2021-09-21 - Count Abildgaard, I Presume

She might not always be polite - there are some instances in her illustrious legal career that necessitated the blunt edge of a hammer rather than the finer point of the scalpel that she normally chooses to wield, but she is at least always professional no matter which weapon she is inclined to use at the time. It is that professionalism that has propelled her to call HOPE in advance and set a meeting with whoever is in charge of operations that day so she can visit and do an informal audit of her family's contributions to one of the few outreach outfits in the city that is determined to help rebuild it after the ravaging storm that nearly destroyed it.

The circumstances of said storm is another headache altogether, and at the moment, she is not inclined to visit it when her head is still pounding from the prior evening's catch up session, spent on one of the bar stools of the Two If By Sea conversing with an old friend who has never resisted plying her with a potent drink or several. It is also the reason why she shows up at the appointed hour looking like she does, with a colorful Hermes scarf wrapped around her tousled black waves and sunglasses that dominate half of her face and leaving most of its finer porcelain details obscured, save for an almost aristocratic nose and the bold red of her favorite lip lacquer. The rest of her looks just as expensive, though slightly more casual than her preferred businesswear - a black blazer with gold buttons and epaulets tossed over a cream-colored pantsuit with a halter-styled neckline, a layered gold-chain choker and stud earrings to match, and all paired with black heels with points thin enough to punch through a man's femoral.

When she finally makes her way inside, and finds Ravn Abildgaard, brows lift in high arches past the frames of her sunglasses, manicured fingers slowly rolling them down the bridge of her nose so she could tuck them away. She had thought that a man with the same name had taken residence here, but with the man's familiar visage floating in front of her, it is the person who she suspects, reminded of a gala long ago - some European state function or another in where her father's attendance was required, in a ballroom teeming with corporate financiers and aristocrats. "Well," she begins, her English lightly kissed by distant Paris, extending a pale hand forward for a handshake. "I thought your name familiar but it seems that you are who I suspected. We met once, Mr. Abildgaard, years ago." Long lashes lower faintly over eyes like bottled lightning. "I take it you are not going with your title while remaining here?"

And in case he has forgotten: "Odile Addington Devereux," she introduces. "I'll provide my card later."

One of the reasons Ravn Abildgaard hates social functions is situations like this. Here's a woman who obviously recognises him from somewhere -- which means he ought to recognise her, and he absolutely doesn't. The man has a miserable memory for faces and very little interest in keeping track of who's who in the European jet set (or any other jet set) which really doesn't serve to help his memory in any capacity. Add a passionate dislike for drawing attention, and actually, maybe it's not strange at all that he's got a bit of a reputation in those circles for being an elusive hermit who for some bizarre reason would rather be part of some government program to tutor Afghanistan veterans at the University of Copenhagen than embed himself in finances and politics in the way you'd expect from someone with his family's contacts and connections. Also, he's the weird guy who insists on wearing gloves always.

Maybe it's not very surprising to find him embedded with some kind of charity. What might be surprising is finding him embedded with some kind of charity in a nowhere town in the US like this, rather than traversing Nepal as an ambassador of some well known NGO or other, raising awareness. Until one remembers the loathing attention part, anyhow. That part mixes somewhat poorly with photographers and giving speeches.

The explanation is simpler, of course, and in a place like this, obvious: Gray Harbor tends to pull in people with that extra little something. The shine, light, glimmer, song, art, whatever one prefers to call it, in Ravn is not strong; it's a measly spark, but it is there. A beacon cutting through the veil of the night he ain't; a matchstick flaring in a dark corner, maybe. Enough, apparently, to pull the man here, from the other side of the planet.

Ravn returns a handshake that is firm enough -- and indeed, gloved in black kidskin, there's an eccentricity which seems to persist. "My pleasure, Miss Devereux. My calendar tells me you'd like to take a look at our paperwork? We don't have a dedicated somebody in charge of these matters, so I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me. Haven't got a card, though."

A wry little smile flits across the man's face at the lawyer's last inquiry. "Americans and Englishmen alike tend to have a very strange reaction to European titles, Miss Devereux. I don't deny having it if anyone should ask, but I do generally avoid drawing attention to it. I'm not Prince Harry, and I don't want VIP status. I live on a boat with my cat and I go to the Pourhouse when I feel like a night on town, just like everyone else." Well, everyone else not an Addington or a Thorne, anyhow.

Unlike him, she has a mental bear trap for names and faces - her Art specifically handles the province of memory, so it probably isn't surprising that a mind like hers would be hungry for details and minutiae; no matter how tedious, it simply can't be helped. An elegant hand clasps his in a firm handshake that doesn't attempt to overcompensate in strength, manicured nails as glossy and scarlet as the color of her mouth, but she lets go of the glove soon afterwards - that, too, is something she remembers, recalling it as a strange affectation by the man when she first met him in passing. But as much note as she's assigned to them, even that's not too ridiculous - one can't be a European aristocrat without some eccentricities, she suspects without them that he'd be kicked out of the club for breaching the unspoken rule.

"So long as there is someone, I won't complain overly much, though I suppose there's little chance of you and I escaping it. It's a terrible family trait," Odile replies with a hint of a smile and a cant of her head at him, observing him with her usual incisive scrutiny and slightly more (given word that the man was maybe seeing her cousin socially), before taking a step towards wherever direction he leads, slowly smoothing fingers under the bind the scarf provides against her hair to draw it down to her throat and adjust it against her choker, leaving the inky spill of her hair to frame her face now that the sunglasses are gone. Eyes with the shine and color of lighting trapped in glass marbles sweep over the confines of HOPE's headquarters, curiosity gleaming within them.

"Most of my hours since my arrival have been spent pouring over the documents my relatives have dumped on my lap before fleeing for the hills." It's an observation colored by exasperation and fashioned with amusement. "So I'm afraid I've not done my due diligence as to what HOPE's specific mission is. Would you enlighten me, Mr. Abildgaard?"

Much to the disappointment of readers of the Gazette, the headquarters of the HOPE foundation happen to actually be that old, derelict butcher's shop on Spruce Street, you know the one, there's a handful of people going about renovating it, going to be a community centre or something. In other words -- definitely not worthy of neither the term 'foundation' nor 'headquarters'. The man whom ADA Cassidy Bennett managed to get labelled 'President of the HOPE Foundation' when she showed him off as arm candy on the society pages is just one bloke in a volunteer team consisting of less than ten people.

"I'm thinking you'll want the official story as well as the unofficial story," the Dane suggests in his light accent; like so many other Europeans not actually British he's nonetheless been taught what some schoolmaster thought passed for proper BBC diction. "Gray Harbor is home to a substantial amount of vulnerable people. Our mission is to improve their situation by helping them help themselves -- engaging the community to look after itself, and extend a hand where needed. During the recent hurricane we organised the shelter at Teddy S. Addington High. Our current objective is to offer relief to those families who lost their homes to the flooding of the Chehalis. A more permanent mission is to connect unemployed, homeless people with local businesses that are willing to offer the kind of on-the-job training that will bolster a C.V. and perhaps lead to permanent employment."

The place does look like a run-down shop being renovated -- and by volunteers at that. This is evident in the obviously scavenged and donated choices of furniture and office equipment, as well as in the fact that there are still tool boxes and paint tins sitting around along with various paperwork, novelty coffee mugs, and a shark plushie on a shelf. Some walls appear to be in the process of getting turned into murals by one or more local artistic souls. One door has a hand drawn poster on it, depicting a rather naively drawn mermaid in a not allowed sign, clearly ripped off from the Ghostbusters franchise. For some reason, the depicted mermaid has a lot of needle-like teeth.

Headed towards a couple of mismatched chairs at a desk upon which there is at least a few square inches of free space, Ravn glances at Odile and offers a somewhat lopsided, somewhat wry smile. "The unofficial story? We're in Gray Harbor. You are familiar with the town's quite... unique problems, I imagine. Altruism is anathema to the dolorphages. We connect people, we fight back. We sour the harvest."

"Always." In her line of work, there's always the story that is sanitized for public consumption and the one dirtied by the unvarnished truth. Most of the time, Odile needs both to do her job effectively, though as she walks along with the taller European transplant, there is no notebook present anywhere with which to take notes. Perhaps she has a photographic memory, or is familiar enough with other ways to access what she has heard, experienced and learned even if the conscious mind forgets. There is, at least, no censure at the lack of a headquarters atmosphere within HOPE's place of business, opinions on the matter safely tucked away behind the lawyer's coolly elegant facade.

She does nothing but listen for a while and observe her surroundings as they take a slow tour of the facility, her hands sliding easily in the pockets of her pantsuit as stilettos click away on the cold floor. "I take it the problem has only gotten worse in the last decade then," she replies after both stories have been told, and while she doesn't clarify which she means, it's likely that the statement applies to both. She is not imperceptive - summers spent in Gray Harbor slumming with the younger Addingtons and their coterie of hanger-ons and friends from like income brackets have kept them within striking distance of the homeless problem, and as for the dolorphages...well, the history of the Addingtons has been tied to the Dark Men for as long as she can remember.

Her walk stops by the in-progress murals, her head tilting back so she could view it in its entirety. An eye for art, this one, tracking the colors splashed against the wall but keeping her opinion to herself. The toothy mermaid does generate a hint of a smirk on a lush and secretive mouth, before she continues following Ravn to a desk and chair, folding herself upon it and crossing one long leg over a knee.

"Is it working?" she wonders, with respect to the idea of souring the harvest. "Or is it too soon to tell? Judging by the work-in-progress vibe, I take it that HOPE has not been in operation for very long." Either that, or it has been an uphill battle to procure enough volunteers to continue the work at a steady pace.

"It's too soon to tell. We didn't manage to actually officially open before Storm Cimaron hit -- and now most people like us seem to have lost three months that none of us can account for." Ravn offers a slightly helpless smile -- the kind that you learn quick in this town; the kind that says Gray Harbor, right? Right?

"I haven't lived here long enough to know about the last decade," the man admits and flicks the electric kettle on; instant coffee is what the house can offer. "But in the nine months I've lived here? Yes, it does seem that way. And I am familiar with at least the rough outlines of the -- incidents over the last years, during which a substantial amount of people were killed, a number of them members of the Addington family. On a more personal level I am trying to investigate the dynamics of the Veil. I'm a folklorist -- a historian specialising in past and contemporary story telling. A substantial part of the experiences we see are based on archetypal stories, cultural gestalts. This is what we're trying to do -- rewrite the narrative. Literally pull an eighties' movie montage on the Veil: The story of the little town where everyone got together and lifted in unison until one day, we're all dancing to the Footloose theme and somebody gets the prom queen."

He winces a little even as he speaks those last words, heaven only knows why.

"Yes, the regrettable incidents from two summers ago." And more, if he is a folkorist - the field deals with as much history as it does the fantastic, and there is no hope hiding the bloody swath Billy Gohl had cut through the town, whether at the turn of the century or more modern times, marketed by most press as a copycat killer.

Hyacinth's briefing was almost absurdly comprehensive (including a painstakingly put together powerpoint presentation), but unlike the more recent incidents between the Hatfields vs. McCoys-type relationship the family seems to be keeping with the Baxters for over a hundred years, Odile and her family had actually been present for the funerals held for the parents of her cousins. They had left immediately afterwards, if not just to address Cecily's very reasonable concerns that whatever darkness plagued the family then would only visit her branch if they stayed for longer. Now that she knows the true cause of it and the reasons for it, she can't help but feel sicker to her stomach. Maybe the coffee will help, no matter how little of it actually registers on smooth alabaster features and pale blue eyes.

Instead: "Your investment in the town seems to be deeply-rooted outside of your endeavors here at HOPE," she observes, tracking him to the electric kettle. "Is your interest purely academic, or do you intend to use it as inspiration for more-profit work? The town attracts a bevy of writers and artists every year - there's something to be said finding in a working muse in the macabre." It bears asking, though the burning question she doesn't ask him is evident enough on her face: Mon dieu, mon ami, pour quoi?

The bubbling from the kettle distracts her for a moment, but not long enough - she catches the wince, and brows arch upwards in silent query. She doesn't press for it, but she is curious of the cause.

"Sorry, I didn't think about my wording," Ravn murmurs and pours hot water into plastic novelty mugs -- one depicting Snoopy as the flying WWI fighter ace, the other reading something about more coffee and avoiding people. "Came out of a dream experience yesterday. Some kind of screwed-up high school prom affair in which I was literally made prom queen, and, well, when I said that, I didn't mean that I want to be prom queen."

Instant coffee is added and mugs distributed; there's dairy creamer and Stevia on the desk -- the Dane seems to take his coffee strong, black, and unpolluted. He leans back on his chair and settles one leg over the knee of the other, cradling the cup in slender, gloved hands. "My investment -- if you can call it that -- is that of someone who lives here, Miss Devereux. Do you prefer Miss Devereux? I struggle somewhat with American naming conventions so I tend to call everyone by their last name -- that way, I haven't accidentally gotten too familiar. I don't mind Ravn, though, most people I see regularly aren't all that formal." He pronounces the very Scandinavian name in his native -- not raven, but closer to raown -- round, with the d sort of chopped off. "I don't think I can quite claim to qualify as a writer, and certainly not as an artist. Strange as it must sound though, Gray Harbor feels more like home to me than Denmark ever did. People here -- people like us -- are connected, whether we have anything else in common. I've found the town extremely welcoming -- well, apart from the occasional attempt to murder me in my sleep but what can you do."

Had it not been instant coffee, Odile would be availing herself to the offered brew just as unadorned as his. Unfortunately, it is, and so elegant hands reach for the creamer and sweetener both (thank god for no calorie options). Working deft fingertips on both, meticulous and neat in the way she avoids spilling any drops or crumbs on a desk no matter how worn, her years in ballet have not left her in the slightest; as if made of silk, air, or both, the fluidity in which she performs the most menial tasks is practically preternatural, her devotion to the art as ardent as it was when she first discovered it as a girl. With coffee made to her liking, she settles back on her seat and takes a sip. By her accounting, whoever concocted the famous Folger's tagline about replacing one's regular coffee with its crystals and not being able to tell the difference was either ridiculously persuasive or unforgivably delusional, but hospitality counts for a lot.

"Miss Devereux is fine," she supplies with a quick, if not faint smile. "But I'm also fine with Odile." Ostensibly named after the villain's daughter in Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, the cursed princess' doppleganger sent to upend an entire kingdom. A namesake whose origins she's fulfilled repeatedly, and not just on stage, but in current times, hostile takeovers might as well be equated to conquering whole kingdoms in some fashion or another. "I was born in Paris, so both forms of address are not unfamiliar." Hence the slight accent that Cambridge and New York couldn't erase. "With an affluent American mother, dual citizenship is also a fate I couldn't escape so I've adapted to both."

After another pull of her coffee. "Raown, is it? I wondered of the pronunciation when I read it off the page - I'm afraid I'm not familiar with many Scandinavian words despite living most of my life in Europe, so this is relatively new to me." Mention of the town's attempt to murder him in his sleep draws a small smirk on her lips. "It seems you've been fortunate compared to some that the attempts are only occasional in frequency, and only in your sleep," she quips. "Some aren't so lucky, snatched out of beds before they even climb into it, et cetera, but it's a bloody legacy that we've all inherited now. I remember incidents in my summers here, whenever we would return here as a family for gatherings, and how perilous it could be when you find yourself lost....and even moreso if you've been caught in it alone. You know what they say about the sins of our forebears - sometimes they don't stay in their era."

She exhales a breath, flicking her fingers sideways. "This place weaponizes memories. Good or bad, it doesn't matter - it might be why it calls to you so, being a folklorist. I came across a gentleman the other day, for instance, who was enamored of the carousel and who didn't seem all that familiar with its sordid history. The same can't be said for myself, but despite knowing what I do, better years have been attached to the contraption and I can't help but remember those."

"There are a number of us taking an interest in the park carousel -- Odile." Ravn tastes the name, and decides to use it, at least for now (he's still going to refer to her as Devereux to anyone else, the way he does anyone except Hyacinth Addington or Grant Baxter because with names like that, you need to know which one). "It's a complicated mystery -- and the carousel animals probably know more about it than we do, but being antropomorphic animals, they don't communicate very well. The owl is your best bet for proper facts. Watch your hands around the black horse."

Only in Gray Harbor, indeed.

He can't quite resist a chuckle. "I'm not going to lie -- while these dream experiences are frequently terrifying, they are part of the attraction. Some of them are outright hilarious, a rather great deal of them are a hands-on study in cultural memory. I'm a folklorist who has had a literal argument in the street with a Slavic trickster god, and been attempted sacrificed by a Mexican fertility goddess. I've bargained with actual sidhe. I realise it's all an expression of our cultural heritage, and that's what makes it so fascinating."

He loses the smile. "And then, of course, it all turns deadly serious and the casualties quite real, and there is nothing fascinating or amusing about that. Your relative, Hyacinth Addington, lost a substantial part of her close family that way. Even those of us who aren't quite native enough to the region have lost people -- and we know that most of us are going to end up dead or lost ourselves as well. There are monsters in the mist."

The Dane pauses. Odile Devereux did not come here to hear him lecture upon the nature of the Veil; indeed, she talks as somebody who knows very well what it's like from personal experience. He stops himself and reaches for a drawer instead, taking out a ledger and then turning to the laptop sitting on the desk to call up a spreadsheet. "These are our finances as it happens -- everyday small expenses in the ledger because some of our volunteers don't want to use computers. Larger dispositions on the spreadsheet. As you can see, most of our banking is handled through Seattle. Pretty much all of our income comes from private donations -- some anonymous, some not. The Addingtons are a substantial contributor, though the largest donation has been made by someone who does indeed wish for their name to be kept off record. Which is to say, we'd obviously surrender those names and organisations if faced with a court order or an IRS inquest."

There's some part of her that manages to recoil at the discussion; to talk about such things as if it was normal when it is anything but - the fact that it's too easy to get into these discussions, and how instinctive it is for her to dive into these mysteries again despite a couple of years removed. For the briefest minutes, the conflict is present on her face, passing over those bottled-lightning eyes - so much so that Ravn couldn't be blamed that he had imagined it. But it fades almost as soon as it appears. Toying with her mug, Odile muses, "I was actually quite fond of the black horse when I was a child." A hint of mischief touches on that Mona Lisa smile, though at the moment she doesn't elaborate. Instead: "What do you know about the history of the carousel? If my dear cousin Hyacinth hasn't managed to elucidate you on the details, perhaps I can provide what I know, given that you seem to be taking the recording of these incidents so seriously. And then perhaps you'll manage to find a break through some of the town's most baffling secrets."

She's slowly getting accustomed to the taste of instant coffee, having only had it (and not by choice) one other time before; memories of sitting next to a hospital bed and the broken body lying in it, clutching a well-loved hand and her heart in her throat, can't help but accompany the taste. Eyes hood thinking of it, before she forcibly banishes it away with a tilt of a defiant jaw and a put-upon sigh. "There are rumors that some of those old myths actually originated from the Veil," she tells him. "Or at least the entities who inspired them. I know for a fact that thin spots elsewhere aren't quite like Gray Harbor - they're less formed, less defined. In all frankness, Raown, there's something about this place that is unique and despite being part of the family, I'm not quite certain whether anyone's pinpointed the reason for why that is just yet. Have you managed to interview any of the members of the Quinault nation, to see if they're willing to speak with a foreign folklorist about the area?"

With the spreadsheet called up, she shifts slightly so she can view the screen. "Truthfully if you would like to keep the rest of your finances and their sources confidential, I wouldn't be able to stop you," she informs him; she may be a shark, but she makes an effort to keep to the ethics of her profession. "I'm only interested in the Addington donations, and all for the purposes of verification. Between you and I, my cousin doesn't trust those who handle the books on our end - that's where I come in. I want to cross-reference the funds that get to you and HOPE with what's actually entered in the corporation's ledgers for tax and charitable purposes." She pauses. "And if you have a copy of the organization's Form 990 that you can provide me, I would appreciate it as well, to complete my anti-money laundering due diligence of the entity." Such things for non-profit organizations are often a matter of public record - databases like Guidestar would have copies, if they were filed on time. But since she's here anyway, she might as well make the process as convenient for review as possible.

"Business first. Can't say I blame you or Hyacinth for wanting to watch the paper trail; you're not the only ones to request it, either," Ravn murmurs and digs through things paper and computer file alike. "Of course she isn't; charities and nonprofits, particularly volunteer based ones, with their messy paperwork and surplus enthusiasm contra actual legal knowledge, are prime targets for money laundering schemes. "We have a policy of -- what's the term in English, transparency? There are some names that are kept out of the spotlight because they requested to be, and we respect that. Everything else is done in the open -- and when you consider where we are and who we are fighting, I think you may find that this makes sense. We run our legal stuff through Seattle for the same reason -- using a local firm would make us far too vulnerable to manipulations from the Other Side. We need to stay bullet proof because entrenching us in prolonged legal battles or investigations would be by the far the easiest way to shut us down. We're not a big deal to the human side of the Veil, but we're enough of a pain in the ass to the dolorphages for them to have tried to take our spokesman, de Santos, out twice."

Then he leans back on his chair to study the lawyer's face for a moment; the academic asserting himself over the not quite experienced charity administrator. "Gray Harbor has more than a century and a half's worth of very strange history," the Dane replies. "And for at least the lifetime of Margaret Addington, if not earlier, there have been people trying to record and keep track, and understand. I am trying to go at it from a slightly different angle -- not so much recording incidents and time tables as I am trying to understand the underlying mechanisms. Those records already exist -- even when getting Baxters and Addingtons to compare notes takes considerable diplomatic effort on both sides. My approach is not so much asking what as it is asking why."

The folklorist sips his coffee, or what passes for coffee. "Make no mistake, I'd love to get my hands on those records, talk to eye witnesses, read and conduct interviews as a historian. What we are looking at here runs far deeper in human psychology, though. This is a literal Faustian deal that we are trying to untangle -- and odds are that we can't. We won't be closing the tear in the Veil, and I'm not sure that we should, either. Not everything in the overlapping realities is hostile or even dangerous -- and most of the danger implicit lies in our own ignorance. But we do need to focus our attention on the entities that are, and work out ways to take away the power they hold over us, their ability to farm our emotions. I grew up in a place with some similarities -- not torn to the extent that the Veil is here, but enough that I grew up surrounded by ghosts and the occasional hell hound, and to me that was just normal. If we can achieve a similar kind of balance here, then Gray Harbor will be -- well, it will not be ordinary, but it will not be the dystopian nightmare that it can feel like sometimes."

Ravn's remarks about the reasons why Hyacinth hardly ever trusts anyone who does the books on their side, and the choice to go through a Seattle-based law firm, earns an approving nod from the Parisian transplant, reaching over with that elegant hand to retrieve the copies of the documents the man hands over to her. "It's wise," she tells him. "I've been told since I was a child that the Veil protects its own - encouraging investigations within the town will only bring trouble and danger to outsiders who are less equipped to handle what goes on here. Best to keep a lid on it." Odile seems familiar enough with Ignacio de Santos' name, having performed her due diligence before her arrival in SEATAC a mere two days ago. With what the man started with his columns, and does for a living, she isn't particularly surprised that he's made himself a target for the Dark Men.

She bears his scrutiny with the same cool, elegant grace she demonstrates in most things, though there's nothing stiff or marble-like in her expression; her eyes are alive, practically crackling with energy carefully buttressed by her expensive trappings - the sort who acknowledges the intensity of her own passions, but unleashing them only when warranted. Throughout his litany, that energy doesn't manifest overtly; the way she brings the cup to her lips to drink the rest of her coffee retains her unhurried, almost languid pace. "It's my estimation that the mechanisms were in place well before the Baxters set roots in the land. Logically, they would have to be, if the word is true that a few ancient myths found their inspiration in entities that occupy the Veil. But there aren't many records of settlers that predate them here save for the Quinault, and word has it that they always thought that there was something strange here since the time of their earliest ancestors. They aren't, however, very forthcoming about it."

A Faustian deal. There's a faint, and somewhat sardonic smile at that. "Dealing with Margaret Addington can be equated to such a thing," she muses - it sounds like a jest but the expression in her pale stare is grave enough that there is at least some degree of underlying truth to that statement. "Thankfully, not many have a reason to approach her for those purposes, but the family can't seem to prevent themselves from making them when the situation suits. But all of that explains why you feel more at home here than in Denmark, if you grew up surrounded by ghosts and hell hounds. But I do hope that you're right, Raown - that once a balance is struck, living here won't be so perilous."

Tucking the provided papers in the leather portfolio that she is only cracking open just now, she clips it shut with a metallic clasp before setting her empty mug carefully on one side and rises from her seat. "Regardless, thank you for taking the time to meet with me, and for providing the data. If you find out more about the troubles surrounding the carousel, would you be kind enough to share the information with me?" She pulls out an engraved ivory card from the front pocket of the portfolio, and hands it to him across the desk. "I'll find a way to make it worth your while."

"I can tell you things about the carousel, certainly." Ravn nods and tucks the card into the desk drawer -- his turtleneck is somewhat derived of convenient pocketage. "I'm of the firm conviction that all of us who have this shine, whatever terminology you prefer, are essentially in the same boat. The Addingtons have their interests, of course, and so do the surviving Baxters, and anyone else. Gray Harbor is more than just monsters on one side and humans on the other -- but that's how you make anything worth my while: Step across the line and prioritise Team Humanity above whatever more earthly agendas you might have. Margaret Addington never managed. Hyacinth does."

He offers a wry little smile. "Are you familiar with the story of the Baxter ghosts and the fate that falls to them after death? That's a good place to start. Except it's actually a rather terrible story, and if we are discussing it, perhaps we should do somewhere that can provide a stiff drink as required. The dive bar on the other side of the street here is nothing you'd write into a tourist's guide, but it tends to serve as a sort of communal gathering point for people like us. If you're genuinely interested in pursuing Gray Harbor's horror stories, there are worse ways to do it than over a bottle of cheap whiskey at the Pourhouse. You'll find me there as a regular -- there are lots of people there I need to talk to as I try to keep an ear on the ground in the community."

Such sacrifice! Man probably has a point, though, because while the glittering piano lounge at Sitka might be a more pleasant watering hole, odds are that the Casino's clientele of out-of-town wealthy tourists don't know a whole lot about what happened in that alley behind the Safeway last week.

"I was given a very complete and comprehensive briefing about matters here by Cousin Hyacinth, starting from what has occurred from the last time she saw me," Odile tells him, her free hand sliding in her pocket while the other remains curled around her portfolio. "It was a slog through those two years, but I believe I'm caught up. So yes, the truth behind the Baxter ghosts and just why Old Marge decided to do what she did..." Overkill in the worst way by her estimation, and one that tilts her expressive mouth downwards in a faint grimace. "...has been illustrated to me quite clearly. I heard that you're seeing her socially." The word dating, apparently, does not exist in the Parisian transplant's vocabulary past the age of eighteen. "You must be familiar with how meticulous she is and how fond she is of visual aids." There was a powerpoint presentation. "But in that regard, I'm not particularly familiar with what you know about the subject, so yes, either way, a stiff drink or several will be necessary." A faint smirk curls on her lips. "Frankly, I'm only marginally surprised the Pourhouse is still in business despite the economic downturns."

Ostensibly, what she means is that this place drives people to drink.

Fingers lift to replace the scarf back around raven waves to hold them in place, already fishing out her sunglasses. "Again, thank you for your time today, Raown. I anticipate that we'll be slightly drunker the next time we have a conversation. But to err is human, oui?" With a congenial nod, she pivots on her stilettos to start heading for the door, long legged strides taking her swiftly across the way.