2022-01-23 - Dare To Be Stupid

Saturday night. Well, evening. Well, technically, afternoon, but at least it's towards the end of the afternoon. It's too early for day drinking but if you squint and agree that the sun sets early in winter, it's not technically day drinking.

Ravn, at least, is content to dusk drink. He wanders into the Pourhouse and scampers onto a tall barstool by the counter, full of old scratches and the occasional name carved into the wood as it is. He nods at Davis the bartender and for some reason known only to him and Davis, presumably, the bartender pours a shot from a rather upscale bottle that seems to reside under the counter rather than on the shelf with the rest -- or even on the top shelf. Somebody's a whiskey snob, and somebody is probably being made to pay through his nose for this special service. Somebody doesn't seem to mind.

"Rough week?" He asks and looks around at the largely empty room.

"It's a bit early in the evening still," Davis says, very diplomatically.

"Bloody time zones," murmurs the Dane. He spent another night grading essays. Where his students live, night is day. Or something.

Miserable, sleety Saturday afternoons sometimes call for something out of the ordinary... or maybe that's just a good excuse, never mind that weather like this is not precisely uncommon up here in the PNW. Una's a few minutes behind Ravn, drawn off the streets and into the (relative) warmth and noise of the bar: it's better than the cold-and-dark of outside, anyway.

Plus, there's beer, and that's always a plus.

Unwinding her scarf as she heads for the bar (the scarf is at least as tall as she is, knit from several different kinds of green wool into an ombré pattern, not that this is particularly relevant information), the redhead only seems to register Ravn once she actually gets there. "Evening," she offers, because it's close enough and that makes this whole thing just that little bit more justifiable.

She orders a beer, too (something local, but basic), and at least does so with a warm smile for Davis. Her knitted gloves come off, too, finger by finger, the wool damp and with the distinctive smell that comes with that.

Ravn's black kidskin gloves stay on; but then, they always do. He holds his tumbler in one hand and raises the other in a small, lazy wave at the redhead. "Howdy, neighbour. Been a few days -- how's Gray Harbor treating you?"

Is there a subtle tone of something more than just polite inquiry in that question? Why, yes, there is. Because this town never lets anyone with the shine just go about their existence nice and quiet unless somehow they gain the protection of some dark entity of the Other Side. And as Una does not strike Ravn as the archetypal crazed axe murderer or other person who might serve in such a capacity, he kind of expects her and the other residents of Number Five to turn up any day now, clutching injuries and screaming about things that can't go on any police report.

There's something in Una's expression in response to Ravn's inquiry that suggests she's got more to say than would befit mere politeness, too, something that comes with a dip of her chin and a tight press of her lips. Her answer will have to wait, though, until there's a beer being slid across the bar to her, and she's passed over some bills in response.

Drink in hand, she settles herself atop a stool alongside the Dane and says, quite conversationally, "I borrowed Jules' car keys the other day. I'm pretty atypical for an American, as far as the stereotype goes. Mom didn't have a car, so what was the point in driver's ed? But I sat there, and I knew what to do. I didn't turn on the ignition or anything, but I sat there and... I could have done. I could picture myself reversing out the driveway, heading down Oak... driving."

"You mean you don't have a driver's license -- or that you don't know how to drive, but you suddenly felt like you knew?" It's the sort of question that makes perfect sense -- assuming that the person asking is a mental health caregiver and the person asked is delusional. Or either, or both, are on hard drugs. Or the question is being asked in Gray Harbor.

Ravn cants his head to study the other woman; perhaps he's trying to determine how many of those boxes were just checked. "I'm assuming," he murmurs after a moment and sips his whiskey, "that you didn't go graze on the psychoactive mushrooms on my lawn that some people insist are a secret communication node for Neverland surveillance. So what inspired this -- need to try to use an ignition key?"

"Well... both. I don't have a license, and I don't know how to drive, either, except that apparently now I do."

She eyes her beer, as if it might contain more answers (it remains quiet; beer is rude like that, though if it were abruptly polite, that might also be a problem worth giving psychiatric concern to). "Yeah, no mushrooms, though it felt like it. I was-- we were in a Dream. I mean, I have to assume that's what it was. Jules, Della and I. And I was someone else, and she, Eva, knew how to drive and shoot and speak French and... now I do, except that last. I don't think I can speak French."

"That does definitely sound like a Dream," the Dane agrees. And if it is insane? Well, his tone seems to say, then there are a lot of insane people around this town, and he's definitely a card carrying member of the club. "It also sounds like something that'd be fairly easy to test -- get you in a car in a spacious driveway somewhere, see if you actually know what you're doing. And then, I suppose, that if you do, you may want to go through the motions to get a license. Or, you know, not, because if you never needed to drive before, what's the actual difference now?"

He glances at Davis who is old hand enough in this town to not pay a whole lot of attention to any of the weirdness his patrons talk about. "And I suppose that the same applies to shooting except more space than a driveway, and you apparently don't need a license to carry a firearm in this state unless you want to conceal it."

Although this response surely can't be unexpected (Una's spent enough time with Ravn now, not to mention in this town in general, to surely expect no different), Una's expression is relieved, anyway. "Yeah," she says. "I mean, it doesn't matter, because it's not like I really care about knowing how to do either. But it's still weird, that I do. I remember being someone else."

She sounds-- and looks-- ever so faintly wistful, but only for a moment or two.

"Well. That was our first Dream, then. No one got hurt, so that's something."

"It's something." Ravn nods his agreement and rests an elbow on the counter, half-turning to be able to watch Una's face properly in spite of the dim light of the dive bar -- once it would have been obscured further by cigarette smoke, but the Pourhouse does serve some kind of pre-made sandwich if you insist, and that means smoking has to happen in the yard or in the street these days.

He toys with his glass. "There's generally two objectives. Generally, because the one solid rule is, there are no rules. A tendency, I should say. They want you to be scared and miserable -- so they can feed on it. Or they want you to use your power -- so they can feed on it. Not all dreams are horrible -- if they get you to use your power by handing you candy, why do anything else?"

A small, wry smile. "We'd all live in some kind of pink fairytale country except using your power attracts the creatures that do feed on negative emotions, and hence, a dream that isn't awful is a good one."

"Mm," says Una: more of an exhale, really, than an actual word.

"I suppose that makes sense. I'm grateful that it was-- I mean, that it wasn't worse. It was more interesting than terrifying, except at the end, and then it was mostly absurd. If anything, it was knowing that it was a Dream, most likely, that made it the most terrifying, though the guns are never..."

She trails off. There's clearly a lot of thoughts going on there. "It's a bit of trap, though, isn't it? The candy is fine, until it stops being candy."

"Well, there's a reason everyone here is always telling new people to get the heck back on that bus and go right on to Portland." Ravn can't resist a small smile. He's lost count of how many times he's told someone that -- and how many times someone told him that, during his first months in Gray Harbor.

He dips into a pocket for the plastic cigarette he carries for situations like this. Not a vape; it doesn't actually contain anything and does not produce smoke or vapour. It's just a fidget toy to keep his hands occupied, designed to look like a menthol cigarette. It even has a tiny LED at the tip, like the ember of a cigarette's glow. He really wishes smoking wasn't a) a filthy habit and b) banned indoors.

"I have been in some pretty bad ones. In a way, though, it would be simpler if it was always a clear cut case of us against them. A lot of the dreams are just plain absurd. I've been in a few where I was Maid Marian -- you know, Robin Hood? And I'm assuming that the torture part was how inaccurate historically the setting was. Those were strange, definitely, but they were not scary. Funny, really, once my feet stopped aching from the curly toe seven inch heels."

Una laughs - a genuine laugh, and enough of one that some of the lurking tension in her expression is eased. That Dream may not have been terrifying as such, but it has definitely left its mark on more than just her ability to drive and shoot.

"I can't say I haven't been warned," she agrees, reaching now for her drink and taking a quick sip of it. Her gaze lowers to watch Ravn play with his plastic cigarette; an idle study.

"I'd call the seven inch heels the torture bit. Though I'll accept the historical inaccuracies, too. I suppose that's the thing: you don't know what you're going to get, do you? This one could have turned ugly instead of absurd. And I think you said, or someone did, that Dream injuries are real? Or, no, I've seen actual evidence of it. I guess it all just feels more real, now."

The Dane nods. "If somebody puts a bullet in you in a dream, you wake up with that bullet. So don't go play hero because it's just a dream and you read a book about lucid dreaming once. Every dream seems to have some kind of internal consistency -- and you need to roll with that. Some kind of narrative, some kind of story that wants to be told. And then, sometimes, there isn't one at all, and nothing makes sense, and you wake up with a headache, wondering what the hell that was all about. Then you shower and have a drink and get on with your life."

He glances at the sleeve of his leather jacket; there's a hole in it. When Una's gaze follows, Ravn says, "Bullet. Because that 1930s era gangster with the revolver and the head of a wolf may have been a dream, but the bullets are real enough. The Bauer Building is so haunted that by now the Other Side beings must be taking numbers to get to do things with it."

Una's gaze follows Ravn's promptly, and she winces, her nod a quick, sharp one. "Got it," she says. "Real bullets, even if everything else is ridiculous. I mean, I was pretty sure on that front, but-- the reminder is a good one." Her gaze lingers on that hole, far longer than it needs to.

Abruptly, however, she glances up again. "How old's the Bauer building, do you know? It's one of the older ones, I know that."

"About a hundred years. It seems to have had its era of greatness in the twenties, thirties -- which explains the art nouveau decor and style." Ravn smiles lightly. "By Gray Harbor standards it's definitely one of the older buildings to not have been torn down and rebuilt in the meantime."

Is there a little bit of European snobbery trying to peek out there? Probably. A house a hundred years old isn't that big a deal where he's from. Just a higher maintenance bill.

"It's easier to explain once you've had a taste of it yourself." He offers a small, wry smile. "Until you have, I mean, I sound like the town loon, talking about overlapping realities and manifestations. There are a lot of them -- realities. A few of them seem to be pretty steadily connected here, most seem completely random. There's an entire mirror town over there, in a kind of mirror universe, too. I've never gone myself, but there are people in Gray Harbor who can travel back and forth. I've met some of the denizens from there."

"Yeah," says Una. "I feel like... I'm at the point where I know just enough to know that I don't really know anything. Which is fine. It's pretty clear that whether or not I want to, I'm going to find out more. And that's also fine. I mean, as far is it goes."

She traces out an 'E' in the condensation on her glass (or perhaps it's a 'T'? Hard to tell, really), then glances back at Ravn. "Jules and I visited Mrs Leigh, to see if she knew more about my family, and... well, our ghost, in a roundabout kind of way. Apparently my family tried to start a museum, back in the early 1900s sometime. Which seems ridiculous, unless there were artefacts they wanted to get rid of, right? But the whole thing collapsed, and the likelihood of any of that stuff still being stored somewhere is ridiculous, right?" Right? Right?

Ravn can't resist another little smile; it's the kind of smile that says I know exactly how ridiculous I sound but I'm still talking. And for some reason, you're still listening.

"Maybe it's not that ridiculous. I'm a folklorist -- meaning, I study stories. Narratives. Tropes and archetypes. If there's one thing this town runs on, it's those. And what kind of ghost story have you ever read where the ghost has to throw up his hands and say, fine, we're not actually going to resolve this haunting because unfortunately, someone accidentally tossed the haunted doll in the woodchipper in 1957, and I'm just going to hang around here and go 'boo' at people until I get bored enough to fade away? It doesn't work like that. If the ghost is still here -- so's the mystery."

He sips his whiskey. "Nothing here's ever simple. Gray Harbor is full of ghosts. Have you ever read about ghosts and hauntings? There are a lot of theories, and a lot of them seem sane enough. But it's different here because there are things and beings on the Other Side that look for stories and old grievances and power them. Your ancestor may be -- well, not your ancestor at all, but some Veil construct that feeds on yours or your grandmother's memory of the family legend."

Grey eyes strafe over Una, followed by a small smile. "Lots of theory. I can lecture for hours on this subject. But the important issue isn't how it works, it's what we do about it."

Una's acknowledgment comes with her somewhat reluctant little nod and a huffed out breath of air. Presumably that's for what Ravn has to say as a whole rather than any one piece of it in particular. "I was never," she admits, "one of those little girls drawn to ghost stories. Frankly, they scared me shitless. So it never crossed my mind to make them feel any more real by actually reading about the reality of it. But-- ok."

Ghosts are a reality, and despite her feelings on the subject, clearly she's accepted that. Equally clearly, she's at least a little dismayed by all of this. "I'm not sure if I take comfort from the idea that the ghost might not actually be my ancestor, or not. It's-- tough. Particularly with Jules." That's an admission that turns her cheeks faintly pink (pinker than usual, anyway).

"So we'll need to research. Figure out what happened to the whole museum idea, and where things might have ended up, afterwards. Unless it's all a red herring, of course. Ancestor or not, the ghost has been pretty quiet except to spin the hands on the clock in the kitchen, and slam the library door occasionally."

"It doesn't really matter if the ghost is real or some kind of construct," Ravn agrees. "The ghost thinks he's real, that's enough. And from what we've seen he wants to make up for his shitty behaviour -- so he's got no interest in misleading you, I imagine."

He cants his head and thinks. "There's a Historical Society in town. I've never actually had any dealings with them because I can't bloody well manage to find anyone who's a member. But even if it's drifted into obscurity as I suspect, it will still have records somewhere, and we should be able to find those. Might be time to pester someone in town hall, maybe. Granny Leigh was a good place to start but if she doesn't know? We probably need to go further back. St Mary's is another good spot -- church records might tell us where your ancestor lived at the time, where his relatives lived, what old houses might have something stashed in the attic."

Una hesitates, halfway through nodding confirmation of everything Ravn has to say. She drops her gaze, focusing it upon her drink for a few long seconds before she says, "Mrs Leigh warned us that if we did find what we were looking for, we should be prepared for... uh, residues? That the items could be cursed or protected or something? Even if the ghost, real or not, wants them to be found?"

She sounds pretty dubious: all those question marks.

"Granny Leigh's lived with the thin spot longer than you and I have been alive," Ravn agrees and toys with the plastic cigarette. "Someone who's survived here for that long? I am inclined to pay very close attention to whatever opinion she may offer. Something not your asshole ancestor having an opinion seems entirely likely -- after all, something prevented the truth from coming out back then. It's very likely that you're not the target of this whole affair at all -- but that your ancestor was, and still is."

Not the answer Una was hoping for, Ravn... but nor is she entirely dismissing it. She sighs, busying herself with her drink as-- likely-- a way to fill in some space while she processes. Finally: "Ok. I guess that makes sense. It'd definitely help to know more about what happened to him, and I guess what's happened since. I don't think my grandmother... from what Mrs Leigh implied, she wasn't like us. And neither was my mom, except that changed, because she is now. Every time I get a little bit more information, it feels like I just end up with more things I don't know."

"The true Gray Harbor experience: Realise that you're clueless, and the more they tell you, the more clueless you feel." Ravn toys with his cigarette, letting it dance between the fingers of a gloved hand in a nice little show of manual dexterity. "I'm sorry that there are no simple answers. And when there are, we tend to overlook them, looking for something deeper. Might be something in the Veil is just getting a kick out of watching you and Jules be uncomfortable around colonialist history."

He looks at the cigarette. And then back at Una. "Please don't think I'm some kind of oracle. I talk myself warm easy but when push comes to shove, I'm stumbling along as much as you are. Sometimes my field of study lets me predict a bit of what's coming. Sometimes what's coming takes one look at the rules, and then breaks every one for shit and giggles. It's all well and good to speculate -- but in the end, it's still what happens and what we do about it that matters. As far as I know I'm the first person in my family who has any kind of talent like this -- but I've definitely got some asshole ancestors who'd get along just fine with yours."

Another long exhale from Una, who looks as though she'd really like things to be simple and straightforward and inclined to follow a recipe (life should be more like baking, see). But: "No, I get it. And it'd figure that, white city girl ends up in small town with native roommate... I mean, it makes perfect narrative sense, doesn't it? I'm not even sure I've ever knowingly interacted with anyone of a native background outside of, like, school trips, until moving here."

And that's just the easiest part of the whole thing to tackle!

She picks up her glass again, and, after taking a long sip, wipes her mouth with the back of one hand. "Ok. Ok. St Mary's, you said? And the historical society."

"I'm honestly surprised I haven't been confronted with more of my family's crap over time." Ravn nods and dips into a pocket. Producing a battered old zippo, he tosses it on the counter. It's silver, engraved with some unreadable text and what looks like a very faded coat of arms. "This used to belong to my great-grandfather. I always knew he'd done business with the Germans during World War II. Coming face to face with it in a dream a while back, though? That was something else. So I wrote home, asked some questions -- they gave him that thing, as a thank-you. I feel like I should dump it somewhere, but, in a way, it's also a badge of shame I feel like I should preserve so that future generations don't forget."

Una's wince is one of distinct, definite empathy, gaze dropping towards the silver zippo to study it thoughtfully, though she makes no move to touch: one hand is on her drink, the other curled into the soft wool of her excessively long scarf. "I get that," she says, nodding slowly. "Not that I've had the Dream experience of it, thankfully," be careful what you say out loud, Una Irving, "because that really would bring it into sharp relief, but... it's hard, because I know I'm not the one who did this stuff. But..." But.

"Yes. Exactly that. I didn't pretend I didn't know where the money came from and where the goods were going. But I still benefit from blood money today, and in a way, so do you. And that is a harsh truth to be looking at, when someone like Jules is pointing out that for her and her people, this is not something that happened a lifetime or longer ago, it's still happening." Ravn nods his agreement. "All we can do about it is help out where we can -- and, you know, not be assholes. We're not guilty of past crimes, but we can make sure that we're also not guilty of perpetuating them."

"Yeah," says Una. "I inherited a house, and a bank account, and it's not like I'm suddenly a millionaire, but... it's privilege, and some of it, at least, comes from fucking over other people. Lucky me."

With a low, rueful chuckle, she lifts her glass in a toast. "To acknowledging how fucked up our ancestors were," she says. "And then being better than they were. Which... is not all that hard, to be fair."

Ravn raises his glass as well. "To asshole ancestors who established the family fortune raiding England, and, well, never really reconsidered until pretty much my grandfather having to stay on the ridiculously straight and narrow because 'son of German collaborator' was a really shitty label to have in 1946."

He upends it, and then gestures at Davis for a refill. Twelve year Glenfiddich. Some of those asshole ancestors must have left him with a decent budget. "At least it's not difficult to do better. It says a lot about our society in general what we consider to be privileged though -- owning a house? Not having to worry whether we can afford food at the end of the month? That should not be privilege. That should be the normal."

Itzhak swaggers in like a very tired gunslinger. He squints in the transition from actually-darker-outside; Pacific Northwest winter dusks are quick. Davis hails him and he replies with a silent fingergun.

White guilt, asshole ancestors, and making toasts on a Saturday afternoon? It's very, very white.

Una drains a fair amount of beer, and makes a face-- though it's definitely for what Ravn has to say rather than the beer. "Yeah, well. Welcome to America. My mom worked two jobs to keep us afloat, and she's never going to own a home. Which... raises a whole bunch more questions about my family, but that's beside the point. We're pretty fucked up as a society, even today."

"Denmark's not that much better in that regard." Ravn raises his glass in a salute to the new arrival. "Yo, Rosencrantz -- come say hello to my neighbour, Una Irving. Una, meet Rosencrantz -- who, speaking of ancestral guilt, has yet to tear me a new one for that asshole ancestor of mine's antics. Davis, my tab."

Someone's feeling generous. Or maybe it's just the haggard look on Itzhak's face. "We were talking about -- well, the town, and the way things work, but also about privilege. Both of us have ancestors who were less than fantastic."

"Una, how you doin'." Itzhak rolls on over to offer Una a shake of his giant paw. He's got a New York accent that could chip wood. There's ink on his knuckles, STAY and DOWN. Ravn gets a flash of a grateful look as Itzhak, tall lanky guy, pulls up a seat. "Yeah well don't lemme interrupt. Whiskey sour," to Davis, because Ravn and Una aren't the only ones out for a little more or less day drinking.

Una's, "Nice to meet you, Rosencrantz," is genuinely warm; the redhead smiles despite the relatively serious nature of the conversation underway. Or maybe because of: it's hard to tell. Either way, she accepts Itzhak's hand, shakes it (a pretty weak shake, on her side), and adds, "Oh no - interrupt away. Else we'll probably get maudlin and feel sorry for our poor privileged selves."

"And then you'd have to kick my arse again, and we'd be mad at each other and skip violin practise this week," Ravn concludes Una's list, grinning slightly.

He toys with the coat-of-arms lighter. "I was just telling Una that her ancestor may have stolen and pillaged among the Quinault, but mine worked for the Nazis, so basically, we're both saddled with a ton of white guilt."

"I got a first name too. Itzhak." Pronounced with a little nonEnglish twist, yit-ZOHK. He quirks one corner of his mouth in a quarter-smile to Una. "Shit, wouldn't want nobody to get maudlin."

This is a joke, as he looks well on the way to maudlin himself. "My grandparents told me that's the beauty of America, we come here and we can be just like anybody else, but now that I think about it that mighta been sarcastic." This calls for bar food.

Una's repetition of Itzhak's name is clearly an attempt to memorise it. Her pronunciation's not perfect, but it's an honest attempt. "You got a preference for one over the other? Or is it just Ravn having a preference towards surnames?"

"Ah yes, the great American dream. Streets paved with gold; no more discrimination; everyone lives happily ever after. Except not. And then there's the," she grins at Ravn, "white guilt to go with it. Hurray!"

Nope, this conversation didn't turn the corner towards cheerful, not at all.

"Actually, I picked that preference up from this klutz." Ravn smiles lightly; and if the yiddish sounds weird coming from him, he ignores it -- it's half German, after all, and he's practically German. "But it's because I can still not quite work out when to use what. English and American English have very complex rules for names -- when to call somebody sir or mister, use their first name or their last, it's not at all obvious to a foreigner. So I tend to go with the safe bet a lot -- and then this bloke and his buddies are all Roen, de la Vega, Cavanaugh, Rosencrantz, and well, it works."

"Eh, true, I call most everybody by their last names." Itzhak shrugs like whaddya gonna do. "At least if they're guys. I don't call Roen's wife Roen, that would just be weird." He wrinkles his magnificent schnozz at Ravn. "You're only getting away with that because ya buying my drinks. So what brings you to town, Una?"

They all ask, don't they, and the question always has an undertone.

The lift-and-furrow of Una's brows suggests she's never really registered the complex, but often unspoken rules of English, and probably wouldn't be able to define them if asked. It's just... the way things are. Like the specific order of adjectives when describing a thing.

Even so: "So a woman doesn't get to own her own surname? Huh." She's not particularly serious in the face she makes in Itzhak's direction, though there's a hint of feminist affront all the same. It's not enough to prevent her from moving on, in any case. "I inherited my grandmother's house, decided I should check it out, and here I am. And yes: I've had the hotel California speech."

"Actually, I've considered that," Ravn admits with a half-laugh. "It does seem more natural a lot of the time to call a woman by her given name. So I try to -- not, unless it'd be confusing. I still confuse myself a lot of the time anyway. And then of course everyone and their mother calls me Abildgaard because Ravn sounds to an anglophone's ear like I'm some kind of emo poet. Ironically, the name kind of signals nationalist conservative circles where I'm from. It's even the surname of a lesser noble lineage."

The face and statement Una makes at him gets a snort out of Itzhak and an elaborate Yiddish shrug, long wiry arms unfurling and big inked hands spreading. "Well excuse the shit oudda me," he mutters, half annoyed and half amused. "Ya grandmother's house?"

The way he says it, with a hoist of his eyebrows, suggests he thinks it's haunted af. He glances at Ravn, as if to be sure we're on the same page here. "Okay, good, Abildgaard's real good at that speech." His whiskey sour has arrived and he takes it up.

Clearly, this name thing is not a hill Una intends to die on, so while no doubt she could express further Opinions on the subject, she moves on.

"My grandmother's house," she confirms, and that hoist of Itzhak's eyebrows? It earns a rueful chuckle. "Who was not the asshole ancestor referred to earlier, though for all I know she was another of them. She's not the one haunting the place, at least."

Because... yeah. There's always a ghost, sure enough.

"I'm starting to feel as if Kinney and I got the only house on Oak Avenue that isn't haunted," Ravn agrees, with a chuckle. "All we got is a faerie circle slash portal to Neverland in the backyard. And it makes me wonder how much of the time slip I spent walking from one house for sale to another, noping out whenever something tried to manifest, too."

Something resurfaces in the Dane's mind and he glances at Itzhak -- the New Yorker's been in town longer than he has, please accept the impromptu nomination to local old geezer who Drinks Whiskey and Knows Things. "You happen to know if the Historical Society have their records at town hall or at Addington House? I've been trying to catch hold of them since pretty much when I came into town but barring a quick tour by Atli once, I never managed. Their records should be accessible somewhere, though, and Asshole Irving might be mentioned in them."

Itzhak holds up a long finger, excuse please, busy Drinking Whiskey. He comes up for air, sucks his lower lip free of liquor. "Addington House, pretty sure. They like to keep stuff like that close. You wanna break in?"

He's apparently completely serious, hiking his eyebrows at both Ravn and Una like this is a totally reasonable thing to suggest.

'Time slip' clearly registers with Una, though it surely can't be entirely new information - and in any case, she doesn't actually take that point further, because instead she's turning a surprised-- and appraising-- glance on Itzhak.

Two months ago, her reaction might have been quite different. Today, however, she merely hesitates. "When you say 'close', you mean, 'breaking in is the only way to see them', or 'it'd take miles of paperwork and a lot of convincing, so this is simpler'?"

Ravn purses his lips. "I should have considered that. My idea was to walk in and wheedle some bureaucrat until they let me at the crates and binders. You know -- the academic approach. But you're right. Hyacinth Addington may not want to continue her family's bad habits, but she's not yet formally in charge, and this town? Anyone over fifty knows that there's only one queen of Gray Harbor and her name is Margaret Addington. And she sure as hell has a lot of secrets. We may actually have to consider finding another way."

Itzhak tips a hand back and forth. "Little of column A, little of column B?" A sudden smile flashes across his well-worn face, aimed at Una. It doesn't last before settling into a funny twist at mention of Old Lady Addington. He looks back at Ravn and tips his glass towards him, like, you got it.

Suggesting to perfect strangers that they break in for real estate records: the kind of conversation one has in Gray Harbor. Apparently.

"And some amount of column c, which is 'it'd be much more fun to do it this way'," Una concludes, sans judgement. Mostly sans judgement, at least - and in any case, the corners of her mouth are twitching upwards.

"Well." She lets that hang in the air between them a few moments. She pauses, has another sip or two of her beer. "That's clearly not catering to my strengths. But..."

She's not opting out, shall we say.

"Well, if we are even entertaining this idea, step one is scoping out the place. There are guided tours. Let's go on one." Ravn grins slightly and sips his whiskey. And if there is a certain gleam in steel grey eyes it's got absolutely nothing to do with the fact that below the law abiding community centre administrator slash university lecturer, there's a grifter and a thief who has not gotten to do anything stupid in entirely too long.

It's a damn good thing Itzhak is around to provide opportunity to be stupid on a regular basis.