Romany's flat is a blend of comfort, anonymity, and the bizarre. There's
no television, for one thing. Many shelves, many books, stranger things
keeping the books company. Candles scattered here and there, many
half-burnt, some fresh. The mingled sweetish smells of incense and clove
smoke. Shadow boxes. Plants, many of them, green and thriving. A tabby cat
is curled up in the middle of the couch, from where it gives the pair of
them a professionally disdainful look as Romany unlocks the door and lets
them in off the stairs. "Bit more private than the cafe," she notes
absently.

"I should hope so," he agrees, with a very faint glimmer of his old humor.
The trip back from the museum has left him looking even more pinched - too
many people in the subway, the weight of too many presences. HE pads to
the center ofthe living room, as if afraid to touch anything, and simply
stands, hat held lightly in his hands.

Romany closes the door behind her and secures it, but her attention is
still on Jack - or past him; she has a way of looking through people
rather than at them, now and then. "How to go about this, then. You've had
to work with him," and the hint of distaste in her voice at the last word
is as good as saying Constantine's name out loud. "Presume you won't be
too offended by the usual accoutrements?"

A faint shake of his head. "Not at all. You've been vouched for by those I
trust, and far be it from me to tell you how to do your job," he notes,
wryly. "And, touch wood, I don't think you could make things much worse
than they stand at this point. Just tell me what to do." He's favoring her
with one of those sidelong looks in return, running his fingers around the
brim of the hat.

"Don't intend to risk making things any worse at all just now," Romany
assures him - to the extent that that's an assurance. "You can start by
sitting down." She studies him a moment longer before striding,
businesslike, to reach for a wooden box stored high on a shelf. Besides
the partly-cat-occupied couch, there's a chair or two, only one of which
has books stacked on it.

Rather primly, he sits on the clear chair, smoothing the folds of his coat
over his legs before setting the hat off to one side. He looks more than a
bit sheepish, watching her indirectly. "Yes," he agrees, suddenly
uncertain.

Undoubtedly it's a choice that has the cat's favor. Romany draws before
him a small, round wooden table; on that she spreads a piece of grey
cloth, perfectly plain and slightly wrinkled, then takes from the box a
deck of cards and offers them to Jack. The backs are plain, dark, scored
with an abstract pattern of gold-tone and silverish lines. "Simplest to
start. Shuffle that as you like." The cat gives him a bored blink from the
couch, then curls so that it can watch them quietly over and across its
tail.

With the ease of long practice, he cuts and shuffles the deck, each motion
deliberate. Once it's been repeated seven times, he sets it squarely in
the middle of the table, and raises his gaze to her face again. "Should
that be sufficient, do you think?" he wonders, tone almost deferential.
Nice to meet a competent mystic who doesn't immediately set off his
blackguard detector.

"Quite," she agrees, and five cards are turned over and set in a cross. A
figure walking away from overturned cups. The inevitable black-robed
figure with the scythe. More cups, and a figure lifting one in toast. An
unornamented blade. Two figures holding hands and, yes, again cups. More
than half of the cards are upside-down. Romany glances down at the cards
for the first time when they're all five of them in place, then up at Jack
again. "Mm," is all she says for that first moment. Then, "You've lost
something, haven't you."

The inevitable sarcastic reply rises to his lips, and is firmly calmped
down upon. He expels a slow, careful breath, before murmuring, "Yes, so I
have been told, by one who might be expected to be able to see." The pale
eyes are half-lidded, as he eyes the cards, refusing to glance up, this
time.

"You told the truth," Romany murmurs, more to herself than to him perhaps;
her fingertip lingers on the cloth, not quite brushing one card or
another. Death, the Two of Cups, the Ace of Swords. "Bermuda's at the base
of this; a division of some kind, something you don't see any way to set
right. People you know think this is somehow a choice on your part,
self-destruction, despite. Don't see the effort it's taking you to do this
well. The inertia it's dreadfully difficult for you to overcome. They
think in terms of trauma and slow recovery. Don't see you didn't come all
the way back."

"Yes," he agrees, a thread of fervor under the dull tone. "I don't have
adequate words. At least, not thus far. And I don't like to distress the
others. But nor do I see clearly enough to see what to do. And...the other
attempts I've made to get help haven't been terribly sucessful." But under
the table, his hands are knotted together.

Romany taps the cloth by one of the cards that /isn't/ reversed: the Nine
of Cups. "Seems obvious, doesn't it? You need back what you're missing.
Good chance of getting it, sooner or later. Question is, how. Advice,
then." She flicks one more card off the deck; upside-down, the robed and
crowned figure frowns from his throne, and Romany's expression grows
annoyed right back. "Hate when it does that. All right. Intellect isn't
going to get you anywhere. Neither is power. Imbalance between motion and
its pivot point. Need to set that right - don't think it'll prove to be
doing the right /thing/, in the end, so much as doing it in the right
/way/. Determination and motivation may be most of it. You've got enough
of those." She pauses, glancing up at Celliers. "The Emperor is the lord
of this world; might be you'll have to leave it partway again to see this
through, go and fetch back what you're missing. Wouldn't take my word on
that, though."

Celliers nods, though it's the polite expression of one who desires to be
seen taking an interest, rather than any real understanding. "Again?" he
echoes, softly, and with a very obvious lack of enthusiasm: sure that if
he gets that far out again, he won't return.

Romany answers him truthfully. "Don't know. Odd situation." To say the
least. "A few things I can give you to try, a few more to look into."
There's the briefest of pauses before she asks a question of her own.
"What do you want?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "At the moment? To stop hurting. In the long term
- to fix this problem, this missing piece. By whatever means necessary." A
pause, and he adds the caveat, "Within the confines of my honor." No
free-style Constantine bastardry allowes, apparently.

There's a hint of approval and a trace of relief as Romany straightens.
"Glad for the limitation. Keep being startled my evil little brother's
associating with someone sensible and decent for once." She turns and
starts for the kitchen, still talking. "Can give you a few things to try.
Tea that might help you sleep a bit better. Trick or two that help with
dreams. A talisman. Try them the way you would medicine; use one for a few
days, see whether it makes things better or worse, don't add another till
you know about the first. For the long term - need to do a bit of
research, put my hands on a few books. Should have a better idea by the
time we're both in America."

"I know a few," he drawls, "Who might well argue with the 'sensible'
appellation, but you are kind to say so. And I would appreciate any help
or advice you might be so generous as to give, of course."

Romany, screened behind greenery, actually laughs. "Bear in mind that /my/
brother was seventeen," she replies. Sensible might perhaps be relative.
"Don't know what you can find for yourself over there. Rosemary's easy
enough, I imagine. Vervain? Anise?"

"All of the above are available with a little effort, I believe," he
returns, musingly. "And who can be deemed sensible at seventeen, for that
matter?" He's not fidgeting, for once, hands now curled in his lap.

"Yes. And you haven't tried to murder me yet, so you're already rather
above the usual." Romany returns from the kitchen to present him with a
closed tin: blue, with an abstract pattern of curves and diamonds. "Keep
the three of those by your bed; hanging them over it is best, with a bit
of the rosemary under your pillow, cleaned out and replaced every night.
That's to keep nightmares away. /This/," and she gestures slightly with
the tin, "should help you sleep all-in-all." And she has rather more faith
in it than she does in the rosemary, but she's not saying that out loud,
thank you. "Make a tea from it and take a cup an hour or so before you go
to bed. There's a talisman I'll make for you tonight; wear that about your
neck, except when you need to care for it. Won't help the nightmares at
all, but it dulls pain and gives strength. Suppose I should write these
things down for you."

His eyes have widened slightly at the grocery list. "Yes," he replies,
eagerly. "My memory is not what it once was," he admits, a bit shamefaced.
"And thank you again." He rises from his seat, and nearly succeeds in
knocking over the little cloth-covered table.

Predictably, though the cards spill a bit, the figure with the scythe is
still staring blindly upward. Romany takes no notice. "Thank me when we've
seen what works," she replies. And pauses, then, with a hint of
concentration, perhaps even worry. "Ah. The, ah. People of Peace don't
frequent the area where you live, do they? The Good Folk?"

Reluctantly, he picks it up to examine it more closely. "And behold, there
came a pale horse," he murmurs, before casting it down with a faint flick,
letting it skitter almost to the edge of the table.

Romany studies the man and the motion. "I'll take that as a no." She sets
the tin down on the arm of the chair, and turns to rummage among
bookshelves, removing a perfectly ordinary notebook and a perfectly
ordinary pen and starting to jot notes in a perfectly ordinary - and
eminently legible - hand. "If you /do/ start seeing anything odd," she
comments as she writes, "or things start to be moved about in your bedroom
when you aren't there, do stop using the rosemary at once." Because those
in the know like to refer to that as an 'oops.' The written instructions
are somewhat more detailed than the ones she was giving out loud. "Where
shall I bring you the talisman?"

"If I start seeing antyhing odd? More like, if I cease to see things that
are odd," he snarks, though it's more to himself than to her. "But I shall
keep your instructions in mind. And I'm staying at this address." His
current hotel is scribbled on a scrap of paper, and set on the table, not
far from where Death continues to grin down at maidens, popes, and
princes.

Romany's eyes gleam with amusement as she glances at him over her
spectacles. "True enough." She exchanges the notes for that scrap - three
separate sheets, one for the herbs, one for the tea, one for the talisman.
"See if I can't turn up anything else for you between now and tomorrow.
Ought to be something. Chalice, perhaps. If not, then I'll find you in
America easily enough."

Celliers meets her eyes levelly for moment, as he brushes fussily at his
sleeves. "Chalice? And I may be here for a few days longer - I intend a
visit to Salisbury," he explains. "And you will be in Beacon Harbor soon,
won't you?"

"Might be worth your time to look yourself, then. Chalice Well, in
Glastonbury. Joseph of Arimathea, the Grail, all that. Terribly touristy,
but some people swear by it. Seems half appropriate for you. Resurrection
and all." Romany's tone is offhand, but her pale eyes are steady, and
focused /on/ him rather than /past/ him. "I'll be in Beacon Harbor by the
end of the month."

His face and voice are both utterly deadpan, though his eyes are impish,
as he notes, "Cancel my subscription to the resurrection." But he bows a
little, and notes in a slightly lighter tone, "I shall look into that, as
well, then. God willing, it won't hurt."

There's another flash of humor in the woman's eyes. "Ah. Shall do. And if
you do stop there - the water's always run red like that. Don't be
startled."

One side of his mouth lifts into one of those lopsided grins, though he's
brought his gaze back to the little heap of cards on the table. "Indeed,"
he agrees.

Across the room, the cat stirs - then leaps, determinedly. Under her
impact, the table totters and falls, sending feline and cards both to the
floor in a whirl. There's a startled yowl and a streak of tabby into the
kitchen. Undoubtedly, she meant to do that.

Celliers flinches back, before looking more than abit embarassed. At least
he didn't try to draw and shoot the cat, as he did Pete's cellphone, which
one might argue as an improvement.

Romany sighs faintly. "Don't mind her. Does that regularly. At least she
isn't biting today. Tea?" She goes down on one knee and begins picking up
the cards, sifting them back into the box. Face-down.

Celliers clasps his hands behind him, as if to prevent yet further
trouble. "That would be very nice," he allows, with a faint sigh.