2020-10-06 - Not a Dying Cat

To say that the Addingtons have nice things is not an understatement. Along the shore where it starts to become quieter on the edge of town is a Victorian home circa 1893 that stands rather impressively restored and meticulously cared for. In the drive is parked a white Tesla that looks more like a very large model car kit or some sort of transport pod from a sci-fi film than a conventional vehicle. The lights of the house are lit up. Where Vyv has eschewed life for sleek modern lines and Japanese influence of geometry and minimalism it seems Hyacinth Addington is preserving every hand made little detail of tradition and history of the home with its own story.

It's almost time for Itzhak to put Heartbreaker under cover for the season; this is one of the last drives he'll take with her until spring. He wants to have these two important ladies in his life meet, or something. His and Ravn's arrival is heralded by the growl of the Stingray's engine, pulling up out front. Itzhak gets out, bouncing on his toes, whooshing out a breath and rubbing his hands together and in general acting like he's here to pick up his prom date.

"I'm so nervous, ain't that weird?" he says to Ravn, as he heads for the front door and rings. And calls through the door too, like a savage. "Hya! We're here!"

Ravn Abildgaard is still sort of asking himself the fundamental question of what the hell happened and why am I at the house of another Addington? He cedes that at least, this one is Vyv Vydal's friend with the sharp tongue, and honestly, he rather appreciated that sharp tongue back in the Patisserie. He's just also a little -- if people would stop dragging me off, that'd be nice. At least she didn't say it was a date.

Of course, the ride in the Stingray does not at all qualify as being drug off. To anyone with a hint of interest in cars, it's a joy ride. Even Ravn appreciates the sleekness of the car and the purr of its engine, and he is probably as far removed from being an automotive enthusiast as a shrimp is from being a race horse.

"It's not weird," he murmurs. "All right, maybe it's a little weird."

Hyacinth is terrifying to most people. It's not that weird. If Hya's noticed she's seem to embrace it as a good sign. There she is answering her own door and not some army of staff in suits. It's just her apparently. It's just Hya answering her own damn door looking like she fell out of the 1940's hair up and high waisted capri pants in navy blue and a white blouse folded to a 3/4 length sleeve. The fabrication matches her organic leg with matching navy sneakers.

The drink is in hand when she sees them, the smile is not so 'on' as it is in town. "I was beginning to think you Cameron'd out on me." She smiles to Ravn stepping aside to let her guests in. "Ferris. Good to see you." Yes the John Hughes movie referrals are now done. The world can embrace them as they will.

"It's a little weird." Itzhak hitches his eyebrows, resigned. He greets Hya with a faint, nervous half-smile and leans in to kiss her cheek. "You look fuckin' fabulous as always. Also, uh, I feel weird--" lots of that from him today, it seems, "showing up empty handed, yannow? So I got you this."

As he comes in, he hands it over: 'this' is an antique hairpin, the kind that is several inches long and comes to a wicked point. It has an enamel dragonfly on the tip, with a little sparkling dangle as if the dragonfly had lit upon water and now drops fell from it as it flew away.

"That's beautiful." Ravn is apparently someone who can appreciate an antique piece of jewellery; and indeed, recognise one. "Well, now I don't feel half silly, not bringing a proper present for the lady of the house. I don't suppose you'll take one New Yorker, slightly used?" he asks with a small smile, the kind that at least people who know him pretty well know to be quite genuine. They're smaller, a bit lopsided, and tend to involve a bit of worrying of his lower lip.

Hyacinth sets the drink down and her hands are careful, but while the manicure is fine her hands are actually not. It's in the refinement of presentation these details are kept, and likewise the gift received. Opening the wrapping there is a moment where she is quiet and just admiring the stunning details. She doesn't gush. A lady oughtn't gush, but she spends more than a passing glance really appreciating the patina, the assemble, the care in the solder. The things a craftsman holds dear. There is care here and an erstwhile gratitude when she looks up to Itzhak, Ravn, and Itzhak again, "You didn't need to do this. You followed me across darkness to battle my family's enemy. You were already welcome here."

The question from Ravn brings a hint of a grin and it alights the rest of her expression fine, "I think it's a fair offer. I have tea, coffee, and the bar. I know how the bar works and I ...think the Keurig is on speaking terms with me again if you'd like something to drink." She does take her glass and play hostess even if she has zero idea how her kitchen works. She may only know it's there because she restored the tin type ceiling and think it a rather large pantry for coffee and snacks. Who knows.

Without boasting but some distinct bride she says, "I don't know how big you are on history, but! I'm going to bore you with the minutiae. This IS one of the Addington Family's first homesteads. It's 1893, all original wood, and all of it built from the forest that extended to the bay at the time." Taking a deep breath she says with all love for it, "I spent the last eleven years working on i. I don't know it'll ever be truly done but... I think that's why I love it. I'm always finding something new in the details. " Looking to Itzhak she admits, "I'm really glad I didn't lose it when we kicked that ghost to the curb."

"I know I didn't have to," Itzhak says, quieter, awkward. "Just. As a thanks. For everything." Sometimes he's got the charm of the devil himself, and sometimes he's standing around, like this, not knowing what to do with his hands. Ravn's offer of 'one New Yorker, slightly used', though, makes him laugh. "Hey, this New Yorker seen a lot more use than that. Give us that minutiae, this guy over heah loves the minutiae." A jerk of his thumb at Ravn for that.

And when Hya says she's glad she didn't lose the house, Itzhak nods, eyebrows tilted. "No kidding. Glad you didn't either. She belongs with you."

"I am pretty big on history," Ravn admits. "As in, I hold a PhD in it. I'm probably the right person to tell about old houses and the stories that go with them. I'm also the kind of person who may strike up a conversation with someone inside only to have you tap me on the shoulder and tell me the bloke I'm talking to has been dead for fifty years. By all means, hit me with all the minutiae Itzhak can stand being made to hear about."

He's still smiling. Maybe he's joking but from his tone, he might not be. Some people see ghosts, or claim to. Old houses sometimes have ghosts; the older the more likely.

Hyacinth pauses and looks to Itzhak in the manner that she was intending to share regardless but the new information brings pause. She looks to Ravn curiously, head tilting a bit. "I'm with the Historic Restoration Committee of Gray Harbor..." A longer pause has her adding, "We'll have to chat. I may need your help with...something personal. Later." If Itzhak were to go all in betting on gnomes he might be able to get Heartbreaker a friend.

Hyacinth is not often speechless. Ever. Right now she's really checking for veracity on the claim of by all means (of which she has many) do go on about the historic architectural details. There's a look in this expression far from guarded and judgmental and more like an artist being given free reign. "I'm... There's a lot of history that is written. And not ... not all of it is true. What the Trust does not like to mention is that this town was originally found and forested by the Baxter family for several years before the Addington family came up the coast from the gold rush in 1884." Looking to Ravn there is a rare seen excitement on her face shy of when her shoes have a showroom sale or when she gets what she wants. Right now she's getting excited over the...history of the...Pacific Northwest? Sure.

"Keeping in mind that between 1862 and 1880 the total population of Oregon alone was fewer than ten thousand people. It's sort of a big deal. In this time," She walks them from the kitchen to the front parlor where much of the original hand carving for the fireplace mantle and moldings in the ceiling have been repaired and preserved, "eight out of every ten dollars invested in manufacturing in Washington Territory went to the timber industry. Many sawmills struggled to stay in business and what helped was the inclusion of the railroadd up the coast to get the lumber out." She blinks and says dryly, "It's heavier than it looks. That's why I make Itzhak carry mine." She's honest! "This changed when the Addington settlers came and revolutionized how business was getting done. Washington was like number 31 in the states for lumber, and that's keeping in mind we didn't have like 50.5 states yet...I dunno what's going on with Puerto Rico lately." Hey, she remembered it's there.

"Over the next decade, however, its output multiplied eight times. By 1890 it had risen to fifth in the United States, and by 1905 it ranked first. THIS is... one of the very first homes they built. There are larger and fancier, but... I wanted the old one." She pauses, "Well... one of the three." Taking a deep breath she could be a fabricated and milled Disney Princess of lumber. "I fell in love with it when I was a kid and it fell into a state out of neglect because from the 50's through the 80's new meant you had money so... ya know... it didn't get a lot of love. But I went and got my degree and spent the last..uhhh eleven and a half years rebuilding her." If she's ever had a fond affection for anything this is it. Taking a deep breath she says with a sigh, "Shame how we got it... but it's mine now and we can only fix. forward."

Itzhak can't help it; he grins a lopsided, pleased grin when Hya gets excited over the history of lumber in the PNW. So rare he gets, or anybody gets!, to see Hya The Merciless excited like a little kid, and over something so nerdy too. Delightful. He glances at Ravn to see how he's enjoying the lecture. Himself, this is not exactly the kind of thing he's interested in, but A) it's related to his violin therefore it's interesting and B) Hya is really actually quite adorable when she's like this and C) Ravn is into this history stuff too, this is a soft of gift Itzhak can offer him.

"She does make me carry her lumber," he confirms in an amused undertone. He's ambling along after Hya, thumbs hooked in his pockets, lookin' like a real tough guy in an incongruous setting.

Ravn's field of expertise is not modern American history -- and by his definition, anything that happens this side of the year 1500 is modern. His personal area of expertise is the 18th century but details like that never stopped a historian from getting a chance to delve into history. He's the kind of bloke who signs on for guided tours of local old houses and asks questions that the guide can't answer; most tourists want to know about the local ghost story, or the gunfight, or some other spectacular part of a place's local legend. Ravn Abildgaard is the kind of fellow who asks questions about the garden layout in an attempt to determine whether the late English colonial influence outweighs the modern thinking of Rosseau-style back to nature principles, and was there a prominent Celtic or Slavic cultural undercurrent in the design choices.

A man needs to know what kind of supernatural beings use his backyard for a pit stop, after all.

He's also the kind of historian who enters every room somewhat more alert than strictly normal, almost as if he half expects to run into other people there. It's entirely possible that he does and just keeps quiet about it. It's an old house (by American standards, come on, allow a European to have a little attitude here). Lots of people have lived here since the mid-19th century. Lots of people have died here. Ravn Abildgaard watched The Sixth Sense when it came out in 1999. He was eight years old and thought it was a documentary.

He takes mercy on Itzhak eventually, though, and stops asking all the very nerdy questions (odds are he will hunt Hyacinth down later to resume asking them). Instead, he quirks an eyebrow at the lumber comment and asks, "The lumber mill's shut down, I gather that much. But lumber is still a trade here for the Addington family, isn't it? I am a little fascinated by this social dynamic. It's not unlike a feudal system of old except that there never was a feudal system -- and unlike the actual feudal systems of Europe, those American 'founding families' tend to hold on to their position. It's the other way around back home -- you've got actual noble houses still lingering around some area, but their influence is non-existent at most, a bit of a tourist attraction at best. Remind me to tell you about Shackenborg or Egeskov sometime, those actually still serve as noble seats -- and they're probably the closest thing we have to your family's position here."

This is Ravn's idea of mercy? Even he realises what he's doing and backs up. "Right. Some other time. Before we bore poor Itzhak to tears, let's get on with it." The other man earns an amused look; Ravn is bloody well aware why they're here and what a big day this is for the violinist. It's practically Christmas morning for him.

Hyacinth shifts her weight looking at the frieze above the mantle and the similar architrave above the door to the parlor where, indeed there is a rectangular violin case, brown leather, well made but unadorned on a side table. It's the bringing up the sawmills that slow her roll and get her to shift weight thoughtfully to one leg. "We... have two. There's the one that I now own that is still running and the other which they call 'abandoned' and it s*not*, but really no one who wants to keep things they hold dear in tact really need never go there for their own safety." Taking a deep breath she looks to Itzhak and says simply, "It wasn't just Ghol." And that might mean something to him. Weirdly the topic of people safety does seem to mean something to her even though she has threatened to jettison people into the bay.

Ravn, however is changing off the subject which blindsides her a bit and with no effort she shifts topics in that wait a trained hostess can shift in any situation. "Oh! Well, on we go then." Moving to the side table in the front Parlor there is a dramatic difference in the feel of the house. The Parlor is a dead zone. A true and utter deadzone where there is no hint of glimmer at all and the world is fixed and resoundingly normal by the global standard. No hints, not motes, no auras, no haunts. It dead. In the middle; that violin.

Hya moves around and pauses as if to unleash Pandora's monsters when her fingers open the hasps on the case, palms on the sides she opens it for presentation. Inside there is a violin made from the tree that August glimmer grew painstakingly for the last 8 months and donated to getting Itzhak a new violin to replace his first love lost to defeating the ghost of William Ghol.

The wood has subtle medium and lighter wood tones; the body almost a herringbone pattern that took more then a time to press, cut and then carve again. The back of the violin showing how much time it took to 'quilt' that wood grain pattern in there so it lays out like a Star of David in the wood grain now; a central one having an abalone inlay for one stand out while the wood grain takes the design in a fractal manner radiating in and away. Along the smaller edges of the side rise in the body and at the end of the neck branches with pomegranates. Looking closely one of those carved pomegranates has a bite taken out of it. Not that anyone would eat one without a spoon but that's a bit much for illustrative engravings.

And the carpenter gone luthier...waits.

"Used to be able to go to the old sawmill," Itzhak says, a certain something in his voice. Nostalgia or wistfulness or something that looks back to a moment he treasures. ...not the usual tone people speak of the old sawmill in. "Can't, no more." His mouth tightens and he tips his head at Hya, in response to the news that it wasn't just Gohl. "Not surprised."

He's not saying much, for once in his ridiculous life, and it's because Hya and Ravn are both doing quite a lot of talking, about things they both love, and Itzhak may not be super invested in lumber or PNW history or American "royalty" versus the real thing but does it matter? No, it does not matter. What matters is his two friends get to be excited about their things, at each other, and he gets to watch. That's a gift in itself.

Walking into the null room, though, makes him balk at the door. "I never been in one of these," he says, glancing worriedly at Hya. But through this door lies his future bride, and so--he sucks in a deep breath, as if he's about to jump off a diving platform, and steps in.

He shudders like a troubled horse as the nullity hits him, quiets his Song to silence. "Jesus Harriet Christ," he breathes through gritted teeth. "My God, Hya." Looking down at his hands, he has to stand here a moment. "I got no power. Nothin' at all. Like an engine with no fuel. Everything's still there, it just...can't run. Well fuck, that's terrifying."

His attention turns to the violin case, which apparently she also made and he didn't expect her to, but makes him smile. Hya's little flourish of showmanship makes him smile, too, bigger; the lady knows how to make a presentation. And when the case is opened...

Itzhak takes in a breath again, but this one? This one is pure wonder. He lets it out on a little sound, 'ah--' an unconscious vocalization like a cry of love. His big, nimble hands dip into the case and lift out the violin, cradling it, turning it around so he can see all of the details. And such details they are! Itzhak bites his lip, rubbing his thumb over the central Star of David, then over the pomegranates, one by one.

Are those...? Yes, those are tears standing in his gray-green eyes.

"Rimon," he murmurs, eyes on his new love. He glances up at Ravn and Hya. "Means 'pomegranate', in Hebrew."

The null room is very interesting. In part because Ravn has in fact never experienced anything like it before. He can barely explain to himself what it is he feels -- or rather, doesn't feel. A strange sensation, like an itch you can't reach. There's a Danish expression for that -- a curse, in fact: May your ass itch and your arms be too short to reach. Which is exactly what this feels like -- there is something wrong, something unnatural, something not as it should be, and he lacks the proper limb or mental ability or instinct to push through and make it go away. And yet, at the same time, it's a strangely comforting sensation -- safety. He won't be bending any spoons or levitating any coins here, but just the same, no one will be lobbing fireballs at him or turning him into a half-tuna half-human combination --

-- (and thank god that the tuna was the hind end because otherwise, that'd have been even more awkward, though actually, in retrospect, it'd have been kind of hilarious too --

-- (if you add human legs to a tuna head will it still be able to keep its balance in the water, or will it flail around hilariously while trying to kick with human legs and get absolutely nowhere? --

-- (I've seen this cartoon somewhere --

-- (I'm letting myself get distracted by overthinking again)))) --

-- because emotional is happening, and I don't do emotional if I see it before it sees me.

Ravn keeps quiet, letting the other two have the moment. It's not that he doesn't understand just how significant that moment is. It's just that he has no bloody idea of how to handle it, and thus does what he always does when his social manual is missing a few pages: He pretends to not notice anything whatsoever.

There is a roll of her eyes skyward as Itzhak has that moment reeling at the null. Dryly, "If you think your power comes from a source that makes you dependent then you are not the man I thought you were, Rozenkrantz. Don't think greatness lays on what they give you. It's juvenile. " There's a faint smile and a wink from one lined eye, "You are your own power. Own your balls., Rozenkrantz." For someone whipping a large amount of influence of glimmer around she is certainly not about to give it too much credit.

The violin though...

Hyacinth is something. Her control over her emotions is laudable. Her face remains s study of the work received but her posture stands down and tension in her shoulders softens. Itzhak is expressive enough for the rest of the room really, but it's not that it doesn't matter. Feelings mathematical, and every inspection and note of detail all adds up. Rimon. Taking a deep breath she distracts herself from all those messy feelings and tries to muster fact but fails with a sigh, "Well it's also the Japanese word for 'lemon' I think so the globe needs to sort its citrus."

Looking up she shifts her focus between the two. "In the Second War the Jewish people kept spirits up defying the Them of their time with violin. Something so simple kept fought back the oppression then with a voice that carried." She researched this. It's not presented like this is family lore at all, but she did look into it, "We have a new Them and it's a voice that needs to carry again." There is a hitch in the delivery, fingers pressed flat to her cheek to wick away moisture there. Dammit. "It's your turn to play."

Itzhak, for once in his ridiculous life, is speechless; he handles the violin as if it's a newborn child, delicately cupped in his hands. He smiles, helplessly, as Hya tells the story of the Jewish people fiddling in defiance, and tells him it's his turn to do that. Long years of handling violins makes him not caress the instrument, hold back from rubbing his fingertips over the gorgeous inlays any further--don't get your finger oils on it, they eat the varnish, careful to hold it around the edges only or via the neck--but something about the way he lets it rest in his hands implies his desperate wish to do just that.

He looks up at Hya, gray-green eyes overbright. "Rimon got two meanings in Hebrew. The other one is 'grenade'." The smile grows brilliant, dazzling, all the lines on Itzhak's well-worn face showing. "Thank you. ...thank you."

Turning to Ravn, excited to share Rimon with him, Itzhak realizes Ravn is not exactly here in the room with them, and his eyebrows pop up. "Hey. Abildgaard? You okay?"

Ravn blinks once or twice. Then a small smile appears on his face. "What? Yes. Yes, I'm fine. This room is -- a very strange sensation. I'm not sure I find it entirely comfortable." He strolls over to stand next to the other two, admiring the beautiful craftsmanship while indeed keeping his hands in his pockets -- they itch at the very sight. He toys with a coin in each pocket, placed there for the very same purpose; busy hands need something to spin and twirl and nudge.

Emotional happened. And continued on its merry way. Life now returns you to its regular programming. "Well? Are you going to give us a demonstration, Rosencrantz, or just stand there looking pretty?"

Hyacinth watches, head high, eyes sharp, and entirely locked into every detail being appreciated and understood. Not picking up memory or her feelings or anyone else's. This s art appreciation pure and simple. Unlike the other half of 'Team Rocket' Hya smiles and this time it's not just so show sharp teeth. Yay!

Ravn gets an appraising glance down and then up again for behaving himself and handling this pragmatically. Head turning back to Itzhak she says "Play, Maestro. Like its luthier it's crafted damn finely but it has more important things to do than sit there and look elegant." Decorative Addington she is not. Conversation piece it was never meant to be.

Itzhak brought his bow. Of course he brought his bow. Not bringing his bow to picking up his lovingly custom-made violin would be like going to a hot date without a couple few condoms in his pocket. "Much as I like standin' around lookin' pretty," he says, quirking his eyebrows mock-flirtatiously at Ravn. He goes about tightening and rosining his bow, and as he does, something Hya says makes him flush. Possibly the part where she called him Maestro.

He settles the violin in place, under his chin, adjusting a little here and there. First things first; he tests the tuning, drawing his bow across each string, open, and tweaking the knobs or not as he sees fit. The sound rolls out, rich and clear, filling the room. Itzhak has to close his eyes as he plays each string. "My God," he murmurs. "That sounds...it sounds..."

he doesn't have words for how it sounds. It sounds like a masterwork of a violin.

So what's the first thing he plays on it?

BLUEGRASS. He pulls out a long tri-tone train whistle imitation--whooooo-oo-ooooooo! WHOOOO-ooo-OOOOOOO! and laughs like a maniac. Scraping the bow rapidly up and down makes the chug-a-chugga-chug-a-chugga of the wheels on the tracks. Itzhak launches into 'Orange Blossom Special,' playing it hot and fast and precise just the way he likes it.

Ravn 's face lights up in a smile -- a genuine one this time -- as the soft voice of the violin curls itself around them, caressing their senses like tendrils of pure bliss and raw sensuality; he closes his eyes a moment to simply listen. Ravn may largely avoid the whole subject of him playing whenever possible, and he certainly does try to pass as a hapless cat torturing amateur when it does come up, but he isn't one. He recognises every whisper of passion teased forth from this instrument. Its potential to mend or tear hearts. Its capacity to build up and tear down. Its voice.

He's not jealous. He's impressed.

At least to him, bluegrass is the right choice. Because surely, this instrument can turn the hardest and most complicated classical pieces into a gift from a higher power. But no music speaks the language of the soul like that which comes out of sheds and garages and smoke-filled backrooms where ordinary men sit down with ordinary instruments and ordinary voices and create music about ordinary lives.

Mozart is beauty. Folk music is soul.

Hyacinth is a lady, first, foremost, and forever- imperious by nature and both great and terrible by reputation.. It's imperative (which she will remind you all) to remember this because she is absolutely squeeing not (as official record would show) making little squeaky sounds of glee. She is also waving little jubilant fists of triumph not drying her nails withe excitement. Ladies do not do this.

The happyclap is confirmed. She's owning that one, silent otherwise, as the mechanic takes her creation and makes it sing such a wondrous sound... though... her nose does wrinkle that he's not playing Verve Pipe or maybe some operatic System of a Down. We can't have everything.