Orne Library

The door to the third floor bangs open, then eases shut with a soft whisper.

A familiar face shuffles into the library.

Robert Blaine looks like he hasn't slept in days. His clothing is a wrinkled mess with his shirt half-tucked into his breeches. There's a hollowed look about him, like his thoughts are elsewhere.

He doesn't acknowledge anyone. He lumbers across the floor and claims an empty table in the far corner, well away from the center stacks. He sets his bag on the tabletop and begins removing books - several of them. The bindings are unfamiliar. They look ancient. Some appear to be old journals with loose pages.

He arranges them on the table with care, then pulls a brand new journal and flips through to an empty page. He doesn't look up, but focuses on the task in front of him. He bends over the table and begins working, flipping pages with restless urgency, jotting notes, and muttering to himself under his breath.

He pauses. He presses the heal of his hand to his forehead and closes his eyes, then drags his fingers through his unkempt hair. His jaw tightens, clenching and unclenching. He opens his eyes and turns another page, oblivious to those around him - or those watching him.

Robert Blaine looks up shock. He was so engrossed in his studies that Marcus's presence across the table did not really register.

"Uh, sorry?" He mumbles, confused. He shakes his head as if trying to clear it, then blinks back at Marcus with bloodshot eyes. The smell of alcohol seems to radiate from him.

"Pass out?" Blaine says quickly. "No. Sorry. I'm fine. Just ... tired."

He gently closes the book he was studying and puts it back into his bag. It's a slim volume, but something about it raises the hair on the back of Marcus's neck. Demoniality stamped faintly on the spine.

He then tucks a thick, well-worn book with cracked spines into his bag. The title Isis Unveiled by H. P. Blavatsky stamped in silver foil. The final tome is the oldest-looking book on the table, its leather binding darkened with age. Marcus just makes out the title The Discoverie Of Witchcraft by Reginald Scot before it is put away.

"I apologize, but I just realized I need to be somewhere." He slides the bag over his shoulder as he stands, holding the strap with both hands, as if worried someone will try to run off with it. "It was nice meeting you."

Ellis's knock echoes dully against the steel door of the Restricted Collection. It takes a beat, but finally the faint click of metal answers. The door opens only part-way - Dr. Armitage peering out from behind it. The older gentleman looks perplexed, brows knitting as he takes in the sight of Ellis.

"Yes, Mr. Hardy?" He says, pulling the door open a bit more and leaning his shoulder against it. "I thought I'd given you enough to occupy your attention for a bit longer than this. What brings you back so soon?"

Sycamores is, by all outward appearances, a modest little flower shop on a quiet street. It provides red roses for romantics, and lilies for the bereft.

But, the real business happens downstairs.

Sycamores is also the front for an illegal speakeasy in the basement, serving alcohol to Arkham’s thirsty people.

The entrance is around back via an unassuming rear doorway some might mistake for the employee entrance. Access is through word of mouth. Friends invite friends and teach them the secret knock to gain entry. Jack, the heavyset doorman, assesses any visitors through a sliding view slot before opening the door and allowing access to the stairwell down to the bar.

The establishment itself is rudimentary. A long wooden bar runs the length of the wall behind the stairs. The room itself is made up of six tables surrounded by mismatched wooden chairs. Regular folk come her seeking a taste of whiskey or wine.

It's a bit of a trek from Arkham U by foot, but Robert offered you both a ride. While he reeked of liquor, he handled the drive well enough. He's not sloppy. Not yet.

Robert downs his first drink quickly, then signals the bartender for another. He turns it slowly in his hands, watching the legs of alcohol stretch down the side of the glass.

"Yeah." He says after a pause. "We searched. The woods. The hills. The campsite. There was no sign of them anywhere." His jaw works faintly - the unconscious grinding of teeth.

He takes a measured sip of the drink this time, then looks up at Jo.

He stares long and hard before finally saying. "You said that you can help." His voice is steady, but there's a strain in it. "How?"

Instinctively, he pulls his book bag closer and keeps a hand on it. Not possessive, but protective.