2022-01-24 - Fighting Back. Sometimes With Crime.

There's a man at a table in a coffee shop. It's the only coffee shop in town -- and it's probably also the only Danish guy in town (or at least the only one with more or less permanent residence and an official mailing address). Ravn Abildgaard sits at the window table near the counter, looking at something on a sleek little laptop, as black as his shirt (and jeans, and boots, and kidskin gloves). An older house dominates the screen in all its Victorian glory, and the town name in one corner; looking at the local tourist's guide online, perhaps?

There's a large, bright red paper cup sitting on the table next to the man, full of syrups and whipped cream and pumpkin spice; it says HAPPY HOLIDAYS on the side, with a picture of a reindeer. This guy either really loves his weird concoctions, or the barista is a day drinker.

"Eventually, you're going to start thinking I'm stalking you," warns Una, coming up alongside Ravn's table after collecting her drink from the Della who isn't her roommate (hers is plain black coffee, not even anything so fancy as espresso; exactly what she ordered). "Or I'm going to get used to the fact that this town is small enough that it's no surprise when you end up following your neighbours from place to place over the course of a few days. Morning, Ravn."

She doesn't help herself to a chair-- that would be too forward, even from a pseudo-stalker-- but those dark eyes of hers do drop towards the computer screen nosily, with just the faintest twitch of a brow.

"I won't consider you a successful stalker until you take pity on me and order coffee for me too," Ravn replies; grey eyes sparkle with amusement as his gaze drfts from the black coffee in Una's hand and towards the colourful monstrosity that is his ditto. "Let me give you a tip: Never, ever be a European tourist ordering an Americano and then try to tell an American barista what that means. Della has never forgiven me."

At the counter, the barista who is indeed not an Oak Avenue resident just smirks.

He nods at a chair and then at his laptop. "Just looking a bit at Addington House. I've only gone once -- a very strange experience. It started weird when no one had thought to let me know that what I thought was a regular guided tour turned out to be a fund raiser for the rich and influential, and let me tell you, I felt a bit out of place in jeans and sneakers."

"What's... an Americano?" dutifully wonders Una, with a somewhat dubious wrinkle of her nose. It doesn't stop her from taking up a chair and setting her coffee down (a little apologetic: she won't be offering to trade, not today).

Interest piqued, she leans in, not so much to take another look at what's on Ravn's laptop, but perhaps to keep the conversation suitably quiet (if not particularly subtle). "Oh, shit. That would be awkward. I've not even been past to see it from the outside, if I'm honest. I figured it was just... you know, big old fancy house, full of expensive things."

"That," Ravn says, amused and nods at the cup in Una's hand. "That is an Americano. Black drip coffee, no fuss, no frills. Unless you're in Italy -- then it's just an abomination, and the best they'll do for you is a watered-down espresso."

He leans back a little and turns the monitor slightly to allow her a better look. "It is. The family doesn't live there anymore -- it's a heritage museum, with a garden that probably employs a quarter of the town. It's no wonder they need to run fund raisers for maintenance, I just didn't realise. And of course the place is haunted as heck -- just as you'd expect. It was the first time I actually met someone from the Other Side. A lady stepped right out of the mid-1980s, pink shirt with shoulder pads and the works. She's called the Exorcist, and as far as I can make out, her job is to keep some kind of track of ghost interaction between the two realities."

A small wry smile goes with that. "Next time I saw her she did a table flip and rage quit so... maybe the Exorcist isn't around any more, anyhow."

The furrow in Una's brow is a thoughtful one: she processes this explanation, and finally nods. "Right. The coffee that Americans drink, per the rest of the world where, I guess, it's not necessarily the default?" Whereas here... it's just coffee.

She stares at the computer screen, then blinks back at Ravn. "I never... I guess I tend to think of spectral creatures are more like ghosts, and ghosts are old, except they're not necessarily, are they?"

A pause. "... why did she rage quit?"

"Nah, I drink my coffee this way because it's how we drink it in Denmark too. But anywhere that has adopted its coffee traditions from Italy, well, drip coffee is just weird. Including a couple of big American chains, you know?" Ravn glances at his cup of late-onset diabetes. "Della's never let it go, though. I'm sure she would if I really got off my arse and complained but, you know how it is. By now I have a party watching all the effort she will go to, to get back at me."

Like saving cups from December. And pumpkin spice from Halloween.

He shakes his head. "Ghosts can be -- very recent. There's a prevalent theory that a lot of the creatures that are described as some kind of -ist were once human. That they're people who got lost and somehow live on, over there, but they don't quite remember what being human is like. Which is why they fuck things up as bad as they do, a lot of the time. She quit because somebody more or less accidentally stole a large amount of ghosts that she was guarding. Remind me to tell you about the Addington-Baxter feud sometime, if you've got about -- twenty hours and a whiteboard."

Una shoots a glance over her shoulder back at Della, then back at the coffee at the table, and laughs. "Right. Well-- it's kind of funny, anyway. And presumably you can make coffee just as well at home, so..." So funny it is.

She wraps both hands around her coffee, warming her hands on it, and considers. "Stealing ghosts. Ok. I mean, stealing is bad," except when it's not, shhh, "and... sure. Ok. Let's skip the Addington-Baxter feud until or unless it's relevant. They run tours, you said?"

"Oh, I'm a history teacher -- I'm warning you against getting me started because I can talk for days." Ravn grins slightly. Then he looks back at the monitor and the gorgeous Queen Anne residence with its pillars and broken bronze statues and porches that ought to come with at least southern Belle poised decoratively in a lounge chair somewhere.

He glances at a menu that lists phone numbers. "As far as I can tell, it's run by the Historical Society. And that's where things get complicated because most of these names are people I have never met. The one name I do recognise is Hyacinth Addington whom I'd call a close friend except she doesn't really spend much time in town anymore because of her work. I'd go to her about it but doing so would also put her in a very awkward position -- because in this town, the job of the Historical Society is to obscure a lot of the things the Addingtons got up to over time, and well, she's kind of next in line for family matriarch."

Perfectly normal conversation. And oddly, no one even seems to notice.

Parvati steps into the coffee shop, as always the particularly tall and willowy woman is dressed well. Today it starts with a pillbox hat in a most vibrant saffron-yellow. The hat is decorated with several small feathers in a trefoil shape, layered in contrasting blue. She wears what appears to be a long waist-coat, rather reminiscent of those worn in yesteryear. The coat is a rich purple, and seems cinched at the waist to cling tightly. Buttoned up the middle the coat features a somewhat daring plunge that allows a somewhat generous amount of light-mahogany cleavage to be displayed. The edges of a golden rod silk shirt of some sort are seen, like a bevel, at the edges of that display.

A long, pencil skirt is worn to complete the outfit, in stark black. She wears an older style of silk stocking- a well tailored seam lifting vertically along the back of each long leg. On her feet a pair of yellow three inch heels, to match her hat.
Parvati takes a moment, before she notices Ravn and his companion. She approaches. "Well, hello again." she says, nodding her head towards Una

Una's grin, by way of return, is genuine enough. "I'll keep that in mind," she's saying, right before Parvati approaches.

The new arrival unsurprisingly catches her attention, both for an appraising-- and impressed-- glance at the woman's clothes (her own are far less tailored, more thrift-shop chic than high fashion), and to then give her a warm smile. "Good morning," she says, politely. "Your coat... absolutely beautiful."

Ravn raises a gloved hand in a friendly wave. "Hello, Parvati. Meet Una -- my neighbour on Oak Avenue. You look like a million bucks today -- advertising the shop already?" A smile accompanies the observation, and he adds, "My fiancee was very into modern fashion but I get the feeling you prefer the classics?"

He's not thrift shop chic. Thrift shops tend to have colour.

"Parvati's another newcomer to town. Planning to set up a tailor shop in the Bauer Building, if I heard right? I sort of dropped in on Perdita while they were making arrangements. Say, Parvati, I don't suppose you're the kind of person who would drink an over-sugared whipped cream pumpkin spice out of a Christmas cup in January?" Because there's one sitting right there on the table, next to the laptop, and it certainly hasn't been touched.

"Oh, thank you!" Parvati offers to Una- the accent in the woman's voice obvious and clear, clipped tones of a native Hindi speaker. "Just a little something I came up with for the cold." she says, nodding thankfully again to Una's compliment.

"A pleasure, Ms. Una." Parvati begins, before her eyes move towards Ravn. "I'm an artist, darling, I make whatever my little heart desires. Sometimes it's skirts, other times its trousers." she explains, as she joins the pair wherever they're sitting. "Oh, no. Why would anyone do such a thing to coffee?" she wonders, a touch of horror in her features.

"As for the store, I've already begun renovations to make the space what I desire, along with renovating an apartment in the building. It should be quite lovely to live so close to work."

Impressed-- something about 'tailor shop' and 'came up with' has done it-- Una straightens, her consideration of the other woman clearly sharpened. "I'll have to come by and have a look, once you're open," she says. "I'd love to see more of what you do, even if it's no doubt all beyond my price range." Not to mention unlikely to suit her body shape. Oh, to be tall and willowy!

With a tip of her head towards the coffee, she adds, "I think we're all in agreement on that one. Where have you moved from, Parvati? And why... here? Huh-- I must be settling in, if I'm starting to ask the same questions everyone's been asking of me."

"Welcome to the club," Ravn murmurs, amused. "When you've lived here a year, you're practically a fixture. Where I'm from, eighteen thousand is actually a decent sized town but somehow, Gray Harbor manages to retain that tiny village feel all the same, even to me."

He doesn't seem to have any plans of actually sampling the sugary horror sitting there in its reindeer adorned cup. Maybe he's just bought it to legitimise sitting here with a laptop, leeching the wifi.

"Do you work leather?" A glance up and dow Parvati's coat. "I have two different Italian leather jackets with ruined sleeves, and I'll admit, the idea of throwing them away bothers me since there's nothing wrong with the rest of them."

"Of course, darling, happy to have someone come by and see whatever I'm working on." Parvati offers to Una. "Most of my work is by commission, to be perfectly honest, although I will have a retail aspect. Much of that will not be custom work, but rather from designers or brands I wish to share with the world." Parvati smiles, lifting a hand towards whatever barista or employee is available. "Coffee, black, please!" she says with that bright smile- a friendly thing.

"Yes, I do work leather." Parvati offers to Ravn. "I'm rather fond of leather as a material. Not as much as silk, but, I believe the love of silk is in my DNA." she says with a bit of a smile. Her gaze returns to Una, "Yes, it's a question I've been asked so many times already. I felt drawn here- by what, I can't say. Previously, I lived on the East Coast, in New York City." she says. "I lived there for perhaps five years. I moved after that- another three years or so just kind of migrating ever west-ward. First Chicago, then to Salt Lake City. Surprising market for lingerie in Salt Lake City. I never made so many corsets or garters." she says with a quiet chuckle.

'Drawn here' draws another thoughtful look from Una, though she makes no specific comment on it aside from the quick dip of her chin in acknowledgement. "Chicago, Salt Lake City, New York City... Gray Harbor." The twitch of her smile is an amused one. "I hope you find whatever it is that-- well. We're an interesting bunch."

To Ravn: "You could cut off the sleeves and wear them as, like, a biker jacket kind of thing. That'd really suit your style." She's joking, eyes glittering with amusement.

"A lot of us came here for similar reasons," Ravn murmurs and glances at the barista -- who looks him straight in the eye, unrepentant, with no intention whatsoever to let him have a regular black coffee, ever. "I was hitch-hiking down from Seattle, heading for Portland -- planning to just keep going south until the Tierra del Fuego, really. Got into an argument with a driver and got tossed out of the truck on my arse in Main Street. Decided I'd stick around for a week or two, work up some cash cleaning tables at the beach bar -- and here I am, it's been a year and a half and I have a fixed mailing address like the square I've become."

Una's suggestion warrants a small laugh, though. "Come on, I have a reputation to uphold. I'm the dullest man in Gray Harbor. I took six months to convince myself I could buy that damned motorcycle instead of riding a rented family car like a good little soccer mum." Eyes still sparkling with silent laughter at the idea he adds to Parvati, "I'll come over for a quote sometime, when you've settled in. The idea of throwing out perfectly good clothes just because somebody took a shot or a stab at me rubs me the wrong way."

For Parvati, though? Coffee, black- no sugar, no cream. Perhaps an additional slight to Ravn to give someone else what he most desires. Parvati lets the coffee sit a moment to cool. "Yes, it seems everyone has a similar story. They just end up here- but, the town is oddly charming all the same and my business can be done by mail as easily as in person. Most of my clients are of the sort who'd fly in for a fitting if required anyways." the fashionista says before finally taking a sip of her coffee.

"That sounds perfect, Ravn. Once I have all my tools delivered, it shouldn't be a particularly difficult task to measure and recut the arms. If anything, the jackets will fit all the better with tailored arms."

The 'taktaktak' of heels announces Perdita's presence before she's actually arrived. The glossy black heels are designer, as is the bag that looks like it should have a little toy dog genetically engineered to have all sorts of health problems but look adorable. The coat is high enough quality that it could almost pass for fur that's been dyed dusty rose, rather than her usual style of 'Muppet Hunter', and the little black dress, emphasis on little, hugs her curves. Her long dark hair has been partially swept into high pigtails, and her usual fringe is no where in sight.

"You'll keep her business afloat on your own, as often as you get shot at, stabbed, run over, dragged down the road..."

"I wouldn't call yourself a 'soccer mom' too loudly," is Una's opinion. "You never know who," or what, "may be listening. Anyway, I'm not convinced you're as dull as you think you are."

Further comment is forestalled: Perdita's just arrived, and Una's attention is immediately distracted by that pink coat. "See? No-one who is actually dull ends up in half as many scrapes, I'm convinced. Morning, Perdita."

"Or maybe I'm just that cow in the herd who keeps standing on the railway track to look at the light that keeps getting bigger," Ravn says, amused. "I won a fist fight once in my life. And it took the other guy being so high he could barely see straight for me to manage to land one on him."

He nudges a chair out for the dusty rose with woman inside, and then makes a pained little grimace at Una. "I already did a stint as Maid Marian. I mean, at least a soccer mum would get better footwear. And a carte blanche to go full Karen on the barista."

"Well, darling, you should learn to throw a punch. Be happy to show you sometime." Parvati offers to Ravn as she stands, "I'm really only here for a coffee as I finalize designs with the contractor." she says as she takes her coffee with that same, friendly smile- turning just in time to see Perdita, "Oh, Dita, darling! You look fantastic." she offers. "I love that coat- just the right amount of floofy!" she says, before heading to the Barista to pay for her drink. "I'll hope to see you all later. Bye!" with that, Parvati is off- out the door again into the cold.

The chair is accepted, Parvati is given a little twirl to truly appreciate the floof of the coat and oh my goodness that is a lot of leg Perdita's showing. "Thank you, it was actually a thrift store find at this little place in Seattle."

"What did you torture him with today, Della?" Perdita asks the day manager with a smirk, before ordering herself a large black coffee and a large hot chocolate... and an extra cup. Because she's going to do the thing with the hot cocoa and the coffee again, isn't she. Drinks in hand, she accepts Ravn's pushed out seat, sitting gracefully, legs crossing at the knee. "Good morning, Una." She looks like the cat who got the canary.

The corners of Una's mouth turn up in acknowledgement of Ravn's Maid Marian troubles-- and the relative benefits of the soccer mom alternative. "I suppose," she agrees. "In theory, it sounds relatively safe."

She leans back, using the back of her seat to support her weight, and turns her attention back to her coffee: it is, after all, there to be drunk (unlike Ravn's monstrosity). "Thrift shop finds are the best. You can get so many amazing things, if you know what to look for. If you're lucky, too, I suppose. You're looking particularly cheerful this morning." This, clearly, to pink-coat'd Perdita.

"Out of season pumpkin spice roast walnut latte in an out of season holiday cup," Ravn replies when Della does not. "And as far as I can tell, extra whipped cream and vanilla syrup."

No comment from the counter area.

He turns his attention back to the women at his table, raising a hand in a wave to Parvati as she gets up and leaves. Then he glances back to the still open laptop and lowers his voice. "So, Una and I are kind of casually contemplating breaking and entering in Addington House. Or the Historical Society which resides in the old post office building. Either, or, maybe both."

"I'm done with the demolition I feel confident doing, and that means I can stop risking life and limb, and let the menfolk handle it finally." Perdita explains to Una with a smile, "Which means..." she holds up her hands, upon which are nails even longer and sharper than she normally wears, painted a glossy black.

"I can go back to being utterly frivolous, girly, and never have to swing a sledgehammer again. Unless I want to. Or for self defense, I suppose." The empty cup is half filled with black coffee, then half filled with hot cocoa... and the remaining coffee is casually set to one side, near Ravn's easy reach.

"Why are we breaking an entering?" Yes, she's including herself in this, without a doubt.

"Oh - congratulations!" Una's pleasure is genuine, her grin bright. "And now you know how to swing a sledgehammer properly, presumably, so you're all ready for that eventuality, should it ever happen."

The redhead glances from Ravn to Perdita, back again, and presses her lips together. That she's a little less blasé about this breaking-and-entering is probably no surprise, but she's clearly not against the idea. "We want to see if there are records relating to my asshole ancestor."

"That, pretty much." Ravn's gloved fingers somehow manage to sneak over and whaddya know, he's got half a cup of regular black coffee from somewhere, and not a word has been said about it. Perdita is going to cash in that favour big some day -- and Della can't really make a fuss because then she'll have to admit to systematically jerking a regular around for a year and half. Just because everyone knows she does it doesn't mean she'll admit to it.

Or maybe it really just is some kind of bizarre courtship ritual they have going, her and the Dane.

"We're on the hunt for some misplaced Quinault artefacts," he elaborates. "They were supposed to have been turned into a small town museum sometime in the 20th century, but then something happened and they weren't. If there's records anywhere it'll be either deep in the vaults of town hall or at the Historical Society. And given it's Veil related -- well, it's Una's call, but my gut feeling tells me, it's never as simple with the Veil as just walking in and making a request. And also, we're in Gray Harbor -- fuckery that happened in the past inevitably has an Addington involved."

"Oh, I knew how before. Báte insisted. But... yeah." She laughs softly and shrugs out of her coat. Her arms don't look any thicker but perhaps a bit more toned and dear god that is a lot of skin she's showing, now. "Must be nice only to have one asshole ancestor, though." Perdita teases, smiling.

"Of course there's an Addington involved. Half the time fuckery involved in the present has an Addington involved." Perdita points out, lifting her concoction and taking a sip. One wonders if she actually likes the flavor, or if she'd just using it as an excuse to get Ravn a black coffee without saying anything. Her voice drops only a little, since it's not like it carries far anyway, "What sort of security are we dealing with, and is the plan to liberate things, or just make sure they're actually there and alert the 'proper authorities'?"

"One that I know about, specifically. I'm sure the family tree is littered with them." Una does not go so far as to add 'I am, after all, white' or anything along those lines, but there's a ruefulness to her tone that suggests it all the same.

"I think it's mostly... exploratory mission. There maybe nothing there. There may be a record that leads us somewhere else. I don't know. But if the things are there, well. It doesn't seem like it'll be as simple as 'alert the authorities and the ghost goes away'."

And, really. Is it actually theft, if the items were stolen in the first place?

"My thought is to go on a guided tour of the place and see for myself about the security. I did go once -- but it turned out that what I thought was a regular guided tour was in fact some kind of high end suit and tie affair, and security was probably amped up for the occasion; people who spend more money on a suit than I spend on coffee in a year tend to see thieves everywhere." Ravn sips his coffee, and smiles; it's just coffee, no frills, nothing not water or beans. Bliss.

He nods at Una. "I think the idea is to just -- get to read the records, if they exist. Unless the artefacts are literally crated in the basement, I don't think we plan to actually steal anything. And if they are -- the solution might be not stealing them but raising enough of a fuss about them that the museum actually gets funded, or the Quinault Nation files a claim? I don't imagine you want to just keep your ghost and his ill-gotten souvenirs. I'd ask Hyacinth, to be honest, but -- I haven't seen her since sometime before Halloween, for all I know she's not even in town."

There's a slight tilt of her head, as if to indicate Una's not to blame. "I've got a few in mine, too. One of them fairly recently." though there's a certain fondness. Her father's an asshole, but he's at least trying to make things right, now, and that gets SOME credit.

"Disguises or no disguises?" She asks softly, taking another sip of her hot morning potion, smiling. "Getting proof that they're there, and more importantly, were still there as of us finding proof seems a good plan to me. Something to authenticate the date so they can't 'accidentally' lose anything in between proof being made and a claim being made, just in case. It'd hardly be the first time a museum 'lost' something when the rightful owners asked for it, after all."

Una's head shakes, several times quickly. "I definitely don't want the things. Jules will want them to go back to whomever they were stolen from, and that's-- that's I think the best option. Not a museum, at least, not in our name, if that makes sense."

Both hands wrap around her cup which must, by now, be mostly if not completely empty. It doesn't matter; it's a comfort gesture, as much as anything. "I'd hate for you to put your friend," Hyacinth, "in an awkward position, Ravn. Taking the tour surely can't raise suspicion and... the point of breaking in is to not get caught, right?" Because things always go to plan. Always.

"Well, there's nothing illegal in going on a guided tour, first of all. We check out the place, pay attention to security measures and try to get an idea for where we should start looking." Ravn sips his coffee. "Perdita and I both have a bit of experience in these matters -- to be blunt, I had a bit of a 'side job' when I was a student, and it won't be the first time I break into somebody's basement; knowing what kind of security measures are in place is always step one. So, boring normal clothes tour, somebody talks our ears off about town history and the unusual architecture. We buy postcards and the inevitable booklet about the place. Then we regroup and decide what to do."

He nods at Una again, appreciating perhaps the firm and decisive refutal of the idea that she might just be in this for reclaiming family treasures. "I could see the Quinault make a claim, maybe put the things on some kind of exhibit back on the Reservation where they belong. And that'd make sense to me, much more than them sitting in a vault or basement crate somewhere around here."

"Well. The three of us aren't locals. It only makes sense to do something touristy in our new home town, doesn't it?" Perdita asks, smiling ever so innocently. Look. She can do innocent. Someone cast her as the ingenue in some artsy film! "If they have anything better than a high end ADT system and a few Lorex cams I'll be a little surprised. Nothing we couldn't handle... if we had to. Who's the museum's head of security, anyway? Man, woman... non-binary twink?" She tilts her head to one side ever so slightly, smiling. Leave it to Perdita to go the honey pot route.

Una opens her mouth, then closes it again. She's seen Ravn pick locks, so it's not as if this is entirely new information-- and truthfully, it's hard to imagine she'd have gone along with this idea even this far if she didn't believe there was some expertise on the table. And yet... "Ok," she says. Really, it's fine. Mostly fine.

"Well, if you two have the expertise, I can ask all the stupid questions and chatter away endlessly while you look around. I'm probably not all that helpful, otherwise... for breaking and entering or," a nod towards Perdita, and a genuine smile, "distraction by seduction."

"I have no idea who the staff are. That's something we need to find out, I suppose. Addington House is still in use though -- the family doesn't live there, but from what I've seen, the second floor is used as offices for the family business. I told you wrong, actually -- I have been there twice, because now that I think about it, I also went to a Baxter-Addington reconciliation meeting once. And so did you, Perdita, even if you took a wrong turn and didn't actually intend to attend. You'll remember it well enough if I remind you that Atli Addington gave us all a hard time about it all, even when it was Hyacinth's idea." Ravn grins at the memory. Tall, blonde society girl yelling about not airing the family laundry in public, it was kind of hilarious, at least to him.

That little smile of Una's prompts one in the Dane too. "Aand I think I am with you there, Una. Seduction is definitely Perdita's department. But, before we start humming the Mission Impossible theme here, let's keep in mind that it might all be a matter of sticking a head through a basement door that says STAFF ONLY, and going yep, there are boxes with old feathers in there, and that's it. We're not exactly planning to rob Buckingham Palace. Hell, might be as simple as asking the cleaning lady."

"That sounds extremely useful, actually... though you never know. Whoever they are, maybe they a more curvaceous figure than I've been blessed with." Perdita glances at Una with a smile that makes it clear it's a compliment, rather than a put down. Women uplifting women, Dita's all about that life.

At the mention of the wrong turn, Perdita tilts her head slightly, smiling, "Yes, it was a rather awkward wrong turn, wasn't it?" another sip of her drink, another of those cheshire cat smiles with her sharp canines the only indication that she didn't appreciate the blonde's treatment of her that day. Yes, she meant to make the 'wrong turn'.

"Robbing Buckingham Palace isn't that difficult..." she murmurs.

It's not unfair to suggest that Ravn's reminder is perhaps a little disappointing: ok, yes, this may be less Mission Impossible and more... well, mundane. Una laughs, though, accepting the reality of it with a nod (and Perdita's compliment, too: that gets a wry twist of her mouth, albeit a pleased one).

"Ah, now you're getting down that Baxter-Addington-- Addington-Baxer?-- history path again. I assume it's still not strictly relevant, though, except in as much as there is complicated history in this town."

She may shook a glance at Perdita for that last comment, but she does not ask. Despite how tempting it must surely be.

The Buckingham Palace quip prompts a snort into the coffee cup. Ravn shakes his head and murmurs, smiling, "I'd tell you to remind me to never invite you to my family home except you've already been there in a dream. And as far as I am aware, the silverware didn't go missing."

Then he nods. "Well, let me give you the ultra condensed version, maybe. It's more that it's almost two hundred years of Hatfields and McCoys and no one stays awake for the full lecture. Basically, the Baxters got here first -- before here was anything but some stretch of beach. Then the Addingtons turned up and -- no one really knows what went down, but that's when the troubles began. The Baxters stayed around piss poor and generally trying to get out of town, and the Addingtons stayed around, got rich, and blamed the Baxters for everything. Baxters regularly turned into crazy axe murderers, and Addingtons, well, they just got more and more powerful."

He toys with his coffee cup. "We don't know what happened back then. We do know that when Baxters die, the tear in the Veil closes a little -- and that when Addingtons do, it opens back up. And that the Addington family, up to and including the present matriarch Margaret, has a vested interest in maintaining the status quo."

There's the sort of innocent look one actually expects from Perdita Leontes. She doesn't look at all innocent as she smiles at Una.

"Ravn, I'm hurt, I would never steal from you!" one exquisitely manicured hand presses against her mostly bare chest, "You don't have anything I want." which is, of course, teasing. It's already been established that there's two things Ravn has that Perdita would happily have claimed.

"I should actually get a move on, I need to finalize some paperwork, and then I'm supposed to Facetime with my sister for the first time in... a lot longer than I'd have liked." she smiles, slipping back into her coat and moving to stand and gather her cup of coffee-cocoa and the hot cocoa. "Let me know when things are planned for, though. I need a little of that sort of excitement in my life." rather than the weirdness that is this town in general.

Nor, for the record, does Una buy innocence from Perdita-- she laughs, instead.

Ravn's explanation draws a thoughtful expression from the redhead, her brows knitting in deep consideration that does not, immediately, make it into words, though there's definitely a question there.

First, though, there's Perdita and her impending departure. "We'll be in touch," she promises. "Enjoy your talk with your sister."

It's only after the other woman has left that she turns back to Ravn and says, "Are the Baxters cursed or something? Aside from the closing the veil thing, which seems, um, useful."

Ravn laughs at Perdita softly; he definitely does not buy the innocence. "Enjoy your talk. I'm glad you're catching up with family at last."

Then he looks back to Una and makes that little shrug that people tend to express with Japanese kanji: ¯_(ツ)_/¯

"Your guess is as good as anyone's. Something happened. The Baxters -- some of them managed to run away, some drift back, some of them go crazy, most of them just die young. Not all of them accidentally. But I can tell you this: It's a trap to think their deaths can close the Veil. Magic, folklore, call it what you want -- the supernatural did not just come into the world sometime in the middle of the 19th century. It existed before -- and Gray Harbor is not the only place on the planet where the Veil is thin and even torn in places."

A long, hesitant, thoughtful expression from Una; a pause, too, which accounts for the 'long' part of that particular statement. "No," she agrees. "Of course. It would be euro-centric and ridiculous to think that. I bet the local myths and legends have plenty to say about the Veil in their own way, though I imagine it looks different?" That's not entirely a question: a statement, mostly, with an upturned lilt just for emphasis.

"Very likely. I haven't managed to find any First Nations people who really wanted to talk to me about it. Jules is the first who's aired the idea at all, and sometime we get a breather, I have every intention of listening to anything she wants to tell me. But there isn't a culture anywhere on the planet that doesn't have myths about monsters in the mists, the dark, the woods. So while tossing every Baxter into a wood chipper is a plan that has in fact been set in motion a few times in local history, it's not a good plan."

He sighs, because there is no way to talk about this that doesn't make him sound like an indifferent asshole, void of empathy. "The reverse even happened, some years ago. A lot of Addingtons ended up dead, because the tear had closed too much and somebody wanted it re-opened."

Casually talking about killing either side of this particular equation doesn't make anyone sound good, but Una nods, taking the whole conversation in her stride. "Of course. Because once you figure that out, there's always going to be someone who wants to use it to their own ends."

She pushes her cup away (it really is empty, and probably has been for a while). "I'm sure Jules will be happy to talk. That is... I think she will." She has a shrug of her own. "I don't get the sense that she's pulled a lot of the pieces together."

"There's also the fact that unlike myths elsewhere, here things may actively screw with things just to amp it up. An indigenous story as told to Jules by her people may get turned around and Disneyfied or worse here, just for shit and giggles. It's good to use as a guideline -- but always react to what actually happens." Ravn nods. He's still got a mouthful or two left of Perdita's abandoned black.

Then he cants his head a little. "And speaking of -- how's your third house mate holding up? I seem to remember you said she doesn't shine. I'm struggling to think of what that must be like -- most people here who shine tend to stick to their own kind because it gets difficult. Both having to rationalise the inexplicable -- but also watching them forget."

Una makes a face. "I... hate to see Jules deal with something fucking with her myths and legends," she admits.

"I-- it's hard. I feel like I'm always watching what I say, because even though I know she'll forget, I don't want even that short-term weirdness, you know? And she was in that Dream I mentioned. I have wondered whether maybe it was a bad idea, letting her move on." Una clearly doesn't like that idea; doesn't like rejecting her roommate like that. "And she works from home, so she's always around, too, even if she's in her own room."

"You can't really force her to see things if she's not ready to see them. But odds are that if she has any kind of shine at all, she will -- things will keep on happening, and she will start to remember. She's certainly not the first person to come to town and having it happen like that. Just like I was certainly not the first person to come to town thinking I was the only one with any kind of weird trick." Ravn chuckles. "Bit ironic, really, considering that my power is a joke compared to most people here.

He glances into the cup; it's coffee but it's also kind of cold now. "I'm more worried about Jules in that regard. She gets very upset -- and rightfully so -- when she feels her culture is being slighted. I don't disagree with her, but it is the kind of open wound certain entities will love to salt, metaphorically speaking."

Una opens her mouth-- but stops, frowning. It's as if it has never occurred to her that Della-who-doesn't-work-in-the-coffee-shop might start shining one of these days. "Shit," she breathes. "I hadn't thought of that."

And maybe there's more, there, about the strengths of relative gifts, or about understanding one's own power, but then there's Jules, and Una has an intake of breath for her, too. "Yeah," she agrees. "I've thought about that. You were talking, last night, about emotions, and how that impacts things. Jules is basically one big hotbed of upset when it comes to certain things. And," she makes a face, but allows the truth of it, "I'm not much better, in as much as I'm embarrassed by the complicity of my family in the subjugation of her culture. It's a pretty potent combination, I imagine."

Ravn puts the coffee cup down and leans forward, resting both elbows on the table and looking directly at Una. "We all are. That's -- I have a set of three criteria that applies to every one of us to some extent. We're all artistic -- in some fashion, even if it's 'just' appreciating art or music or for that matter, fashion. We have imagination. We're all fighters -- what exactly we're running from doesn't matter. Some are ex-soldiers, some are literally running from abusive spouses or the law, whatever it is, we all have something that makes us not want to pack up and go back home. And we're all damaged goods -- some kind of trauma or PTSD or mental injury. It's the combination of the three that makes us interesting to the Other Side. Let me assure you, not a single one of us don't have a button to press."

Again, Una opens her mouth, but doesn't actually say anything. Instead, there's a definite sense that she's ticking things off: artistic, fighter, damaged goods. Tick, tick, tick.

"When you put it like that," she says, and laughs. Not really a happy laugh, but maybe that's not surprising. "No wonder so many of us end up here. The woman, earlier... Parvati? She was..." One of Us.

"I don't think she realises it yet. But yes. She's definitely one of us, too. Abrasive, angry about domestic violence, artistic, offers hand to hand combat lessons? Definitely scoring high on all three." Ravn allows himself a little smile. "It's a working theory of mine -- but it holds, so far. I don't know Della, so I can't tell you if she meets the requirements. But so far, Granny Gail is the only one I've met who seems to not hit a high score on all three, and I think that might be because she's simply lived long enough to overcome most of the trauma. I mean, I've been here a year and a half and I can tell how indifferent I've become to a lot of things. Imagine living here most of your life."

Una seems... not pleased by the confirmation, but perhaps satisfied: she knows what she's looking for. "That's-- rough. Not knowing yet. Around here. At least there are plenty of people to guide her, when she figures it out. Or when it gets pushed on her, anyway."

"I don't know Della well enough to know either, except I'm pretty sure she ran from something. Mrs Leigh, though-- I can't imagine. That many years. She's so calm about it all. It's a little unnerving."

"And a little inspiring. I mean -- look at this town, look at what the things that happen to us. Look at my sleeve." Ravn glances at it himself, bullet hole and all. "And she lived to that age? It's obviously possible to live a full and good life here, and not end up in a straitjacket somewhere. I like that. It makes me want to aim for being that old coot on the porch who sits and tells tall tales to the kids of the neighbourhood, knowing that it's just stories to most of them but little Sancho and little Jimmy are going to need to know what I'm telling them, later on."

Bullet hole and all, and Una pauses. She even smiles. "You're right," she says. "I hadn't thought of it like that. Though--" and now that smile falls again. "Where are the rest of them? Given how many of us there are in our age bracket," roughly, "Are the others of hers just being really quiet?"

"A lot of them are," Ravn agrees. "I'm sure of it. A lot of people here subscribe to the philosophy that if you keep your head down, stay quiet, pretend not to have seen anything, the Veil bothers you less. And in a way, they are right -- the dolorphages likely will leave you exactly as you are, if you go through life in bleak despair, because that's what they feed on. Why fix the crop that isn't broke?"

The glance Una shoots around the not-empty cafe suggests she expects it to be full of very experienced people just like them who are, for their own reasons, staying silent. But she glances back at Ravn, too, and gives a little unhappy nod. "I guess so. Depressing thought though that is. We're a crop."

"Yes." The answer is earnest. Ravn isn't going to argue that it is anything but depressing. "The dolorphages are assholes. They are evil. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Just, keep in mind that they can draw you here and they can make you stay, but they can't force you to do anything. Altruism, kindness, happiness -- those emotions are anathema to them. And that's my other big secret -- that's what HOPE is all about. It's not that de Santos and I want to go down in history as the great community builders. It's about taking the one thing those bastards fear and using it against them. Anything we do to improve somebody's life -- is a thorn in their flesh. It's literally fighting fire with fire."

And that, at least, is enough to make Una smile. It makes her straighten, too: shoulders back, head held high. Not everything is awful.

"Remind me to bring some cookies down. I'm not... useful in a lot of ways. But if one of my cookies makes someone smile, that counts as a win, right?"

"Damn straight it does. And honestly? In this particular respect, a friendly smile and a cookie to some homeless bloke who's used to getting treated like he's invisible does a lot more than you'd think." Ravn smiles a little. "I'm not -- some bleeding heart philantropist. I don't think I'm more of an asshole than the next bloke you meet, but that's the motivation. To fight back, to take control back. To not be victims."

The seriousness of Una's expression lingers, her mouth drawn in uncomfortably. She doesn't have a smile, but it's not because there's no good here. "That's a good philosophy," she decides, finally. "Not being victims. And doing... just a little good, where we can. Not," she harks back to earlier conversations, from both today and yesterday, "because of guilt, but just because... fighting back. Because we can."

If she had more coffee, she'd probably toast to that. It doesn't matter; it's enough, just as it is.