragmatic, and he shrugs. "Can you imagine? Healers and readers and psychokinetics. It'd be chaos. It's better that things are a little occluded to the regular people in the world." His eyes briefly close at the kiss on the forehead. "I was just thinking. About a lot of things. Friends, what I want to do, the mysteries remaining." A snort. "I say 'remaining'. But have we solved anything?"

"Well, if there was a secret worth keeping, it's this one," Isabella murmurs, eyes growing distant for just a moment - the digression is brief, however, and she continues playing with his hair, smiling faintly when he closes his eyes. "Not that anyone needs to venture here to assuage their curiosity, though that hasn't stopped anyone. I know that Vyv only ventured here because thin points interest him, it just so happened that the city was lacking a very good bakery. I believe Miss Cavendish was probably the same - she's a hard one to miss, visually, I would have remembered her if she was local."

The rest of his remarks go uncommented upon for a few moments. "We managed to identify the summer's serial killer," she reminds. "But even that yielded more questions than answers. Understandable, I think, that we haven't completely solved anything when we're poking at phenomenon and circumstances we barely understand." Her brows furrow faintly, reminded of something when the words leave her lips. She delays that for the time being, however, in favor of focusing on her lover now that he's done working.

"Any easier answers there? About your friends, and what you want to do?"

"No," Alexander says, a bit sadly. "No easy answers, about any of it. Survival remains the highest priority, with understanding only slightly less a priority. I think I have to just keep working on things, trying to piece it apart, and hope that one day it makes sense. Before it kills someone I love." He tilts his head back to look at her, making it fairly clear what he means, at least in part, there.

She holds his fathomless stare for just a few moments, her expression softening considerably. Green-and-gold eyes lower, teeth delicately nipping into the lower curve of her mouth. It's brief, in the end, finding his face and gaze again, as if unable to help herself for long - this close, he doesn't have to work hard to keep her attention focused on himself. Her hand eases down from his hair to brush her knuckles gently on his cheek.

"I'm not leaving you without a fight," Isabella tells him quietly, but firmly. "And these days, I'm more worried about you than I am about me." A visible frown plays on her lips. "I'm not the one nearly murdered and sexually harassed by some twisted creature who came through a Door, and I'm not the one receiving ominous secret admirer notes from persons who inexplicably know what you're up to before you're about to do it." A pointed glance at the shamrock card.

"Maybe you'll get lucky," she repeats. "Lucky in what, really?" She pauses. "That remark about luck...did everyone get the same message? Or was it just you?" He's the only Baxter-blooded in the group.

"Don't worry about me, Isabella. I'm pretty good at staying alive. Worry about yourself, because I worry about you. And want you to be safe. As safe as you can be. Here." Her question brings a thoughtful noise to Alexander. "The same, I think. Vincenzo sent a picture of his. It looked the same. He's going to check with the other Addingtons." He frowns. "Byron said that there was a hanging in the attic of Addington House. And something in the basement. I need to ask Patrick. Maybe after the sawmill. I might get injured, and he might feel guilty." There's a sneaky smile.

"I know," Isabella says with a sigh, and a rueful smile. "But it's not as if I'm an easy mark, either."

She furrows her brows at Alexander when he brings up other pieces of disjointed information - or information that seems unrelated. She falls silent in an effort to shift her thinking, before she poses her next set of questions: "What do you mean there was a hanging? Where'd he hear that? Did he read it from the wedding dress? And yes, the basement. I told you there's at least two spots there that are dangerous, but what do you mean by something? Did Byron see anything?" Her frown becomes all the more pronounced. "Injuries are already inevitable in any excursion to the other side, but at least try not to get too injured? You promised me a bonfire if it tries to eat you."

Speaking of houses and eating things, however, she turns to flop onto her back. "I meant to tell you that things with the Addingtons are somewhat strange lately, also - more than just Thomas. Hyacinth told me that Margaret's residence is on lockdown psychically. Not just one room, but the whole house."

"The wedding dress. Yes." Alexander nods. "He said that she was thinking about those things, the dark history of the Addingtons, when wearing it." He rolls his shoulders. "There are a lot of dark histories here, though. It's hard to say what's actually relevant to the mysteries, and what is just...despair and death." He considers her as she shifts. "Margaret seems badly affected by Thomas' disappearance. But I'm not sure she's our problem right now." He glances at the files. "Did you find anything?" No promises about the injuries, notably.

"That's what's strange about it," Isabella tells Alexander, her voice quiet and contemplative. "At least to me. The entire house was nulled, and while Margaret burns like you and I do, she's not the reader Hyacinth is, or even you are. To be able to do that for an entire property, not just one room, and to keep it up?" She pauses, and closes her eyes. "Maybe I'm overthinking it. She might know someone who comes by and does it routinely."

She doesn't say anything for a long moment about the files, but when she finally does, her voice is low. "Yes. An old business card." She turns away from him for a moment, to reach over to the floor where she had stacked the files, opens up Isidore's file and withdraws it from the pocket. She hands it to him - worn cardboard, yellowed with age and an old logo of a sword and shield depicted on it.

Johannes Wagner, M.D., ph.D.
Director of Clinical Psychology
Klimter Institute for Mental Health and Behavioral Sciences

The address is a few miles west of Elma, as well as a phone and fax number.

"She would need someone powerful," Alexander agrees. "But I'm sure she knows people. She's an Addington. And has had a lot of years to collect favors. As long as she's staying in the house and not causing us a problem, then I'm inclined to leave her there alone, until we have to deal with her." He shrugs. "Let her grieve how she needs to."

He perks up when the business card is offered. His finger caresses the sword and shield, and then the letters of the name. "I could find out when the hospital closed. If there's times and dates of appointments, I could search for his license." He looks like he might be about to say something else, then stops, and shakes his head.

Skepticism bleeds over the fine lines of her face. "I wonder if it's because she's grieving, or something else entirely." Isabella purses her lips. "Hyacinth and Enzo are determined to find Thomas, but it's impossible for the former to read the man's belongings or where he's been resting his head all of this time if their talents don't work in the house." After another pause, she turns to rest on her side again, her elbow braced on the mattress so she could cradle her cheek with one hand, looking at him in her half-elevated position.

"You could," she says, unable to help but smile when she watches his face light up, sense the gears of the complicated mental machinery in his skull start to turn. "All of that is well within your wheelhouse, I think." Pausing at the hesitant expression, she shifts her leg to nudge her toes gently against his nearest ankle. "What is it?"

"It could be either or both," Alexander says, with a sigh. "But the woman despises us. I think she's largely the Addingtons problem, at this moment. Let them bother her. I'd rather her not fixate on revenge against me or you or any of the rest of us because of what happened to Thomas." He smiles as she turns in that half-elevated position. "I'll look into it. As for the rest?" He grimaces. "I was just wondering. If he was working for Them when he was working with your brother. Or if it was before. If your brother was...encouraged, to be as profligate as he was with his abilities."

If your brother was...encouraged.

Isabella earlier smile fades, lashes hooding over her eyes. She's unable to meet his for a long moment when they turn down to her fingers instead, splayed lightly over the sheets. "Dad said my mother mentioned that he looked up to him," she says, her voice quiet and somewhat absent, hesitantly touching on those memories and reminded of the fact that there were some things that her twin had hid from her.

"Sid's relationship with my mother became a little more strained in our teenaged years, he wanted to...know. More and more. If I were hesitant, he would tell me that this was our birthright, and that we shouldn't be afraid. I can't say I didn't wonder, after we talked to Dad. And...I think my mother knew that there was something odd." Her restless hand curls into a loose on the mattress. "Dad said Mom told him that he had to leave his practice, which effectively ended my brother's sessions with him, but she left a note in Sid's file that said she pulled him out of seeing him."

Alexander breathes out, closes his eyes. He reaches out with the hand that isn't holding the business card to take that restless hand in his own. "If he was teaching him how to control animals, then it certainly wasn't just control. But using. And using draws attention - which someone capable of teaching should have known. Even if he wasn't on Their side at that point...it's not a surprise that he might have been heading for that path. People sell their souls for knowledge and power, as well as out of fear." A pause. "But either way, it means that when he recognizes the connection between you two, he'll probably try to use it against you. Be prepared for that, okay?" Another look at the business card. "We could drive out to the hospital. Maybe it's the one August saw. He might be setting up shop there, since it's closed."

There's no resistance when Alexander extends his own hand, her own easily taken and fingers threading through his, ending in a loose, but secure clasp. It gives Isabella something to look at with her stare downcast the way it is, squeezing the appendage before she finally looks up to meet his eyes. "If he was a specialist, I can't help but wonder about the others he might've come across in his care, children that he might've taught other than my twin."

After a slow breath, she continues, "I wonder if that's why he wanted to have a conversation with me - I remember where he placed the flower on my houseboat." Right in front of the picture of her, Byron and Isidore. "As if laying it in front of a gravestone. Alexander, I wonder..." If he knew what happened to him. Words she can't say, stuck in the back of her throat. She swallows in an effort to force them down.

"If there's a connection left, it's by memory and not...what we had before. My questions, my curiosity. I don't know if I'll be able to resist, I..." She laughs quietly. "My impulse control most days is very poor, I shudder to imagine what I would do if real answers were dangled in front of me, I..." There's a guilty expression. "...I won't lie to you, I thought about it when I found the card. Just taking it with me and going out for a drive. But I think it can't hurt, trying to find this building."

Alexander squeezes Isabella's hand, gently. "I'm sure he's hurt a lot of people over the years. It's what people like him do." He frowns. "I wonder why, though. He said something. It was the last thing he said. That he wouldn't know how to destroy hope if he didn't once have it, himself. I wish...I wish I knew more. About him. About why."

He licks his lips a little as she mentions that Peregrine - Johannes - might know about Isidore's final fate. "Do you want us to ask him? If he knows you care about it, it'll be a vulnerability...but if there's a chance to learn more, then we should ask." He doesn't argue with her about her impulsiveness. He's seen it enough. Instead, he looks up at her, steadily. "Do you want to go? Or should I take some of the others. We can stay connected, no matter the distance. But he won't be able to break in to your mind from that far away. Not anymore."

"Of course you do," Isabella tells him, and to her credit, there's no censure or even exasperation there. Her thumb rolls over his knuckle gently before lifting their intertwined hands to press her lips gently on his skin. "You're an investigator. You wouldn't be so good at it if you weren't genuinely interested in people and their motivations - what drives them to do what they do."

What Alexander asks next has her chewing on her bottom lip, shifting awkwardly on the mattress, and when she begins to speak, it is halting - at first. But she falls quiet just long enough to take a breath and answer in a more confident and steady tone: "I want to ask him, but I'm not so certain if I'm ready for the answer," she tells him honestly, meeting his eyes directly. "Whether he ends up telling me he's dead, or if he's still alive but irrevocably changed, and you know he would be after a decade lost. A decade at Their mercies. Either way, I lose him all over again." And she doesn't know how that will affect her, or what she will do.

"But people will die if he isn't stopped. That won't change, also, and I would like to help, even in some small way, so I do want to go, if you intend to." She smiles at him faintly. "We spent almost a month apart, I miss being able to work with you, too."

Alexander stares at her for a long moment, then nods, quietly. "I'm never going to stop you from doing something that you feel you need to do, Isabella. Not if it's truly your choice, and not someone else's undue influence or force. Once you start making people do what you think they should, then it ends in bad places. I love you too much to try to change you." It's said with infinite affection...and an edge of warning, as well. Then he smiles. "But I'll do my best to bring you back, wherever you go. For whatever reason you go there."

He squeezes her hand again. "So, we'll reach out to the others and head out to the hospital. See if we can find the good doctor. But for now?" He rolls enough to tuck the business card back into the file, and then some more, so that he can crawl over to her body and lean in for a kiss. "Want to think of something else for an hour or two? I think my poor, aging body has recovered, and I have missed your mind."

"No such thing as too much," Isabella tells him with a laugh. "Not when it comes to that." Her expression gentles again. "And I know that you will."

Her hand winds away from his, and she's about to say something further, but he derails her with subsequent movement. She eases lower when he reaches over to replace the card back into her mother's file, and arms open for him when he leans in. She returns his kiss with tender, but youthful enthusiasm, fingers luxuriating into his longer-than-normal curls at the back of his head.

"I'm going to take it as a compliment that you already miss it when it's only been a couple of days," she teases him, the growing insistence of her mouth pressing over his at every pass. "And you're not that old." Her fingers tug at his clothes, every motion enabling him to feel certain hints of preparation, the systematic dismantling of those formidable mental defenses to allow his psychic encroachment.

"You're going to have to clarify what you mean by something else though," she murmurs amidst the wake of deepening kisses, embarking further into the inevitable when words cease to mean anything but the sound of his name.

"I'm always thinking about you."