2020-08-03 - Burn All the Books

The tall man who wanders around the library is not a familiar face; he's got that air of 'fresh meat' still, orientating himself by looking at the shelves, posters, and signs, instead of appearing to know where he's going. Where he is going, though, appears to be the fiction shelves -- wandering around the displays, obviously hunting for something specific. When his gloved fingertips brush over the cover of the first Twilight novel, left out by some dreamy soccer mum earlier, he pulls back with the kind of expression of horror on his face that clearly reads, Stuff becomes real here, oh god, imagine if THAT became real. The self proclaimed literature critic shudders visibly at the idea and moves on.

It's the horror books that seem to ultimately capture his interest. Goosebumps. It. Pet Sematary. And finally, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The stranger is wearing black from top to toe -- boots, jeans, blazer, turtleneck -- but there is nothing Goth or similar about his appearance otherwise. He's a brunette-turned-blond-by-the-sun fellow in his late twenties or early thirties, well groomed but nothing special, and the most unusual thing about him is the way he stares intently at the pages as he reads; whatever caused him to take out that particular book, it's clearly urgent to him. He does not even find a chair to sit in, but stands by the bookshelf, thumbing through the pages.

A weekday, late morning at the library. It's a two story building (if one doesn't count the not-open-to-the-public basement). The main floor could be thought of as a giant clock face. Perhaps twenty paces in from the double-glass doors is the round circulation desk. There's a large enough space inside that circle for three people to work comfortably. And of course there are a couple of computers, a scanner, the usual paraphernalia there. On the bulletin boards just inside the first set of doors are flyers for a read-aloud program for small children, a community rummage sale, some art classes, and a read-in event for teens that will include a water gun fight outside, eating ice cream, a visit from a PNW author of YA books, and door prizes. There are all sorts of pro-book posters: 'Just read it', 'Open a book, open a new world.', and 'Get lost between the covers of a good book.' Along the back wall is a row of older-than-dirt computers that are slow enough to make a person contemplate ending things entirely. The library's wi-fi, however, is excellent.

Late morning is definitely a slower part of the day at the GHPL. The senior citizens' book club is meeting upstairs in the larger of the two conference rooms there. Rare books are located upstairs as well as reference books and a pay-per-copy photo-copier. The restrooms are also upstairs. There's an elderly man sitting at a cluster of chairs, somewhere between the circulation desk and the front doors, reading a newspaper. In the children's section a woman is sitting on the floor looking through picture books with a four-year-old boy who seems quite enraptured with all the stories and colorful illustrations. If someone else is on duty aside from Harper, they're not in view just now.

The librarian -- also in that late-twenties-early-thirties apparent age range -- is dressed as one would probably expect a librarian to be dressed: brown skirt, green cardigan, brown leather belt, white blouse, and heels. Her raven hair is tucked back behind her ears as she goes about re-shelving books from a cart she's pushing from aisle to aisle in the non-fiction section. The badge hanging from her lanyard gives her name (Harper Price) and her title (Lead Librarian). When she passed by the older man reading a newspaper, the pair had a brief conversation about current events that, although brusque and a bit terse, sounds like familiar patter between the two. 'Samuel' wouldn't cop to considering Harper a friend, but he watches her push her cart away with a fond expression when no one else is looking. He clears his throat abruptly as he catches himself and scowls, then he goes back to his paper with a serious expression. For her part, Harper's voice is quiet but not hushed, friendly but not chipper.

From upstairs a woman in her early sixties descends the staircase and approaches Harper. The coffee maker doesn't seem to be working. Harper listens to this emergency as if it were integral to the day's success. "Try using the lower outlet. The upper one is pretty fritzy, Mary Beth." The woman looks relieved. "Thank you so much, Miss Price." Harper gently chides the woman who then smiles and calls Harper by her first name. "I like that so much better. Thank you. And good luck with book club. It looks like you have a full group up there, this morning. Make sure they've seen the questions for the author after the last chapter. I think they'll invite some interesting conversation." A few more words, then Mary Beth hurries back upstairs to re-jigger the outlet-plug situation and facilitate the meeting.

Somewhere along the way -- probably before either Samuel or Mary Beth -- Harper caught sight of Ravn's arrival and beeline for the horror portion of the fiction section. Not much escapes her in her demesne. He certainly appears to have an agenda and it looks as though he found what he was looking for, given the reading-while-standing in front of that very bookshelf. The lead librarian spends another fifteen minutes shelving books and then parks her cart of remaining books at one end of the fiction section.

She makes her way in no particular hurry down the aisle adjacent to the one where Ravn stands, then circles around the end to regard him with open interest while he reads . Whether he notices her or not doesn't change her curious watchfulness. There's no apology there, either when he looks over at her or when she's approached to no further than a meter away from the man, There she stops and leans her shoulder into the edge of a shelf, a faint suggestion of a half-smile touching at her lips but far more present in the warmth of her brown eyes. "It looks like you've found what you're looking for, but I have to admit a certain delight when I see new faces in my library." The woman definitely used a possessive pronoun there. She pauses, sketches a look over the figure the man presents, head to toe, her demeanor affable and utterly unhurried. Perhaps it's something about living in a small town. Everyone knows everyone; and good luck keeping anything private.

"I'm Harper. I hope you'll let me know if there is anything I can do to assist you in your quest." That last word was intentional. The man doesn't seem to be idly perusing books at all. When she speaks, it's not in that quiet that old school librarians use. She's not loud, but the tone is the same conversational tone a person might use, say, at the grocery store, or in the park.

Eventually, Ravn manages to drag himself out of Sleepy Hollow and back into the only slightly more questionable reality that is Gray Harbor. At the point that the librarian actually speaks to him, he's all but anchored in this time and age again, although a part of him is wondering whatever became of poor Ichabod Crane and indeed, whether the author intended to imply that Katrina's lover murdered her fiance. Open-ended stories. Speculation. He shakes his head and decides to not worry about it, because as far as he is concerned, that was never the point. Instead he returns the book to its shelf -- in the right place, at that -- and smiles back at the lady who spoke to him. "Hello! I was looking specifically for Sleepy Hollow, but if you have anything in the same streak, so to speak, I'd be interested in it. Particularly if it's local -- Sleepy Hollow is East Coast, isn't it?"

The tall man speaks with an accent that clearly labels him as a foreigner; it's not pronounced enough to grate on the ear but it's the kind of accent that tells you he picked English up from someone who fancied themselves very, very British -- so British, in fact, that they probably wouldn't understand Cockney because really, standards. The kind of accent that dreams of some day co-hosting a nature movie with David Attenborough. Except it's not quite good enough. Definitely European.

He trails a fingertip along the edge of the shelf, hand covered in a black kidskin glove -- at this time of year, even -- and looks at the titles. "I'm honestly not entirely certain what it is I am looking for. I'm a folklorist, but American folklore is not my forte. I keep hearing some quite... unusual stories from people here in Gray Harbor, though, and I thought that perhaps I should remedy this obvious flaw. The sad thing is, however, my familiarity with stories from this particular geographical region is pretty much down to Twilight and Rambo: First Blood, and I have this feeling that neither of those are particulary accurate." Almost as an afterthought he glances at her with blue-grey eyes and adds, "Oh, and my name is Ravn. Sorry. I think I left my manners on the hat stand when I came in." It's pronounced something along the lines of Raown, definitely not an Anglophonic name.

It's a curious journey to watch: Ravn's transition from deeply immersed in the tale to standing beside a bookshelf in the Gray Harbor Public Library. Harper's gaze doesn't hide her fascination. The man smiles and offers an exuberant greeting, and the lead librarian is offered a taste of words spoken by an Attenborough protege of one sort or another. This results in her folding her slim arms across her chest as she listens. "Oh my. That is quite the accent." The trailing fingertip -- gloved, no less! -- earns a flickered glance from those warm brown eyes; then it's back to Ravn's face, her expression open and attentive. "That's really one of the best ways to enter a library, if you ask me: not knowing quite what you're looking for."

"You're a folklorist, but not American folklore? What lores are your specialty?" Inquiring librarians want to know. As for unusual stories heard in Gray Harbor, Harper nods slowly. "Of course you have," she agrees mildly and with apparent sincerity. "So you're saying -- let's see if I have this correct -- that you want to learn more of the local lore, or would you simply would like to get your hands on American folklore in general?" Twilight and Rambo: First Blood tease pleasant laughter from the raven-haired woman in the green cardigan.

"I'm not so certain folklore is known for its accuracy so much. We have a local section containing both works by local authors as well as works about this region." She points in the direction out closer toward the entry area and clusters of comfortable (if dated) seating. There is an actual 'Local Interest' display there. "However if you're simply wanting to explore folklore, you'll find the section on Mythology, Religion, and Folklore just over there past that green poster and about halfway down the aisle." She's not shy about searching those blue-grey eyes of his as if something in that gaze might tell her more about the man and his literary quest.

"Ravn. What an interesting name. What sort of name is it?" Where is he from? She unfolds one hand from across her chest to offer it for a shake, despite his gloves. "Harper Price. But you'll call me Harper if you're at all wise." What in the world is the woman suggesting? "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Scandinavian folklore, the 18th century in particular," Ravn says with a smile of the sort that implies rather strongly that he is very well aware that this is a field of interest that very few people on the planet shares. "I'm Danish -- and I have to confess that my knowledge of American folklore comes down to pretty much Hollywood movies, the most internationally acclaimed novels such as this one --" he taps the spine of Sleepy Hollow on the shelf "-- and the occasional tall tale I picked up on the road backpacking. I was headed from Seattle towards Portland when a truck driver dropped me off here instead. It's very much local stories I'm after."

He trails off a moment, as if considering something before the librarian extends her hand and he in return takes it; the man's handshake is firm and the kidskin gloves are of high enough quality to be quite thin. "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Harper. I had a taste of Gray Harbor's very unique brand of story telling this week, and it was suggested to me that I should either get on the next Greyhound out of here, or start making friends who are also trying to find out what is happening, and indeed, why it is happening. And there's my interest in Sleepy Hollow, really, because it was a very convincing live re-enactment of it, starring myself and another bloke in the role of Ichabod Crane -- only, the sword cut on the other fellow's arm wasn't ketchup. Aand, I don't think I'd be saying this at all if Hera from the art gallery had indeed not just told me to go over here and introduce myself to Harper the Librarian and tell her what I told her. I don't mean to name drop but she did literally tell me to say that she sent me over."

No point in beating around the bush; but at least the man also possesses an awareness of just how crazy he sounds. Ravn's expression turns a little sheepish as he adds, "I do realise how I must come across. Please don't call the police. It's entirely possible I've gone off the rails but I'm a perfectly harmless loon."

"I'm just trying to understand what's going on, perhaps make a little sense of it," he murmurs and his gaze wanders off on its own for a bit, down the isles as if on some level the folklorist hopes that a particularly useful book will fall off a shelf just then, announcing its presence, and saving the day for justice, sanity, and puppies everywhere; it's probably not going to happen. "I've spent my entire life thinking that -- well, these things people do here, the thing that you call sparkle or shine, or whatever else, that I was the only one who could do a few tricks like that. Suddenly I'm in a town in Washington State where it seems every other person in the street not only can do them, but do them a lot better than I do. And there are monsters in the woods who prey on people who do that sort thing. It's like I've walked into the Hotel California, only I actually want to be here."

Scandinavian, 18th century folklore. Way to fascinate the lead librarian, Ravn. "From Denmark all the way to Gray Harbor. I believe there's a book in there somewhere, should the muse strike." She shakes her head, agreeing that Hollywood movies aren't the best way to familiarize oneself with American folklore.

"You stopped on your way to Portland -- and you stayed? Definitely tell me what is keeping you here in Gray Harbor, Ravn," Harper demands as if it were entirely her business. If she notes the space of time before he actually shakes her hand with his own gloved one, she doesn't comment on it. Gray Harbor's unique brand of storytelling. Harper smiles wryly, looking very much aware of that of which he's speaking. Stay or go. "It's very much a stay or leave quickly sort of place," she agrees. A live re-enactment. "Were you injured?" Harper actually thoroughly looks Ravn over from head to foot as if assessing for injuries. Like he'd be at the library instead of the hospital if that were the case.

Ravn mentions Hera's name and Harper's affable smile warms in those brown eyes of hers. "Hera is a lovely person. I think the world of her." She lifts a hand to wave it at him as if dismissing the crime of name-dropping. "I'll be direct with you, Ravn, because you've entrusted me with your experience." It seems a fair exchange. "If you think you're 'coming across' as addled or insane, you needn't worry about that. And I would only call the police if there were something they could do to help you in this matter. Given the fact that you seem to be out of immediate danger and you are researching what you can find about our unique experiences here in Gray Harbor, I see no need to involve the law." She pauses, her brown eyes holding a bit of mirth as she adds, "Though I find the description 'perfectly harmless loon' quite charming."

"Unfortunately, I don't think you're going to find a big-picture answer to our peculiar setting or its players in any books you find here. Knowledge about such things seems to follow the oral tradition: it is passed along by word of mouth, though not always around campfires, or in ancient Greek."The puppies will have to find another salvation. And it just might bother the librarian all the way down to her bones that 'her' books don't hold the particular questions or answers Ravn is looking for. "It sounds as though you have spoken with some local townspeople. That, I think, is your best bet." Sparkling. Shining. "People do seem to have Gifts. And those Gifts tend toward different sorts of expertise. However, I'm glad to hear that you've been told that the more you use your Gift, the more likely you are to be pulled into another Nightmare, or sometimes Sideways into another plane altogether. It's said that people have ended up stranded there." A brief glimpse of something mournful crosses her face before she slides back into friendly and warm.

Harper laughs quietly and reaches out to touch two fingertips to the man's shoulder before catching herself and dropping her hand to her side. "It's hardly the Hotel California if you can leave any time you choose. But the song is strangely apt in a number of other ways. Tell me something," she begins. "Why do you want to be here?"

Ravn fingers a miniscule cut on his chin; it's not only mostly healed, it's the level of injury that barely qualifies as a scrape in the first place, hiding under the morning-after fuzz that no doubt is quite intentional; he's definitely the type, dressed not expensively but very deliberately and perhaps a little vain. "I didn't come to harm," he murmurs. "I tried to move a tree with my face but while the tree wasn't particularly impressed with my efforts, it decided to let me live." He does look a bit relieved at the librarian's reassurances; a bit of tension bleeds from the man's shoulders and blue-grey eyes as he leans against the bookcase at the realisation that she's not going to write him off as, indeed, a loon. "It feels very Hotel California to me that I can indeed check out anytime -- no one stops me from getting on the next Greyhound. But I have been in town a week, and I already found a bit of work at a beach bar and I am renting a boat to live on. If things keep up at this rate I'll be applying for citizenship before New Years."

The Dane's flippancy may be a coping mechanism, or he may just be the kind of man to whom smiles come easy; the brief touch to his shoulder at least brings out another small smile. He seems serious enough however when he replies to the librarian's inquiry about his reasons for staying: "This place feels like home. It's a crazy thing to say about somewhere halfway around the planet from where I actually live, but I feel like I've been meant to end up here all my life. It just took me thirty years to get around to actually doing something about it. Like I belong. None of the people I have talked to so far have failed to warn me that life here in Grey Harbor can be... well, miserable, and that it may come to a very abrupt and messy end. I'm left with this strange feeling that while I may not live to retire at eighty if I stay, perhaps the time I do spend here will actually matter in some fashion."

He folds his arms over his chest, perhaps a little defensively and adds, "I'm not enough of an egomaniac to think I can just waltz in and crack the nut that is Gray Harbor where everyone else who went before me has failed, but maybe I can contribute a bit, and I'd like that. I'm a researcher; I mean, I may practically move into your archives if you let me."

Harper is invasive in the sense that her tenacity and inquisitive nature don't seem to provide the societally appropriate boundaries. Warm brown eyes flicker to the gloved fingers at Ravn's chin, the hardly-there scrape. And she listens, soaking in the different levels of input from the man. "I think you're unusually fortunate if you didn't come to harm." He does amuse her with his description of facial persuasion of trees. "And I'm certainly pleased you're alive to visit my library." There's that personal possessive pronoun again. There's nothing greedy or arrogant about the words. They're matter-of-fact. He already has a job and place to live. "You inadvertently stepped into Gray Harbor and pretty much immediately decided it was a place to sink in some roots without any delay. You're a decisive man, Raven. And, it seems, you are a man who follows where life leads rather than trying to mold experience into something pre-conceived. That's an appealing trait."

It took him thirty years to cross oceans and continents to end up in this tiny burg by the sea. "Belonging is a strong pull." She continues to agree, not sounding at all as though she is simply agreeing for the sake of it. No. There are little glimmers of a very strong will to the friendly librarian if a person pays the right sort of attention. A beach bar. "You're working at Two If by Sea? Do you actually have experience tending bar? That book seems more and more necessary." About his life experiences. "You're living on a boat? I have two other acquaintances who have similar living arrangements. Have you lived on a boat in the past or did you just want something altogether new and different?"

The librarian had barely touched the man's shoulder, thinking twice of the implication of intimacy and not knowing his personal boundaries; so it is that when he smiles immediately thereafter, she unfolds her other arm and straightens, leaning back away from the shelf and tipping her weight toward one hip, tapping the toe of the opposing foot a few times. He talks about Gray Harbor feeling like home. She considers the manner in which he says the words, the expression behind his eyes, the tone of his voice. That's where she measures for flippancy. From where he actually lives? "Are you maintaining a home back in Denmark simultaneously?" He wants his investment of time to matter. Harper arches a brow thoughtfully and thinks on that for awhile.

"No. No, you don't strike me as fitting the egomaniacal niche at all. I also wouldn't say that everybody as failed. There are some people in this town who I think have a much more deft finger on the pulse of things. It's a matter of meeting them and convincing them that they want to share what they know with you." But then he speaks of research. Harper positively lights up. It takes her a moment to gather herself to respond. "There are two main sections of archives here. There are those upstairs with the special collections of rare and otherwise special books. And then there are the archives that I have spent the past seven and a half years piecing together from waterlogged boxes and half destroyed, improper storage. That is my batcave," she alludes with a simultaneously pleased yet rueful smile. "In the basement. The public isn't generally invited down there." There an implication there, should he catch at it. "You are, of course, exceedingly welcome to fill out the paperwork to access the public archives upstairs. It would delight me to know that someone is putting them to good use."

"I am indeed working at Two if By Sea," Ravn confirms. "Although indeed not as a bartender -- I wouldn't know the first thing about mixing drinks. I do know how to clean floors, do the laundry, and wash glasses, though, and that is indeed what I was hired to do. It may not be prestigious but it's quite fun -- I get to meet a lot of people, and that, to me, is the important thing."

Her exuberance does seem to amuse the man a little; probably in part because it infers that she does indeed not consider him to be a complete loon, or in any way dangerous. "I'm Danish. I live in an archipelago where it is physically impossible to ever be an hour's drive from the coast. I am no sailing expert but I can handle a smaller boat, yes. It seemed like a good solution for now -- I'm acturally a lot more disturbed by the idea of a mobile home since I have no idea of how to take care of one of those. And indeed -- I have a home in Denmark, but I have not lived there for a few years. It's still there, though, should I decide to return to it -- though I imagine that things have grown a little dusty in my absence."

Her explanations about the two different kinds of archives does draw out a crooked grin, almost boyish in nature. "I'd like to fill out the paperwork, indeed. And while I do, I think I might devote some time to plotting how to gain access to the basement too. I imagine that that might be more a matter of submitting a request to the powers that be -- that would be you -- and hoping for the best?"

One thing that's missing from Harper for the most part is a sense of judgment. Prestige or a lack thereof doesn't matter much to her, if her body language is any indication. She might wonder how washing dishes and doing laundry puts Ravn in a location where he'd meet people, but she takes his word for it. "You strike me as the sort of man who can have a pleasant conversation with just about anyone, Ravn." So he's an extravert. More evidence in the character exploration Harper seems inclined toward.

"Have you met an interesting gentleman named Alexander Clayton?" In a town the size of Gray Harbor, questions of this sort aren't unreasonable.

"I assume you mean a sailboat," Harper replies in regard to his living situation. He thinks a mobile home would be more difficult than a boat. Harper cants her head just so and taps the toe of her foot again idly. There's nothing impatient about the motion at all. "It sounds as though you are a man of some means. If our roles were reversed, I think I might enjoy maintaining a home here and traveling where the road took me for awhile." She takes a moment to imagine a dusty home languishing in the water-adjacent spaces of Denmark.

Ah, the archives. Harper offers a conspiratorial smile and slips past Ravn to lead him toward the circulation desk. An older woman has arrived and just emerged from the 'Employees Only' door in the back to head for the circulation desk at nearly the same time. She, too, wears a lanyard. Melinda Smith. Assistant Librarian. "Good morning, Melinda," Harper greets warmly. Melinda looks quite dour until she greets Harper. Then there's a brief bit of genuine warmth there. "I shelved non-fiction, but the fiction is still pending." Harper points to the cart she left at the end of a row. Melinda comments that she'll get right to it. "Thank you, Melinda."

After the older woman moves away from the circulation desk, Harper leans over and pulls out a deep filing drawer from which she draws out a simple application that asks mainly for contact information, confirmation of residence, as well as an agreement not to remove archives from the library and to handle said documents with care. If Ravn followed her, she'll hand over the sheet to him. He might need to get a water bill, a rent receipt, or a pay stub in order to fully fill out the form. While he looks it over she leans her hip into the edge of the desk from the inside of that circular space. "As for my secret lair, you might persuade me to share my treasures." She playfully leans on the word 'might'. "I'd only ask that after your paperwork is in order that you arrange for times when I can also be present." The woman hasn't ever granted such access before. And it probably shows.

"I believe I have had that honour," the Dane agrees, remembering the twitchy, odd-fashioned conspiracy theorist scoping him out at Two if By Sea just a day or two previous. A curious interrogation that had been -- going both ways. "I think you overestimate me, though. I find myself quite tongue tied often enough. But yes -- a sailboat. A King's Cruiser 33 if that means anything to you -- a rather small affair, compared to some of the house boats at the docks here."

He wanders along with the librarian as directed and nods politely at her collegue in passing, and perusing the sheet carefully before murmuring, "I think I may find myself pressed on part of this -- I do not pay rent. I do pay the lease on the boat though -- would that count? And I suppose I could ask for paperwork from my employer at that. Although if the point is to prove who I am, perhaps a photocopy of my passport and tourist visa might suffice?"

The Dane nods at the librarian's closing words, giving her a look that implies, indeed, an understanding of how secretive academics can be; how possessive of their treasures. His thoughts wander for a moment to the Royal Library of Copenhagen and the veritable hoops a researcher has to jump through there.

So Ravn has met Alexander. The man would be at the top of Harper's list to refer the Dane to if asked specifically. "Was your conversation illuminating at all?" She overestimates him? "Perhaps you do. But I haven't seen you be anything but relaxed and charming. And a bit intense about your reading." Here her smile teases, it's playful. "Sailboat I can follow. Kinds of sailboats? I'm less informed there."

Melinda looks Ravn over and nods brusquely to him in return before she's off to shelve fiction books from the cart Harper left across the way. "The purpose is to establish residency," she explains. "It's a public library charter sort of thing. A pay stub from your job at Two If by Sea would be sufficient." Harper might be bending the rules a little at that. "And a photo copy of your passport would be marvelous."

In this case? Harper's private space downstairs isn't really library purview. All of the boxes and storage containers she has spent years carefully restoring, working through, and cataloging were meant to be thrown out. What is stored in the basement is only public in the sense of its location. It's her private research. Her singular project. Her baby. Agreeing to share it with a man she's just met is perhaps far more significant than he could possibly know. She smiles blithely. "We'll get it sorted out. In the meantime, if you'd like access to upstairs, I think I can arrange something for the time being while you gather the essential paperwork." She is the boss, after all. "Did you want to get started this morning, or would you like to come back another time?"

"I get the impression, from that man and from a fair number of other people, that there is quite a lot going on behind the scenes here in Gray Harbor," Ravn agrees. "I think I may have gleaned more, in a manner of speaking, from a young lady named Erin Addington -- she did not mean to tell me as much as she did, I suspect, but when one is accustomed to thinking in terms of stories, there are some quite interesting parallels. I don't need to read her entire family history, but I do think I would like to look at the first generation of that family -- their settling here, that sort of thing. I would like to get started whenever it is convenient, yes, though I don't mean to be a bother. I shall certainly make certain to get the paperwork you request -- pay stub and passport alike. I don't carry my passport on me at all times for obvious reasons."

Harper nods and listens. Then she listens and nods. Erin's name seems to be familiar to the lead librarian if her expression is any indication. "What did you learn from Erin?" Here is when she lowers her voice to a hush just above a whisper. As for family history? Harper can be quite helpful there. "In the archives we have quite a good amount of historical information about Gray Harbor and its citizens. The Addingtons figure prominently across the generations. Would you like to have some time upstairs," she repeats gently. "-- now?" As for getting his paperwork together, it's clear that she is trusting that the man will follow through if she's offering him immediate access to the archives. "I also do a fair share of research on behalf of patrons. So if there is anything you would like to learn about, I can spend some time on it between now and your next visit."

"I am a little inconvenienced in not quite yet knowing what I am asking for," Ravn admits. "I still need to narrow down the field and establish proper search parameters. At this point I'm still at 'what the heck is going on here' which is... probably a very long and complex story, and one to which the answers do not even exist. I'd like to take a look at Gray Harbor's very early days -- rule out the obvious, somebody building a house on an ancient Indian burial ground and now there's people in the TV, that sort of thing. Any kind of ancient legends, possibly predating colonialists -- but also anything that seems to have a pattern. Ghosts that turn up at specific intervals, places that seem dangerous only in winter, that sort of thing. I'm already asking for quite a lot, aren't I?" At least he has the decency to sound apologetic about it, realising just how wide these inquiries are.

Harper lets Ravn meander through all of his initial thoughts on the broad search that will lead him to the questions he wants to ask. "We have a collection of materials that satisfy pieces of the historical topics, you'll find. And if you want a shortcut and you've made a good impression, Mr. Clayton is quite versed in good portions of it. He's not necessarily a man who is forthcoming, nor does he trust easily. But, should you have the chance to win yourself some points in his presence, you might find an ally of significant proportions, and shortcuts to many of the answers you seek." If he does express interest in immediate research, Harper will lead him upstairs and unlock the archives section for him. Should he choose to wait, she'll simply offer him a business card, leaning forward to scrawl a number on the back that just might be her cell phone number.

Finally, she laughs, an inclusive, warm sound that is altogether inviting. "Yes. You are asking for all of it. And I wish I had 'all of it' prepared for anyone interested in knowing every bit of the mysteries of Gray Harbor and all its intricacies and nightmares. However, it's never that simple. Not when the questions and the answers are so very valuable. Patience. Research. Making connections. Watching yourself and your use of your Gift. These all pave the road to the questions you seek." The questions he'll need to start looking for answers. "I hope I haven't made you feel less informed than when you arrived, Mr. Abildgaard."

"No, quite the contrary, in truth. Although I get the feeling that nailing Mr Clayton -- Alexander -- whichever he prefers -- down for any period of time might prove difficult. He certainly felt confident in investigating me, but I do not get the impression that he is quite as eager to be investigated himself. Perhaps I'll need to be here longer and indeed, prove myself useful first. Which, all things considered, is perhaps not so unreasonable." Ravn recalls the twitchy man tapping his fingers against the table at the Two if By Sea while staring at him and then speaking his own language; he represses a shudder at the memory. "I suppose that if I pursue his field of interest long enough he will eventually decide either that I am reliable, or that I am not."

He studies the woman in front of him with an interest that is not so much in her posture or appearance as an attempt to evaluate what she represents and what she offers. Seeming to reach some kind of decision he offers a small smile and adds, "That's Ravn, by the way. Mr Abildgaard sounds... horrifically formal."

Ravn comes to his own conclusions and it doesn't look as though Harper disagrees with much he's said. She has an ability to be quiet, less of a need to fill empty spaces with words. And in that silence after he speaks, she watches him, considers him, maybe measures him just the slightest bit. "I think you have the beginning of a plan, Ravn."

His smile is returned with one that curves between rueful and playful. "I suppose if you've agreed to call me Harper, I can use Ravn." There's a glint of anticipation behind her warm, brown eyes. "I suppose our paths will cross again sometime soon, if there is any such thing as good fortune in my world."

"Depending on what you would consider to be good luck, Harper, I think that you may consider yourself fortunate or indeed very unfortunate." The man's blue-grey eyes glitter with amusement. "I am a researcher. You have a fine library here. I will all but move in, let me assure you. I only hope to not prove myself too much of a pai in the backside -- and perhaps even of some help in figuring out what it is that is going on here. Do let me know if there is anything I can do to help you out in return as well. I am no librarian, but I do have some experience with archiving and data filing."

He probably does, at that, at least if his claim to hold a PhD is true. Must be in the Humanities.

"For now, though, I think you have me set up with everything I could possibly desire, short of being able to travel time." His smile is warm as he looks at Harper. "I hope that we will be friends. I will certainly be a regular patron."

Harper appears to be very clear on what she considers to be fortunate. She enjoys the amusement there to see in Ravn's eyes. "We're both researchers. We can have parties. Wild, orgies of information gathering." She may be playing, but she's quite serious about research. It might even be her favorite part of her job, given that pet project in the basement. "I assure you, Ravn. Thusfar, I am feeling no pain in the region of my derriere."

"I'll work on the wormhole side of things. You know, as a side project. See what I can do." She presses both palms flat against the counter between them and says simply, "I already consider you a friend, Ravn. You follow your own timeline and we'll meet somewhere along the way. Call me if you need anything in the meantime." She gestures to the business card she gave him. "Perhaps I'll come by your place of employment with some dirty glasses and a craving for conversation." A beat. "Have an interesting day."

"It's Gray Harbor. I don't think having a not interesting day is possible."

He is smiling as he heads towards the library door; a pay stub, not a big deal. A photocopy of his passport, certainly doable. His fingers are itching. When was the last time he dove into a dusty pile of old books, texts, and microfilms? The last time he let his mind wander and soak up names, dates, and obscure entries, the notes in margins, and the very specific choices of phrasings of long-dead people's records. The entries in church annals, the inscriptions on gravestones, the recordings of stories and songs and childrens' games. Living history. Ravn thinks back. It's been at least two years. I've missed this.