Café de Nuit

"Good morning, Inspecteur...!"

Celeste stopped, abruptly revising her read on the situation--and fixing Gauvain with the full force of a Sympathetic Concern Face.

"Oh, but Sir...you are incensed! The silent eloquence of your very bearing betrays a discomfiture far more deep than common...oh, confide in me, Sir! Only relate your heartfelt troubles to Mlle. Viardot, and in so doing, quell them--for a steady hand and a collected spirit is most valuable in times of crisis! Fear not--I strive to be only the most gentle of interlocutors... Perhaps it would be most prudent to speak outside?"

The Sympathetic Concern Face, metaphorically speaking, was capable of melting steel through sheer force of earnestness.

29 on a Diplomacy check to get Gauvain to, in order of desirability:

1) Calm the heck down
2) Refrain from going upstairs
3) Explain why he is more angry than usual.

Nerit spun around to the guards with her hands and eyebrows raised. Of course they'd followed, but the beggar--that was just clever.

She'd had no time to react to Reine's comment until after the girl shooed the men and their pokey bits away.

The nun carefully let her hands lower and eyed Reine. "Did M. Boucher try to help you? Or did he try to hurt you?" she asked with some concern and skepticism (toward the subject, not the girl).

Diplomacy 15. That means I rolled a 2. The time is nigh to sacrifice a goat over a copper bowl and call upon the Old Gods, I tell you.

"Well, if our new Friend is here, he might say something," Lia says with a light sigh. "It would make this whole 'trust' thing easier. And certainly you may walk behind me, if you so wish, Remy. Heh. This does take me back; walking tentatively through an abandoned temple complex, death lurking around every corner -- potentially, anyway. How about you?"

Lia's tone has become light and reminiscent, almost happy. But while she gives the impression of being lost in pleasant memories of her glory days, her mind is racing: 'I'll not give up this easily! Wormschild's Fourth Law on energy dissipation... Hazlik's notes on proper architectural preparation for places of power... Curse it, how did that one passage in that one Van Richten's Guide go, the one about the temple complex excavated by the fiend in...? Alright, alright, now add in what you read of the magical lore Perseyus Lathenna compiled for the book the twins published, and... What kind of configuration does that room need?'

(OOC: I rolled another Arcana to at least do something. If that isn't allowed, I'll edit this post. The check result was a 22.)

Rex mentally smacked himself for not recognizing the beggar for what he was. But the past few nights had been stressful and sleep-deprived and he was a little off his game.

Had he been in a different situation, he might be under arrest, though. That would not be acceptable.

Too much time as a shopkeeper, not enough time active.

This girl intrigued Rex. Not because she was living here, but because she seemed favored by Gauvain. That was a cause for interest, but also concern. So he tread carefully.

"Do you know," he asked quietly, "Is there anything here that should be his?"

1 Days, 15 Hours, 54 Minutes
Orphelinat de Mont-Noir, Quartier-Ouvrier, Morning on April 23rd, 770
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Nerit wrote:The nun carefully let her hands lower and eyed Reine. "Did M. Boucher try to help you? Or did he try to hurt you?"

“He kept sticking me with needles when he first came.” Reine recalled, collecting her color-changing rubber ball and throwing it against the wall of the room. It turned lavender now, and then after another bounce a deep navy. She threw it even harder at the wall now, and it turned a bloody scarlet. “That hurt. Not as much as when he had to break my arm. The bone set wrong, he said, and it had to be rebroken. They gave me something to drink and I was sleepy, and Mr. Raven held me down while M. Boucher broke my arm.”

Rex wrote:"Do you know," he asked quietly, "Is there anything here that should be his?"

“No. ” Reine said shortly. “He always cleaned up after Mr. Raven brought him here.”

1 Days, 15 Hours, 54 Minutes
The Bergeron Residence, Quartier-Savant, Morning on April 23rd, 770
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Tomas wrote:"Okay." Tomas says, as calmly as he can manage. "Can you tell me the whole story, miss? I might be able to help, then."

The woman hugged herself and turned away, shrinking back from any form of human comfort. "Was so small... just like a doll. I held him in my hands..." She tried to pull her knees to her chest, though she was barely strong enough. "Gone... my baby's gone..."

Celeste wrote:"Oh, but Sir...you are incensed! Only relate your heartfelt troubles to Mlle. Viardot, and in so doing, quell them--for a steady hand and a collected spirit is most valuable in times of crisis! Fear not--I strive to be only the most gentle of interlocutors... Perhaps it would be most prudent to speak outside?"

"Elias," Mme. Bergeron said. Le Marquis ignored her, and so she said nothing else.

Celeste was struck with the strong and very obvious feeling that her loquacious sympathy was not welcome. Nonetheless, Gauvain's mood seemed to abate slightly from what it had been, when he saw her - which is to say, he didn't try to kill someone. This close, one could follow his milky-white eyes, drifting from the Bergerons to Celeste, and to the papers in her hands. The snarl on his face shifted back to his emotionless, iron expression, though he still held his umbrella in a death grip.

"What are you looking for here?" he demanded coldly of her.

1 Days, 15 Hours, 54 Minutes
The Hospice of the White Dove, Quartier Ouvrier, Morning on April 23rd, 770
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Rock wrote:"Well, if our new Friend is here, he might say something," Lia says with a light sigh. "It would make this whole 'trust' thing easier. And certainly you may walk behind me, if you so wish, Remy. Heh. This does take me back; walking tentatively through an abandoned temple complex, death lurking around every corner -- potentially, anyway. How about you?"

“It brings back the memories, certainly. Mostly traumatic ones.” Prof. Lessard said darkly, but then Remy was always a darkling soul. “I was fond of the adventure and excitement, except for getting shot. And the Falkovnians, or the soulless people.” 

Lessard paused to consider. “I don't bring up the Expedition very much.” 

“In any case, it's possible that the chamber isn't even on the same plane of existence as we are. It would explain why no one has found it. Some realm of the Faerie, perhaps?” Lessard mused. “There's not likely to be an actual gateway anywhere, either, for the same logic that it would have been noticed by now. Ergo, if it is on a different plane of existence, and if there is a gateway somewhere, it does not look like one, and may only activate under certain conditions. If it's conditions that require the presence of a Triarch, we're out of luck.”

The sun was creeping over the horizon as Mercator Melanchthon moved through the streets of the Quartier Ouvrier. Port-a-Lucine was a large city, and though the workers quarter was likely the smallest of the four, it still had a great variety of areas within it. Some were the sort where no gendarme ever ventured, nests of iniquity such as the Rue Vernier Rookery. Others, such as the place where Mercator walked now, were merely poor. Impoverished, soot-stained, lonely looking buildings, but people who nevertheless worked, and had perhaps a little something in their lives. Mercator rounded a corner in accordance with Inkeri's map of runes, and found himself confronted with the exact source of the soot and the noise that had preceded it by several streets. A steel foundry, with great, belching stacks of smoke and heat shimmers rising up from the open doors. A line of workmen was checking in with a foreman as they entered, and the place bustled with heat and activity.

Smiling slightly at how fate directs us, Mercator paused to observe the bustling scene while he considers how to approach the place. After a moment's thought, he decided the direct approach might be best. Approaching the factory gate, he waited until the workmen have entered, meanwhile examining the facade and what could be seen of the interior for signs...the name of the place, the name of the owners, and...if he should be particularly fortunate...something which might be considered phoenix-like. After a few moments, Mercator found the name of the foundry emblazoned on one of the walls. Robichaud et fils, which was presumably the name of the owners as well. Alas, no phoenixes.

He then approached the foreman, with a friendly smile. "Good morning, monsieur," he said. "If I might have a moment?"

The foreman, meanwhile, was a grizzled looking sort, in his forties or fifties most likely, though with the kind of thick arms and tanned skin that argued he was not so long gone from the steel foundry's floor. He looked Mercator over, finding an unusually incongruous sight for a factory in the Quartier Ouvrier, and nodded. "Yeah?"

"Dr. Mercator Melanchthon, your servant," Mercator said, bowing slightly. "My business is, perhaps, slightly unusual...would you happen to know a Thierri Boucher, monsieur?"

"Thierri... Boucher..." The foreman said, brows furrowing. He shook his head at length. "No, he doesn't work here. Not on this shift, anyway."

"I see. Allow me to explain...M. Boucher has lately disappeared. A police matter, you understand? And his family is, of course, distressed. I have some reason to believe that there is information to be had in this establishment...nothing untoward, I assure you, merely investigation into the young man's history. Might M. Robichaud be available for conversation? Or the factory overseer?"

The foreman looked at Mercator somewhat dubiously. "M. Robichaud lives in the Quartier Savant. I can take you to the manager. M. Dupuis."

"Excellent," Mercator replied, smiling again. "May I ask what it is you make here? Steel ingots? Or do you make finished goods as well?"

"Ingots, mostly. We work two shifts here, so the foundry's always running..." Over the course of the next few minutes, as they reached the office, Mercator learned that the plant employed some four hundred people, that it used the old, crucible style of steel production, though there was some talk of switching to the newer Lamordian methods. In addition to steel workers, the foundry employed some two dozen associated staff, mostly managers or secretarial staff, though there was also a doctor on call.
M. Jeremie Depuis worked in an office overlooking the steel plant, with its vast, open crucibles of molten metal. He was a sallow, unhealthy looking man who coughed a great deal, but he gestured for Mercator to sit in the seat across the desk. "G'day sir." Depuis said. ||
"Oh? A fellow physician. Perhaps I will call on him...a professional courtesy, as it were. I congratulate you on your industry, monsieur, and thank you for your trouble. Something for your later refreshment, perhaps?"

Having given the informative foreman a lunar, Mercator entered and bowed to the manager. "Good morning, M. Depuis. Dr. Mercator Melanchthon, at your service. I am here on a rather unusual piece of business...I would be glad to learn anything of a man who I think might be a former employee here...a Thierri Boucher. Do you know the man? Or of him?"

"The name does not come to mind, no." Depuis said, coughing once. "Let me consult my records... why are you inquiring, Sir?" The manager said as he went to a cabinet filled with papers.

"He has gone missing," Mercator replies. "A rather surprising number of people are concerned...I was asked by a mutual friend to lend a hand, and instructed to leave no stone unturned." A slight, amused shrug. "And here I am."

"Mmm-hmm. So you have no official standing." Depuis said through pursed lips, looking through his files. "I am afraid there is no mention of your M. Boucher in the files. I am very sorry to waste your time."

"Official standing is...shall we say...not always the desired quality," Mercator said, laying a solar on the desk. "I must continue my search, then. Might I call upon the resident physician? A professional courtesy. I congratulate you on your management of the facility...impressively modern. The furnaces rather put me in mind of the birth of the phoenix--fire and air and protean form..."

Depuis looked at the bribe with a certain lack of enthusiasm. Then he looked up at Mercator with a suddenly greater amount of interest. "A very... poetic way of putting things."

Mercator half-smiled. "Chalk it up to inspiration, then," he said. "Truly, a foundry does seem to have something of that nature. The Hazlani would find it symbolic...iron passing through the fire, and reborn as steel. The phoenix represents it well. If you should happen to learn more of M. Boucher...say, by tomorrow noon...it would be very valuable to me." Mercator tapped his coat pocket, not quite winking. "And if you should should find a phoenix born here, doubly so. You may send word to the Chateau Malchance."

"I will make inquiries... it is merely curious, since the foundry workers talk of a lucky bird, though they don't use the term phoenix." Dupuis said calmly, before beginning to cough once more.

"Oh yes?" Mercator said. "Some sort of omen? Or an actual, physical bird?” He examined the manager as he spoke, and mentally diagnosed some kind of degeneration of the lungs; despite his youth, the man would be fortunate to live another five years.

"It's some factory floor superstition, that a red bird nests in one of the crucibles." Dupuis said, with a shrug. "Brings luck. I believe some Vechorite immigrants started the story."

"A striking conceit," Mercator replied. "One does wonder how such stories begin." A change of work…preferably a move to a cooler climate…

"It's been going around for some time now. Since the foundry was opened, oh, thirty--" Dupuis broke off the cough once more. "Pardon. Thirty years ago now."

"Since the very beginning, then. Pardon me, monsieur, but I cannot help but note your cough. If I might venture to note...the heat and smoke of the establishment, however impressive, cannot be conducive to a recovery from such an ailment. Have you considered finding a situation where your difficulty would not be aggravated by daily exposure to these conditions?"

Dupuis gave Mercator a somewhat patronizing look. "Good positions such as this do not grow on trees, and I have dependents to provide for and a manner of living to maintain."

If Mercator took poorly to being patronized, it was apparent only from his words, not his manner. Looking at Depuis clinically, he shrugged and said, "Well, monsieur, I understand. But my opinion as a physician is: to continue to provide for your dependents, and have any manner of living at all...well...you would be wise to begin to look for something more salubrious."

"Thank you, sir. I wish you best of luck in your endeavors, and good day." Dupuis turned back to whatever he had been working on before Mercator arrived.

"Thank you for your time, monsieur. Might you direct me to the resident physician?"

"His offices are across the street. Name of Auberge." Depuis said without looking up.

"Many thanks."

As he turns away and finds his way to the factory floor, Mercator ruminated on the human tendency to ignore obvious and serious problems because their solution would be, in some way, inconvenient. Perhaps it would, at least, set the young monsieur Dupuis to thinking.

Dr. Auberge's office was not one to inspire confidence and approbation in the Dementlieuse medical community. It was small, on the second floor of one of the tenements, and had for its lone sign of existence a shingle that had a knife and scissors. The good Dr. Auberge was apparently a barber as well as a doctor. Or a surgeon, more likely. Ascent up to the second floor came at only minimal risk to Mercator's limbs from the rickety, external stairway, and then he was inside. The front room had some chairs, bought at flea-markets or scavenged from Ezra alone knew where. There was a chair as for a barber, a long table that might have been for more finicky operations, and it was on this that Mercator found a long-limbed man with a truly impressive set of muttonchop whiskers, sound asleep.

Apparently they did things differently here in Dementlieu...or perhaps the "doctor" is pretending to a title to which he is not entitled. "Doctor Auberge?" Mercator asked, in a conversational tone.

The whiskered fellow cracked one eye open, then swung his legs off the table and bounded up to greet Mercator in a display of impressive enthusiasm. "Hello! Dr. Alistair Auberge, from Mordentshire, at yer service." He had a rather atrocious accent, though accent from where was an open question. "How can I help ye?"

"Doctor Mercator Melanchthon, your servant," Mercator replied, taking the offered hand (they shake hands here? Perhaps that's the Mordentishman in him manifesting itself) and shaking it. "I was visiting the establishment you are associated with across the way and thought I might call on a fellow-physician."

"Ah, yes. Tis a bulk-rate price they offer me, for when someone gets splashed with something they shouldn't. I stitch them up as best I can, and take off the bits as need taking off. Not a lot of that, Praise Ezra, it gets cauterized most of the time." Auberge said, shaking his head sadly, though over the dreadful working conditions or over the loss of the amputation business was anyone's guess.

"I see. I suppose there must be a great many dangers inherent to the business...the sort of thing that breeds superstitions. The manager of the factory mentioned something of the sort...supposedly a phoenix nests in one of the foundries?"

"What's a phoenix?" Auberge asked, frowning.

"A mythical bird...larger than an eagle and the color of flame. Actually made of flame, or so they say."

"Aaah. The lucky bird. Heard of it. Lives in the hottest crucible, makes it so that one never burns the folks. Aye, I've heard of it, but it's a queer sort of tail, yes? Size of a pheasant, they say." Auberge said with a nod.

"Oh? Fascinating. Do you give it any credit, then?"

"Oh twaddle. I'm a man of science, M'sieur, I don't listen to any such rubbish." Auberge said with a disdainful sniff. "#4 is just the one where the old hands work, so of course they don't get hurt as much, no mysticky bird needed."

"Too bad, it would be rather convenient to have a phoenix handy. I suppose the old hands have their little ways of propitiating their imagined patron? Making sure it stays in good temper?"

"They do." Auberge said with a shrug. "They sing to it. God-awful singing, too."

"Some tune of their own invention?"

"A Sithican ditty, not that I could ever learn the heathen tongue." Auberge said. "Why do you ask?"
Sidestepping the question, and ignoring what might possibly be some kind of anti-elven slur, Mercator asked, “Sithican? Merciful Ezra...however would they learn such a thing?"

"Not the foggiest o' ideas." Auberge said, scratching his head. "From a Sithican?"

Mercator laughed briefly. "Yes, that would seem likely. I don't suppose there are any Sithicans actually working at the forge?" He gave this last question a quizzical twist.

"If there are, they haven't been in here." Auberge said with a shrug. "I don't think I'm ever going to see an elf at a forge.”

“Indeed,” Mercator replied. Turning the conversation in the direction of small talk, he made his escape after a quarter hour and went down to the street to think.

Lunch at the steel foundry happened in shifts, as the molten crucibles were far too dangerous, and too expensive, to ever leave unattended. And so it was that an hour before noon a bell rung, and the first third of the workers left their posts to carry their lunches outside. They sat on the street, mostly, eating whatever they had brought with them, or bought from a few street-sellers who were there. They looked a strong, hearty crew, muscular and red-faced, but to Mercator's medical eye their ruddy skin was unfortunate, and far too many of them coughed. Having mulled over his approach for the last two hours, Mercator approached the nearest group of laborers. "Good morning, monsieurs," he said, with a general bow to all present. "Bon appetit. I am sorry to disturb you at your meal, but I have a question regarding a story I heard this morning...a story of a red bird that makes its nest in one of your crucibles."

A few of the workmen peered at Mercator dubiously. He certainly looked ominous enough. On the other hand, he was alone, and there were no gendarmes, so he couldn't have been that important. "About the lucky bird, yeah." One bearded fellow said, "And who are you?"

"Dr. Mercator Melanchthon, at your service," Mercator replies. "I understand there is a song sung to the...lucky bird?"

"Yeah." The bearded worker said, as one of the others hummed a few bars of some little ditty, new to Mercator but hauntingly familiar nonetheless. "Why do you ask?" The bearded man said suspiciously.

"Will you teach me the song?"

"I can do it." Said the man who had hummed. "It isn't much of a trouble, not at all."

"Thank you," Mercator said, smiling for the first time. "You are very kind. You see, I know a man who is in trouble, and I believe the bird can help him."

"Well then listen carefully." And the man began to sing. It was a short song, not more than two stanzas, and even to Mercator's ear it was obvious that the Sithican had all but degenrated into gobbledygook by this point, mispronounced and misremembered. Still, there was something to be remembered here, and the tune... now the tune was magical.

Mercator did not have much musical talent, but he could carry a tune. After hearing the song twice through he felt quite sure he'll remember it. It's curiously memorable, in its plaintive way. "I have it, I think. Thanks very much," Mercator said. "I would like to pay my respects, as it were, to the bird...perhaps this evening? I would be happy to provide some cheer after a day of tolerably hot, dry work, as well, if any are amenable."

"Sure, doctor, that wouldn't be a problem." The man who had been humming before said. He was a younger man, and not yet marked as much as the others by the work. "The lucky bird doesn't always show, not even usually, but sometimes..."

"Let us hope this is one of the fortunate occasions," Mercator said, smiling again. "Good morning, monsieurs, and thank you again for your consideration." Bowing slightly to all again, he goes in search of his own lunch, back at the Chateau Malchance.

M. Gauvain wrote:"What are you looking for here?"

"Why, one of the arcane items necessary to ameliorate M. Boucher's condition!" Celeste toned it down a bit--though not much--as looking thoughtful required slightly less enthusiasm. Playing to Gauvain's mood couldn't hurt, either. "A symbolic token of 'Hail', I believe it was: something that has injured or sickened the gentleman in the past. Oh, I do hope that we shall know it when we discover it!"

She cocked her head at the Marquis. "But why do you come here, sir--if it is not impertinent of me to ask, that is? Upon a similar errand, perhaps?"

Having arrived at the Chateau after a brisk walk which rather whetted the appetite, Mercator arrives at the Chateau Malchance to find it near-deserted; apparently his housemates are out on business of their own. Accordingly, he scouts the kitchen for what is available and lunches on bread-and-butter and fruit, then goes upstairs, bouncing the key to Thierri's room in his hand.

Opening the door, he steps inside and begins to search for something that could be considered to have bound the young M. Boucher's mind. Chances are it's in the other room...the one that's locked by the mage's own key...but the contents of this one might be eliminated, at least.

Perception 11, Arcana 18. Unprepossessing. I'm gonna keep at it for a couple of hours, anyway, or until someone comes home...whichever comes first.

Reine wrote: “He kept sticking me with needles when he first came. That hurt. Not as much as when he had to break my arm. The bone set wrong, he said, and it had to be rebroken. They gave me something to drink and I was sleepy, and Mr. Raven held me down while M. Boucher broke my arm.”
...
“No. ” Reine said shortly. “He always cleaned up after Mr. Raven brought him here.”

Nerit tapped her chin with a forefinger and muttered, "I never knew he was trained in medicine...." Her countenance belied her growing anxiety as her brows furrowed. "Did you ever see 'M. Raven' and Boucher exchange money, Reine? Did he ever thank Boucher?"

She watched the girl and thought, but it wasn't adding up to much.
I am totally lost, so here are a bunch of rolls. Intelligence check 10 (I hate you, Fortuna). 28 Perception and 32 Insight on Reine.

"A rather unfavourable option then presents itself," Lia says, looking somewhat queasy. "It would likely involve hideous danger. But the methodology is available to... address the Fey. Really, I would prefer having an expert tap the walls and floors, and checking the blueprints, so we might perhaps find a hidden room."

(OOC: Running out of options available to my skillset, I fear. :-\ If the rules were more flexible, I'd have Grimmric use echolocation to look for hidden rooms.)

"I feel at a disadvantage," Rex said softly, "Who or what is Mr. Raven?"

Following Nerit's example because I'm not especially cluing in here either.

Perception 17
Insight 12
Intelligence 18

Good to know the dice still hate me.

1 Days, 11 Hours, 21 Minutes
The Chateau Malchance, Quartier-Marchand, Morning on April 23rd, 770
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Thierri's parlor is unusual, to say the least - possibly best described as a "neat clutter". The only furniture is the desk and closet provided by Devereux, and a threadbare, shabby green couch to sit on. His clothes were hung rather haphazardly in the closet, his pens and paper set neatly on his desk, and his books were carefully piled in a stack to the side of it. The rest of the room was covered with accessories for his magic tricks: rope, chains, cards, metal rings, large sheets for a dramatic reveal, small steel cages, juggling knives, various sharp implements, and even a large black coffin that was apparently pulling double duty as a table.

The doors, both the ones leading outside to the hall and the ones leading to the inner chambers have an assortment of chains on them, enough to ward off even the most aggressive religious pamphleteer. They were also magically locked, as though that were insufficient.

Two scruffy, off-white doves sit in their cage by the window. They cooed as Mercator entered the room, but otherwise didn't seem inclined to shift on their perch.

1 Days, 15 Hours, 47 Minutes
Orphelinat de Mont-Noir, Quartier-Ouvrier, Morning on April 23rd, 770
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Kaitou Kage wrote:"I feel at a disadvantage," Rex said softly, "Who or what is Mr. Raven?"

“Mr. Raven is an angel.” Reine explained, in the tone of quiet reverence. Whatever else, one thing was patently obvious. She believed in Mr. Raven. “He's beautiful. White as snow, with big black wings. He takes care of me.”

“He gave me this ball.” Reine held up the color-changing ball, presently a lime green.

Nerit wrote: "Did you ever see 'M. Raven' and Boucher exchange money, Reine? Did he ever thank Boucher?"

“I never saw.” Reine said with a shrug. She bounced the ball rapidly from hand to hand, causing it to shift in a kaleidoscope of colors. “M. Boucher kept coming back, though, and he'd bring me presents. He gave me a little cameo with a sliver of bone from when he had to break my arm. He never apologized for hurting me though, and I don't think Mr. Raven ever thank him for it.”

“They didn't talk to each other very much.” The auburn-haired girl offered up after a moment's thought.

1 Days, 15 Hours, 47 Minutes
The Bergeron Residence, Quartier-Savant, Morning on April 23rd, 770
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Celeste wrote:"A symbolic token of 'Hail', I believe it was: something that has injured or sickened the gentleman in the past. Oh, I do hope that we shall know it when we discover it!"

She cocked her head at the Marquis. "But why do you come here, sir--if it is not impertinent of me to ask, that is? Upon a similar errand, perhaps?"

Gauvain did not answer Celeste, which was somewhat unusual in and of itself. Instead, he merely regarded her with that cold, emotionless expression, a lid clamped down tight over whatever raging fury was contained in the man.

“I'll get it.” M. Elias Gauvain said, turning sharply and striding towards the stairs. He didn't look back at Celeste as he added. “Stay here.”

1 Days, 15 Hours, 47 Minutes
The Hospice of the White Dove, Quartier Ouvrier, Morning on April 23rd, 770
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Lia wrote:"A rather unfavourable option then presents itself," Lia says, looking somewhat queasy. "It would likely involve hideous danger. But the methodology is available to... address the Fey. Really, I would prefer having an expert tap the walls and floors, and checking the blueprints, so we might perhaps find a hidden room."

“I'm sure we can think of options that don't involve possible soul loss.” Prof. Lessard said mildly. He tapped a wall. “Let's give this place one last run-through, after which point we should either wait for the Commissioner or retreat back to the Chateau Malchance.”

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Some hours later

It rapidly emerged that if there was a hidden chamber in the hospice, at least of the mundane and physical type, it was hidden with sufficient cleverness that Lessard and Mournswaithe were not going to find it any time soon. Not without taking the hospice apart brick by brick, at any rate.

“That was productive.” Remy said, having finished examining yet another store room. “And no idea when the Commissioner will be coming back. Return to the Chateau, perhaps?”

If you head back, you'll be time in-sync with Mercator

"I...yes. You told me that." Tomas is starting to realize, oh gods, this woman has been broken for a long, long time. There might not be enough pieces left to put together. "Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all? ...thunder, can I get you a glass of water? Something?"

Yeah this'll end well.

"It seems we shall have to invest in trust, after all," Lia says with a sigh. She offers Remy her arm. "Let us adjourn, then," she says. "I could just murder a cup of tea after all of this searching. What a disheartening evening..."

M. Gauvain wrote:“I'll get it. Stay here.”

Celeste was obviously a bit bewildered at the great wads of subtext arcing gaily over her head, but clearly the Marquis knew something that she and Tomas did not. Best to let the expert handle things, at least until that became a horrifyingly bad idea.

Thus: "Yes, sir!" Celeste looked as if she wanted very much to salute, while realizing simultaneously that she hadn't the slightest inkling of the requisite constabulary protocol. Not wanting to muck things up, she improvised a curtsey, then stayed dutifully where she was--albeit craning her neck somewhat after the Marquis left, in a transparent attempt to keep tabs on whatever was going on upstairs.

If there is the slightest sign of incipient mayhem up there, Celeste is following posthaste.