2022-06-25 - Omni Somnia

By now there are two constants in Ravn Abildgaard's life. Every other time he opens the door to the little bathroom stall on the Vagabond, he ends up somewhere that isn't the little bathroom stall. And every other time this happens, the next thing he hears is Ariadne Scullin swearing about the same happening to her.

He stumbles as his feet expect to find a very small, enclosed space with a toilet bowl occupying most of it -- and instead find themselves hitting old cobblestones. He looks around to get his bearings -- because always, when this happens, always hit the ground running. It may not be a World War I trench this time -- but it could be, and standing around waiting for somebody to explain things may prove dangerous, if not outright fatal.

Cobblestones. Sandstone buildings along a narrow street that winds vaguely uphill. Signs on facades; Ristorant il-Gawwi, No Loitering, Strada Stretta, Straight St.

Malta. More precisely, Valletta. He's been here before. He's heard locals joke about it; Straight Street is the island's red light district -- or, it used to be at least, when the British still had a fleet base here.

When?

Because if there's one thing Malta has aplenty it's the kind of history Ravn does not want to be dumped into the middle of; whether it's the Great Siege with Turkish and Ottoman ships hurling fire bombs from the ballistas, or it's the German bombardment of 1942; hell, the only war around here that he wouldn't mind a spectator's seat for would be Napoleon's conquest in 1798, at which point Le Petit Corporal pretty much sailed into the Grand Harbour and said, "I'm le boss here now," and the Knights of Malta pretty much said, "Well, if you insist, how rude," and shipped out. (Except for the French members of the Order who said something along the lines of, "Y a-t-il un endroit où les aristocrates ne se laissent pas entraîner par la révolution ? Peut-être Russie ? Allons-y.")

Those are neon lights advertising il-Gawwi -- a restaurant with a seagull on its sign. Modern era, then, or at least adjacent. And across from it, door banging forlornly on the breeze, is an abandoned building; yellow sandstone, some three or four storeys tall, windows hid by closed green shutters upon which the paint is fading. The same strange sense of time passing by overhead with no real change below as the rest of the city of Valletta -- and most of the island of Malta, home to some of the oldest architecture of mankind and yet just a strange and dry little rock in the middle of the Mediterranean.

At least one constant does pan out truthfully again. It's not a law of science or reality, but it is becoming a trend. One of the many doors lining the narrow, cobblestone-lined street steps none other than Ariadne herself. She's looking down at her phone and one might figure by now that she'd stop doing this while stepping through doors because when better to pull a sudden Door on an unsuspecting owner of some shine?

From the suddenly-appeared redhead who looks around with mouth firstly dropped open, "Nooooooo, come on, REALLY?! Damnit!?"

At least she's somewhat dressed for the region, if incidentally so? A black skirt falls from hips to ankles in a summer-friendly thinness of fabric; lace around the hem lets in light in doily-like designs. Her camisole is a cheery fuchsia hue, also sporting the scalloped laced hems at its bottom and along the neckline to the straps. Hiking sandals on her feet meant she was either leaving or returning from her apartment, likely the latter by the lack of purse.

Looking to the right proves Ravn to be standing down the way and the barista's huff of relief is nearly audible. Her shoulders slump visibly. "Ravn, thank god." Her brisk walk towards him flutters the black skirt about her legs. "Any idea when or where?" Quick to the draw on the important parts, this one, after so many Doors.

And every other time this happens, the next thing Ravn hears is Ariadne swearing about the same happening to her, indeed. "Malta," he tells the redhead. "Capital of Valletta. The so-called red light district which consists of this one street. Or consisted, depending."

He glances at the facade of the restaurant. It looks -- well, not that great. Like the kind of place you crawl into at 11pm if you're a tired sailor who just wants to scarf down some fenek before finding some place to sleep. (And that's fenek, rabbit -- not fennec fox. Not even the Maltese eat those). "I don't think we're here to dine out, though. Maybe something is about to happen."

"Skużani, Sinjur, Sinjura?" The voice is light and bubbly, coming from right behind the two. Ravn turns around, surprised, to see two young women in flowery sundresses looking at him and his companion.

They are both Mediterranean beauties -- not very tall, black hair and eyes, and beautiful faces that could place them anywhere from Greece to Gibraltar. There's nothing particularly old-fashioned about their flowery sundresses or the hand bag that one carries. Maybe this is in fact a contemporary experience?

"Mhux se tiġi żjara magħna għal llejla?" says the other and smiles brightly.

"I'm sorry," Ravn tells them. "Neither of us speak Maltese. Or Arabic enough to follow."

The two ladies exchange glances and then whisper quickly among one another. Then, in a very heavy accent, one ventures, "You have to visit us, yes? I am Mia and this is my sister Olivia. We are the Spitari sisters. Please, come inside." She gestures at the door of the shutters-down, abandoned looking building across the street from the restaurant.

Standing now within Ravn's space, enough to signify herself as someone of import to him, Ariadne looks around the narrow street. Upwards, her face tilts, to see towards the rooftops and the birds perched along the edges of the buildings.

"Malta," she echoes quietly. "Huh. Figures it would drop us in the red-light district." A wry smirk isn't entirely amused; it's nearly a sneer of disapproval for the Veil and its shenanigans. She can't deny the fascination in the architecture alongside the feeling of timelessness. Hearing voices lift nearby, she too turns towards the two young women in their sundresses. Her hazel eyes immediately flick to Ravn, he possessing more languages at his disposal than she.

Mia gestures towards the abandoned-looking building. Ariadne's mouth parts silently a few times before venturing, "Uh, sure, we'll...we'll come inside." Visibly reaching for Ravn's arm, she links elbows with him as solidarity and silent permission for any sort of demurral about going into such a building with unknown company.

Mia and Olivia, girls of not particularly Maltese sound names. (But what is a Maltese sounding name? The islands have been occupied by some foreign power or another since about 3000 BC, gaining independence in 1964). The two smile and turn to walk towards the closed door -- which turns out to not be locked. It opens easily at Mia's touch and falls open.

Warm candlelight bleeds out into the gritty street. Inside, a hallway before a grand stair upwards, in a fashion that seems kind of Victorian, but with a very Mediterranean architectural twist; sandstone and the occasional blue tilework, and in the corners, terracotta pots with large fronds. A canary sings somewhere; caged, no doubt. A large, white cat lies on one step of the stair, asleep, tail tucked over his nose.

"Would you like to see the garden?" Mia asks in her sweet accent and steps in front of the sunlight; it illuminates her, like an almost angelic halo around her.

"Or do you want to go upstairs right away?" Olivia smiles. "We will do anything you want."

Ravn's elbow linked in Ariadne's stiffens slightly. Whatever he noticed he probably does not want to say in front of these two young hostesses -- or whatever they are. (It's the Red Light district. Some guesses are more probable than others). "Maybe the garden first," he suggests, slowly, making certain that Ariadne gets a say in as well.

Plain appreciation for the differences in architecture shows on Ariadne's face. After they enter, she lingers on Ravn's arm and lets her gaze wander. The tiling itself is beautiful in its accent colors, brilliant despite age and yet worn enough to show humanity's presence. How to ignore the cat, all hair and doziness? A little quirk of a smile for the creature.

Mia asks one question. Olivia asks another. Both smile and to the barista's eye, after a moment's consideration, both are deliberately attempting to charm.

It puts her on guard while simultaneously, indeed, partly charming her. But why the charm...? Ravn's subtle tension and his words make the redhead shuffle this appreciation off to one side firmly. "Yes, the garden, please," she agrees while putting on her own smile. It's utterly polite and shuttered about her eyes. Thank you, retail, for allowing her refinement of the skill.

Both certainly walk with an inviting spring in their step as they lead their guests through the hall and into the garden.

And what a garden it is. Sandstone columns line a path towards a carp basin, between flowering bushes and trellises. Truly a place to get lost in the sheer beauty of the place. It's warm in the street outside this time of year, but here? The air is cooled by that carp pond, by the fronds of tall palms, and by quietly ingenious construction that encourages the air to move in a lazy but cooling breeze around the grounds.

"Would you like for us to fetch you something to drink?" Mia inquires, smiling.

"We have chilled rose water, or fine white wine from France," Olivia offers, a smile to match. "Or if it is more to your liking, we have sherbet the way the Arabic princes prefer -- with lemon and oranges from Gozo."

Given their hostesses' (hostesses?) backs are turned, Ariadne risks a questioning glance over at her boyfriend. It needn't be said, her cast of features conveys it well enough:

What on earth is going on?

The well-manicured and cleverly-maintained comfort of the garden, however, is enough to thoroughly distract the barista from her semi-conscious worrying. Her lips part in, again, plain surprise while her brows lift. "Oh wow," she breathes, attention naturally drawn down the framing of columns to the distant pond. The breeze passing through rustles the canopy of palm leaves casting their shadows. Even the flowers seem brighter than usual and bold in their tropical hues. "Um."

Ariadne does blush by the faintest amount to be caught looking the part of a frog. "The...rose water? And a little sherbet?" Ravn gets another inquiring look.

Mia claps her hands in delight. "A very good choice, Sinjura!" She turns and walks back into the building, presumably to fetch the requested refreshments. Sorry, Ravn, you get rose water too.

Olivia smiles brightly. "Would you like me to play for you? I play the flute very well. Or would you like me to read for you?"

Ravn manages to catch his breath at last. "If it is not too presumptive -- we would like to walk the gardens? They are very beautiful."

The look the woman in the sundress gives them reads loud and clear, Ah, young lovers. She smiles brightly in the same fashion as her sister, and exclaims, "By all means! When you come back, we will have refreshments ready, and we can discuss your stay and what it entails."

And that's Ravn's cue to use a set of linked elbows to haul Ariadne off down one of those garden paths. Only when they're able to step behind a large flowering -- something, what the hell does he know, it's kind of pink -- does he breathe out. "I don't know what you see," he tells her. "But I know what I see. And it doesn't match what I'm hearing. But I also don't pick up on any hostility. Maybe it's just a local ghost story."

It all seems somehow a bit much and Ariadne finds herself partially relieved to be politely hauled off down one of the side paths of the garden itself. She manages a bolstering smile towards the sisters and then swans alongside Ravn until they disappear behind a hedge. She'd caught the humoring look from Olivia. If they have to make out a little bit before being caught, it's not certainly not going to bother the barista. Some appearances must be up-kept.

However, Ravn pops the floating bubbles of thought neatly with his observation.

"Uh." Appearing poleaxed by this observation, the barista slowly peers out from behind the hedge. She can't see the sisters. Are they even still there? Holy shit -- were they even there at all this entire time? She brings her attention back to Ravn, still looking moderately owlish. "Wait. Um. I...was talking to two young women in sundresses. They looked like they could be related, very nice, kind of...deliberately being charming like they could have been more than just hostesses." Since, y'know, Red Light street. "One talked about rose water and sherbet and the other said something about a flute. And there was something about upstairs. They're ghosts?" she asks of the historian, knowing of his powers and what clarity is granted to him.

"I heard everything." Ravn nods slightly and continues to walk as if this is a perfectly beautiful day in sunny Valletta. (To be fair, it is). "What I see is two skeletons in tattered rags. I agree with you, they sound like -- well, like this is supposed to be a somewhat upscale brothel, perhaps. Like they expect to entertain in more ways than the horisontal mambo. What do you see around us?"

He looks about himself, up and down the garden path. "I'm seeing a ruined garden that clearly has not seen a gardener for at least a decade, probably closer to three."

Ariadne's brows are in dire threat of disappearing off of her forehead entirely at this point. Her free hand presses to cover her mouth as she looks around again. Everything is -- what on earth -- wait -- right, must move hand from mouth to speak. This hand curls up a grip of her black skirt.

"Um, they...they look like totally normal women to me. Their clothing is fine. The garden is -- the plants are all green and the flowers and the pond has water in it. Fish. There's live fish. There's...what the fuck," she breathes. "Do we need to leave?" Her eyes are wide up at Ravn now. "Are we in danger?" How can this all be unreal? She's tempted to reach out and pluck at one of the bright pink blossoms nearby, but the fact of the Dane seeing something else entirely has convinced her to keep her hands to herself as no mother's warning ever did in her childhood.

Ravn looks around once again. "I don't think we are," he ventures after a moment. "This is more like -- well, like it happens, sometimes. I see something else than everyone else. There's some kind of story, sometimes. Sometimes, it's just the way it is. I don't feel particularly threatened. Do you? Maybe we're just reliving something that happened here, a long time ago."

He glances at the pond. "There's nothing but dust and old leaves in the garden basin now. But I can tell this place must really have been quite something. And that's even more confusing because Strait Street is in the middle of Valletta, and if somebody had a garden like this, it'd take up an entire city block."

Nothing but dust and old leaves in the basin -- and Ariadne watches three small koi in various patterns of cream-and-orange swim idly beneath the surface of water at this distance.

It makes her crumple her lips. How plain irritating, the dissonance.

"No...I don't feel threatened," she decides with pinched brows. "Confused...very fucking confused, yes, and...pissed off that I'm impressed, honestly, because I swear to god, Ravn, there are fish in water in that goddamned pool. But..." It takes her a moment to consolidate her thought. "Is this like the Fae? You don't eat or drink or accept anything because if you do, there are consequences? Or..." Her lips scrunch up hard. "The rose water isn't water, it's gross faucet water?"

"Maybe it's faucet water. Maybe it's an empty glass. I can pinch you if it looks wrong." Ravn nods slightly. He does not seem very disturbed; and then, why would he be? So far, the greatest threat seems to be missing out on a beautiful garden. It's sad, true, but hardly devastating.

He looks around one more time and then settles on the edge of the basin -- carefully, the way you'd settle on something that's crumpling with age, and look where you sit just in case. "This is what it used to be like. Travelling, I mean. Sometimes, I'd feel like I was in a different world than everyone else. Or I'd realise that I was the only person present noticing in that the girl in the back seat of the bus looked weeks dead. And life just goes on -- it's no big deal. What people don't know don't hurt them, and most ghosts aren't particularly malicious or attention seeking. Most are just not -- entirely aware that they're dead."

Ariadne watches him sit on the basin and continues frowning at the fish. You did nothing wrong, fish, but you're going to get a nice glower nonetheless because you're apparently not real. None of this is real.

Looking around, the barista sighs and nods. "No, they wouldn't be aware of it. The sisters aren't convinced." Her face turns back towards the sandstone building with its candle-lit interior and inviting shaded seating area not too far beneath the canopy of palm fronds. "I guess...we need to decide if we're going to stay here longer. Is it...does it help if we interact with them? Or is it like continuing a lie and it's unhealthy?"

A blink and a beat and Ariadne laughs a soft, helpless laugh. "Things I never thought I'd be asking anyone... And would the rose water actually taste like rose water to me...? Because it's part of this...illusion? Or is it going to taste like grimy faucet water?"

"To be fair, you may not be able to tell." Ravn laughs softly because he just remembered something that strikes him as funny. "Malta has only one tiny spring of fresh water. They import a lot of it from Sicily, and they use osmosis to turn sea water into fresh water. You can brush your teeth in the faucet water but believe me, desalinised water tastes miserable."

Then he allows his gaze to follow hers; back towards the ruined, sad facade, where dead vines cling to crumbling pillars, surrounded by weeds and dead bushes, failing to survive in a climate where -- well, let's put it this way, when the Knights Hospitaller founded their new capital they did so on the part of the island that nobody already lived on because nothing much can grow there but thyme. Untended and more importantly, unwatered, the beautiful flowering bushes of this garden have long since given up and gone to their maker.

"Do you want to stay? I don't think they'll prevent us from leaving. I also don't think they mean us harm. It's possible that there is a story -- maybe something happens to one of them, maybe nothing does, and it's just a flashback to when they were alive."

"I had no idea." About the spring water and its small source along with what needs to be done to make water available here in the first place. Ariadne nods, her lips rolled upon themselves as she stands there in the middle of verdant growth unreal. "I think...maybe we should stay." Her hazel eyes return to Ravn and rest on him, those lips finally featuring a small smile for the first time since they walked within the interior of the sandstone building.

"I bet there's some story to tell, something the ghosts need to relate. You can see them for what they are and I can be an audience who sees them how they want to be seen. Maybe it'll be some good to them. I can try and fake sipping at the rose water, for example. I don't know how to...sleight-of-hand the sherbet, but maybe I can accidentally drop it or something." Looks like she'll wince even at the idea. "I'll ask about them, ask them to tell us about themselves. Maybe that'll help make things clearer."

Ravn smiles lightly. "I like that approach. There's no reason to assume that everyone who happens to be dead is a monster. We're not on the set of The Walking Dead. And this place is not frightening -- it's just a little sad. I can see how beautiful it must have been. And I wonder where it actually was, because there are only two large gardens inside the fortifications of Valletta, and this is neither the Sacra Infermeria or the Grand Master's Palace."

He looks at a couple of Spanish sparrows chasing each other about playfully. "When you look at those birds, what do you see? Sparrows, or canaries, or something even more exotic?"

"Holy crap." Admiration, plain and simple, for this garden beyond anything Ariadne's ever seen and it not being one of the displays of tended greenery historically known. The birds catch her attention about the same time Ravn asks after what she's seeing. "Uh...they're bright yellow, so canaries? They're adorable," she admits, her smile taking on a rueful cast. "There's a nest somewhere, I think."

On a whim, she then holds out a hand to Ravn. "Here, let me... I think maybe I can act as the lenses for a second -- you can see what I see if you want, I'll try to make it happen somehow." Because over-thinking doesn't work, but grasping an idea and running with it seems to work just fine? The Veil has never proven to be logical.

Her hand is left out to be taken. If so?

It's not a perfect translation of what the barista is seeing, but for a few seconds, it's like another pair of glasses settling on the nose and beyond them, what she is seeing in turn.

Ravn has no objections to taking his lover's hand. He does freeze for a moment as his vision changes -- and then he makes a small, appreciative noise. "It really is very different. Can you see through my eyes as well? Maybe you shouldn't. This is beautiful. You should remember it like they want you to see it. Maybe that's the whole point -- to show us this was once beautiful. Or that someplace like this was once beautiful."

Ariadne blinks hard and sways in place slightly when her concentration falls apart. Ravn will feel it in her return grip squeezing and relaxing without releasing. She continues seeing what she's seen, the well-tended beauty and the brightly-colored birds flitting about in the trees. Birdsong drips down.

"I don't know if I can, but...yeah, I think that's the point. Maybe the ghosts want us to see how this place can remain unchanged in memory -- and hey, that works, right? With how the Veil stamps the memories indelibly?" She looks back at Ravn again and her smile deepens into those fond dimples. "It features you, it can't be less than gorgeous. Here," and she tugs gently at his hand. "Let's go talk to them. I want to hear what they say. I'm brave enough with you beside me."

Ravn smiles and rubs his eyes; perhaps to restore his own vision of the garden. After all, his vision is his reality, and walking in one reality while looking into another sounds like a great way to break several toes. Then he takes Ariadne's arm again and strolls with her, back towards the two ladies.

And such a fine display they have made, while their guests wandered the grounds. A beautiful Persian blanket has been laid out on a dais, and upon it sits decanters of chilled water in which float rose leaves. Crystal glasses occupy a small tray, and next to it, beautiful fajance bowls invite the visitors to partake of shaved ice mixed with lemon and sugar.

"Please," says Mia with a warm smile. "You must be warm after walking around the city. Do join us."

"It will only get warmer during the afternoon," Olivia warns. "Sit with us in the shade."

And Ravn? He's looking at a crumbling stone dais upon which sits old, broken cups and bowls, filled with rain water and the pins of the cypress trees around town. A display such as one that was laid out here a very long time ago, perhaps, and simply forgotten.

On Ravn's arm, it's less difficult to put aside her unease about the display. Half of her brain is attempting to rapidly calculate what is actually on display while the other half is really rather tempted by the shaved ice sprinkled by citrus and sweetness. Ariadne still manages a smile.

"Thank you, the shade's wonderful," and this is not a lie. It is delightful. Sitting down carefully (because the seat might not be as sturdy as it appears), the barista then clears her throat. "You've been such wonderful hostesses, I wanted to know more about you? If that's not too nosy. I apologize if it is, I'm definitely visiting for the first time and I don't want to step on toes."

Ravn settles just as carefully, though at least he can see that the pillow he is sitting on is actually an old burlap sack. Still, dirt can be brushed off pants. He nods his agreement, maintaining that polite little smile -- because on some level, this is Ariadne's show, and he does not want to risk clueing the two ghosts in that he knows the truth. He does not know whether they know the truth. It's not worth it, gambling that they do, and that they wouldn't get upset.

"I am Mia," says Mia, still smiling.

"And I am Olivia," echoes her sister, also smiling. "We like having guests. This is our garden. It is very beautiful. Sometimes, gentlemen of a certain class come visit us. A man can get lonely when he is stationed abroad, away from his family. We try to offer comfort."

"But not merely -- comfort," Mia picks up. "There is so much more. A good conversation. Music. A game of chess. A time to forget."

Ariadne listens and as she does, her mouth shapes into an 'oh' of understanding. Previous suspicions pan out true: the two sisters do offer more than a flute recital or game of chess upstairs. She can't risk looking at Ravn to see if he's colored up at all at the confirmation -- damn.

"I think that's wonderful, how you can provide company. Being lonely is a hard thing, especially when one's family is so far away," the barista empathizes with their clientele. "Mia, Olivia." A nod to each woman and a small smile for each in turn. "I'm Ariadne and this is my beau, Ravn. We're just visiting the city for a short time." As long as the Door allows them to do so. "You're locals, right? Is there anything in particular we should go see while we're here?"

Mia offers a dainty little smile; there is something inherently fragile about the pair, like they're made from eggshell china. "We have never left the island," she replies. "Why would we? Everything in the world comes to Malta eventually. We are a nation of shipbuilders and sailors. And all the sailors come here, to gift us wondrous things and tell us remarkable tales from distant ports."

Olivia nods, and smiles as well. "It is like dreams of beautiful places. We named our house for it, did you see? The little sign on the door that reads, Omni Somnia? It is all just a dream, but for at least a little while, people can forget."

Ravn is not flushing; the idea of prostitutes is not something that embarrasses him -- surprisingly, perhaps, until one might remember that he travelled across the world in the company of the thieves, the hookers, and the other rejects of society. He may not be one to solicit their services, but he's certainly known a few in his time. "What is this street called?" he asks -- a question most inconspicuous given how he and Ariadne are both foreigners, and they might honestly not know that they have wandered onto Strait Street. Right?

Mia smiles, a little wistfully. "We have tried very hard to make our garden look like the San Anton gardens, just smaller. It is the most beautiful place we have seen."

And that tells the folklorist what he wanted to know. There is indeed not a secret garden in the very densely populated grid-city-fortress of Valletta; there is a dream of one, a fantasy belonging to two upscale prostitutes long dead. Omni somnia, indeed.

Ariadne has no idea whatsoever of the dream within a Dream they both exist within at the moment. She's vaguely aware of what the Latin translates to, but not to the firm degree of the folklorist beside her. Still wearing her small smile, she nods at the sisters.

"I like that idea, the...the respite factor. Taking a break, a breather from the world. The garden is absolutely a wonder. I love the fish." Because of course she would. "I'm a marine biologist," the redhead then explains with an easy-going twist to her smile now. "So the idea of Malta and all of the ocean surrounding it, it's really breathtaking, you know? What... What inspired you to turn this place into a little corner of heaven?"

Smooth, barista, smooth.

Mia dusts pink and trails a dainty fingertip in the water, forming ripples (a gesture which looks entirely wrong to Ravn's vision). "The house is ours. We inherited it from our mother -- who worked in a similar way. We want to have something beautiful that is ours. When you are a soldier's daughter -- we are named Spiteri because some ancestor or other only knew that her child's father was a Knight of St John. And our mother only knew that our father was a British soldier. But this? This is ours. All ours."

"Don't bore our guests with things they don't actually want to know, dear." Olivia scolds her sister lightly but not too seriously; obviously an opportunity for their guests to change the subject if indeed, they were only asking to be polite. "The English have such beautiful gardens in their homeland. We want to show our guests that a garden in Malta can be beautiful too, even if our country is very arid."

That's putting it mildly. Y'know, for a country consisting of seven islands and one tiny fresh-water pond. On the other end of the island at that. But at least on the same island? It counts? Only three of those islands are inhabited at all; and of those, one only has a few houses and a movie studio. (Troy was filmed there, as well as a surprising amount of other 'desert and ocean background' movies).

"I think you're doing a wonderful job," Ariadne compliments sincerely. Her eyes travel out over the gardens again and she sees the green, the floral hues, the bright birds flitting through the canopy. "Anyone who stays here is going to be pleased to enjoy sitting like this. I am." Even if it's all illusory to her, the barista seems hell-bent on appreciating the experience. It's easy when everything is so frighteningly real to her senses -- and unsettlingly easy to simply accept it.

Her hands, however, remain in her lap with a nonchalance she's feigning fairly well. "I know that some of my family is from around here. Well, I should amend, from the countries around the Mediterranean. Turkey, I think? Greece too, but very far back, my grandmother and farther on my mom's side. I...I hope to figure out who they are one day. I don't know a lot and it makes me sad because it's family." Her shrug is a small one, her smile with a little cast of rue. "But have you ever had anyone famous visit you? An actor or actress? Politician?"

Because famous names come from certain eras and might pinpoint a rough time of existence.

Mia murmurs, "Mr Lloyd was here once." Her tone insinuates that this name is important, at least in her contemporary era.

"To fetch one of his friends," Olivia titters.

"But that takes the fun out of the story," Mia protests, smiling. "It was a reunion visit. They went to see the bomb in Mosta."

Ravn searches his memory. He searches it really deep and well. And he's absolutely certain he has no name of Lloyd standing out in Maltese history. But then, Maltese history is not exactly his field either -- he just paid attention while stuck here for a month, waiting for his US visa to go through. The thing about Maltese history though? There's a whole damn lot of it, and most of it pertains to way before these young ladies were born.

He can tell what Ariadne is trying to do, though, and he can play along. The appearance of the place gives him a few pointers -- at least in terms of how long the house and garden has been abandoned. "I've seen the Mosta bomb," he agrees with the sisters and then glances to Ariadne who has no idea what that's about. "There's a large 18th century church in Mosta. A German bomb fell through the roof during a bombardment where people had sought refuge in the church. It didn't explode, and they kept it as a sign of God. Except, some years ago, an aging British airman was doing the tour of the church and pointed out that actually, he helped sailed the damn thing out to sea and detonate it. So the Mosta Bomb is a replica, and no one knew that until almost a lifetime after. It was such a good story, after all -- and the hole in the ceiling is still there."

Mia smiles. "I didn't know that," she says, and in doing so gives Ravn another idea of when she was last reading newspapers. "Mr Lloyd was the commodore of the Air during the Bombardment. Did you know that the nation of Malta was awarded the Cross of St George for bravery, by Queen Elizabeth?"

'Mr. Lloyd' means nothing to Ariadne at all. Her brain immediately goes to the composer of Broadway's Phantom of the Opera and there's a very small chance this is the same person.

Both sisters and Ravn further expound and the barista's hazel eyes slide from speaker to speaker; she nods and finds herself gaping slightly at the idea of the bomb left to sit. "I didn't know this either, about the bomb being a replica" she echoes of Mia, looking to this sister. "Also about the entire country being awarded this high honor. Something to do with the war, right?" Come on, sisters, drop more details. She might be lost still, but the historian whose thigh is graced with the resting of her palm (after obviously showing its descent to there) can probably make heads or tails of it all.

"For bravery in resisting the German and Italian air forces, from June 1940 to November 1942," Mia says and blushes slightly. "We were just little girls then, but you never forget. The air raid sirens and running for shelter at night. The sound of the anti-aircraft guns."

Olivia laughs softly; she has a pleasant, pearly laughter, like flickers of sun on the sea. "A great deal of the island was turned into rubble. We were lucky they targeted the military installations most but it was bad. The Italians tried to land but we threw them back into the sea. And the British knew that if they had not had the support of the Maltese, the Italians and the Germans would have been able to land a force large enough to overrun the military bases and the underground complex at Lascaris."

Ravn places his hand over Ariadne's, braiding his fingers into hers. He does not mind showing the Spiteri sisters where his attention is; as far as he can make out from what they have been saying, they offer many forms of entertainment, and it might not be so peculiar at all for them to play hostesses to a couple who is not looking for carnal delights as much as a way to pass a pleasant afternoon.

"I miss the British," Mia murmurs with longing. "When they left in '64, we lost most of our livelihood."

"It's true," Olivia agrees, solemn. "They still come to the islands in great numbers for our sun and our oranges and our honey. But they are not stationed here any more, and when they come now, they bring their wives and their daughters."

Empathy has Ariadne's free hand fisted up at her sternum. Air raid sirens, shelters, anti-aircraft guns, and parts of the island turned to rubble -- she literally can't imagine it. How her brows quirk. When Ravn's fingers find their way through and within her own, she can't help the fleeting glance down at their hands and then the flicker of a grin across her face at him.

"You seem to be doing well? And surely not everyone's bringing their families, right? There're still some backpackers and world travelers to pass through? I mean, they must, this place is amazing," she tells the two sisters, looking between them with brows lifted.

A quick mental missive to Ravn : We're here after '42 and after '64, so not too far in the past.

Mia smiles, a little sadly. "And we are not getting any younger."

Olivia sends her a chiding little look. The sisters look like they're in their thirties -- perhaps well preserved forties. Does age matter in a dream? Does it correspond to reality? That's anyone's guess. "Everything is a dream," she says, softly. "Sometimes, it is not making your dream come true that matters. It is staying loyal to it, working towards its completion. The journey, rather than the destination."

Ravn has no ability to reply to the silent voice in his mind. He nods ever so slightly. What he sees does not correspond with what Ariadne describes seeing; there is simply not space enough in this dilapidated courtyard with the small fish basin, dry and full of old cypress pins. But if Ariadne is seeing a dream that never came true -- then it all makes perfect sense to him.

"That's a good way to look at it," Ariadne agrees with a quiet smile. "Because yeah, you don't need to sleep to have a dream and you don't need to lie down to make it happen. Working towards it...that's just part of the process and adventures happen along the way. Who's been your favorite guest to visit here? Ever, and yes, there can be more than one."

Her smile grows a little more, inviting the two sisters to expound if they want to in greater deal than maybe manners right allow. Another glance over at Ravn, utterly fond, and gentle squeeze for his hand.

The two sisters exchange glances. They smile -- a bit shy, a bit accomplished. Then Mia leans in and whispers, "Luciano Pavarotti had an evening drink here once."

Is she telling the truth? Did he have more than a drink? Did he ever visit at all? Who knows? Omni somnia, it's all dreams in dreams.

The sisters exchange another glance. Then Olivia smiles. "What are you hoping to find, Sinjura? If you could have any dream in life, where would you be?"

It's almost a moment from a sleepover, three women leaning over delights and whispering of others. As such? Ariadne ends up giggling despite herself, a little rill of sound she cuts off as soon as possible because goodness, manners! She remembers Ravn calling Sam this when...

She's not faintly blushing, you're faintly blushing.

A good question posed from Olivia brings her to look back instead of off to one side at the glass of rose water she can't trust. "Any dream in life..." Blowing a sigh, the barista reaches up to tuck hair behind her ear with her free hand. "That's a helluva question, pardon my language. Um." Her next laugh is a touch self-reprimanding, as if she should have this answer available like a flash card from a pocket.

"Well... I would...probably be a professional barrel horse rider. Or an endurance racer. I took lessons for a while when I was younger, but then my ankle was hurt. There's a nerve in it which can't handle being in a stirrup for a long time or with big jounces. I can handle a few jounces, but something so demanding like those? No go. But...it's nice to dream," she says quietly, her smile just that touch mournful for what can never be.

"You can ride without a stirrup," Ravn suggests. "But probably not races or barreling. I think it will be hard to keep your balance without that support."

He ponders. While what he sees is not what Ariadne sees, there is nothing threatening in his vision -- just the inevitability of time's passing. "I don't know what I want," the Dane says at length. "My dreams when I was younger were all about running away from home and living my own life. And I did, and I do."

Back and forth, the woman beside Ravn tilts her head. "Yeah, one stirrup is plausible," she murmurs, brows thoughtfully quirked as she considers it, eyes upon his near-profile. He thinks and she's quiet to allow it, curious as the sisters probably are to hear about what dream he keeps in his back pocket.

Living those dreams is a pleasant discovery. "That's great though. It gives you a chance to come up with something new if you'd like. Just to have the option is...amazing." Her smile remains subtly melancholy nonetheless. "I wish it hadn't meant leaving your home behind, but maybe it's more...home is where your heart is and where your people are at -- and family doesn't have to be your people, rough as that might sound."

"Or ride bareback without stirrups at all. But again, probably not for racing or barrel racing -- you need them to stay balanced." Ravn nods. He's far from an expert rider but he knows enough of the basics to survive a) pretentious boarding school, and b) a fiancee who was into dressage.

He smiles at Ariadne. "Well, some of my dreams in more recent years involve places and things I want to visit and do with a certain somebody at my side."

Mia smiles lightly. Olivia smiles knowingly. Did the Sisters Spiteri ever settle with husbands and children? Or did they die eventually, alone? The right man is not the one true dream of every woman.

Forget the fact of being in the company of two women quite well-versed in the art of charm and attraction: Ariadne just about melts in place at the revelation from her beau. As usual, her pastel-pink blush isn't dark, but it does spread with a vengeance across her cheeks and into her ears.

"Well...gosh you." How sheepish and pleased the redhead sounds. Her hazel eyes sparkle at the Dane. "I wouldn't think twice about helping fulfill these dreams of yours, mi amor." She's playful with the slip of Spanish first heard a few weeks back in Seattle and her dimples grow. "They're good dreams." Plain words for a plainly-wonderful plan. A squeeze for his hand and a girlish giggle before she composes herself. With little compunction does she return to the sisters again.

"I...I'm curious though," she starts off, hesitant and explaining why in her continuation. "Do you...ever fall for your clients?" Since it's clear as day how thoroughly their hostesses host guests from time to time. "Or is there a joy to knowing you've sent them on their way and they're better fulfilled somehow?"

Mia and Olivia exchange glances. Neither needs to be psychic exactly, to tell that the guests they are entertaining tonight are not looking for carnal pleasures from them -- and pleasant conversation and sherbet is certainly among the services they offer.

Mia dusts a little pink. Olivia laughs softly. "We have enough in each other," she says with a smile. "Most of our guests are very pleasant. But one cannot love them all as we love one another."

And if Ravn is thinking, great, now I've seen a couple of skeletons declare their lesbian love for one another, he's not saying anything.

Mia dusts pink? Ariadne dusts a touch more pink than she is, even if her smile doesn't fade. She did ask! She received her answer! She also seems to have temporarily forgotten entirely about this affair being a Dream-illusion.

"It's true, yeah. The kind of love you save for the one you're with is so much...headier than what you might give to someone else." Ravn's hand receives another gentle squeeze. "Okay, so...we are technically on a schedule and you've been so sweet, the both of you, but can you tell me before we head out, what is the absolute best place to visit here in Malta? Since you're locals and I'm just a bumbling visitor," the barista adds in her own twist of charm (with dimples to boot).

Mia says brightly, "The harbour of Marsaxlokk. It is beautiful."

Olivia says just as brightly, "The old city of Mdina, at night when it is quiet."

And Ravn must concur, with a quiet nod. He wonders how busy Mdina was in the day time when these two were alive; now, at least, it's a tourist trap of epic proportions, a walled medieval city filled with tourist shops and living history crafts boutiques -- and several large monasteries. And at night, no one lives there but a few families and, well, the residents of those monasteries.

He stands and offers Ariadne his arm. "You have been absolutely perfect hosts, ladies. We are much obliged for your time."

"And you have been very good at pretending," Olivia returns with a small laugh.

... Oh. Ravn winces slightly.

And then reality asserts itself. A worn-down, empty courtyard with an empty little koi basin. Dead bushes and weeds. The peeling facade of a house not lived for years. And not a sign of the Spiteri 'sisters'.

"I guess this is the kind of sisters that archaeologists joke about," the Dane murmurs. "You know the kind. Two skeletons of the same gender found in the same grave, wrapped around each other. Oh, they must have been frightfully good friends."

"The harbor and the old city." Ariadne is not going to try pronouncing those names otherwise. She's grinning as she rises and takes the offered arm in silent gratitude. Her legs are a little stiff from sitting on the pillows for so long like that, but they were nice pillows, at least.

Her smile stays until Olivia calls out the Dane. The expression drops into a narrow split of surprise.

"Oh, but -- "

It all falls away abruptly and the barista stands there, eyes wide, and mouths a few things silently. "...shit, I'd forgotten," she mutters before Ravn murmurs and captures her attention. The cough-laugh is for the irony and the frustration at archaeologists mis-assigning deliberately. "Very good friends." A last scan of the garden and she sighs wistfully. "Well...they were amazing hostesses. I'm sad to see them go, but I'm really freakin' honored they stayed as long as they did. They weren't scary ghosts. Skeletons. Whatever they actually were. They were kind."

By her expression, this is going to keep Ariadne up late in the night for more than a few days. "I guess...the harbor for now? Or maybe this place is a Door, but let's at least try to get to the harbor? I want to see the sea."

"Until I went to Gray Harbor, where so many ghosts are victims of the Veil or created by it, this was the more common experience I would have." Ravn looks around at the dilapidated house one last time. "Lingering spirits, just wanting to tell their story one more time. Nothing malicious or hostile. And certainly nothing to be afraid of."

He smiles and curls his hand around Ariadne's. "If we don't find our way back here? We'll bloody well go on a plane and visit, without the Veil's help."

"Honestly? I'd shell out the money for a plane ticket to here. It's so beautiful. Timeless."

Ariadne takes one last look around the garden. "Even if some things are threatened to be forgotten...they have a chance to still tell their story." Ravn's fingers are intertwined with her own and she sighs, looking at the bowls of pine needles in particular. "Alright, Sir Ravn. I didn't get any actual lemon-ice shavings and now I'm going to be like, sir, we need to go find some lemon-ice shavings." A tilt of her head and grin for the Dane. "Let's go."

Go into the abandoned house once more, Doors or not, and perhaps to the harbor beyond.