This particular place has apparently decided that it can celebrate Christmas all year 'round: the walls are done in a dark red color, and the shabby rugs in an equally dark green. Add that to the fact that about one lighting fixture in three is working, and the heavy scent of incense to cover whatever is going on upstairs, and ... well, most people aren't actually interested in staying very long. Romany's an exception. She's taken a table beneath a poster of the constellations (which would be atmospheric if the people operating the place hadn't made it one for the *Southern* hemisphere), and is currently fully engaged in guarding a notebook and eyeing her tea warily. Possibly, she's guarding the notebook /from/ the tea. Jack enters, draped in his heaviest winter coat, the one that looks like he stole it from the costume department from some terrible historical miniseries. It doesn't hide the fact that he's thinner than ever, if that's possible, and obviously dog-weary. "Miss Wisdom," he greets, pacing up to her table. The odd surroundings don't receive much attention, beyond the first cursory glance to determine just where the exits are. "I hope I find you well?" Constantine is familiar with this kind of place. He prefers disreputable smoky bars, but a number of his contacts prefer shabby coffeeshops of this type. He's rolling his eyes as he steps inside. Fortunately, he doesn't have to smell the incense much--he's too busy smoking. Jack gets a wary look, and Romany gets an even warier one as he approaches her. For some reason, Romany might perhaps prefer to stay away from any combination of Constantine and alcohol. She comes to her feet as the two men come near, steadying the all-too-thin (and, she suspects, perhaps steadily growing thinner) paper cup containing her drink with one hand. "Mister Celliers." She studies him for an instant, acquiring a faint frown. "Quite, on my part. Has there been any improvement, even partial?" Really, the question's for form's sake; he doesn't look it. Constantine she greets with a slight nod, no words. "Oh, it has helped," he hastens to assure her. "The extraneous nightmares have gone entirely, though it's not proof against the other dreams. And I've certainly had more energy than previously. I'm very grateful," He even bows, slightly, before straightening and offering Constantine a nod. "Welcome to Beacon Harbor, by the way." "The loony bin of America," Constantine explains for Romany's benefit, once Jack finishes. He's not pleased to have to see her, but he's not going to stop making snide comments in her presence, either. "No wonder they don't object to your living here," Romany replies to Constantine before returning her attention to Jack. "Pleased to hear it's helped somewhat. Sit down, the both of you. Either of you any good with German at all?" Jack worries at his lip for a moment, before offering, "I have a little, and can read more, since it's so close to English. Why d'you ask?" He's refusing to look directly at either of them again, save for a glance at Romany as she replies to Constantine, mostly letting his gaze wander over the posters. Constantine smirks at Romany. "I'm deeply wounded." Sarcasm is his friend! "I know English and Latin, that's it." He glances around, gaze jittering from here to there. That--and the speed with which he finishes his cigarette (he pauses now to toss the end into a nearby ashtray and promptly light another one)--is the only indicator of his nervousness. Romany's behaving, relatively: she resists the temptation to answer Constantine with 'Oh, good.' Instead, she taps that notebook with a fingertip as she reseats herself. (There's an ashtray on the table, too, with the remnants of a dead clove in it.) "Been doing research on the gentleman's problem. Having a bit of trouble with the idiom." The gentleman is, presumably, Jack. Well, Constantine surely doesn't count. Real interest kindles in his face, as he drags himself back from his scrutiny of the nearest poster. "Really? How so?" he wonders, leaning in a little. Constantine doesn't sit down; instead, he just leans against the wall, smokes, and lurks. Not going away! Romany flips through the notebook, careful of the lurking cup. Page after page of a neat handwriting, then page after page of a /different/ neat handwriting, then back to her own. "This sort of thing is frequently written of," she explains to Jack, "in a sort of veiled, symbolic allusion. Probably the best-known type is associated with alchemy, which borrowed both the sacred marriage and the dying king as images in which to disguise the details of procedures. Trouble is, when you combine that with idiomatic writing, never know whether the idiom itself is the code, or whether its usual meaning is what's intended - and when you're dealing with four-hundred-year-old German on top of it, turns into a bit of a headache." Jack's lips curl in a grimace of distaste. "I'll wager," he agrees, fervently. "And I've seen a bit of the sort - Indian religious texts can be that way, though I've next to no experience with alchemy itself. What part might I be able to help you with?" "Four-hundred-year-old German?" Constantine inquires idly, in a perfectly normal tone, as if he completely expects Romany to give him the answer. Nosy bastard. "Don't really like alchemy either," Romany admits to Jack. "Makes a good example, though." She turns the notebook and shows Jack a particular page - it's got four lines of German and about fifteen lines of notes trying to puzzle those four lines out. Then she glances up at Constantine, her expression perfectly neutral. "Bernhauser. And don't you refer me back to Ehrhart's commentary, I've already had a look at a copy and it doesn't cover this bit." Jack steeples his fingers before him, something picked up from Holmes, surely, content to eye the notebook. "Indeed. I might be of use with literal translation, though the actual idiom would be far more your department, I am sure. What have you gotten thus far, may I ask?" "Feel free to take a look through," Romany replies to Jack. "Nothing particularly disastrous in that book." Or she wouldn't be carrying it around Beacon Harbor - she's impulsive, she's not stupid. "Not to mention that you've got a perspective on this that either of us rather lack. Glass houses, Conjob. What /do/ you want?" He reaches to take the notebook, gravely, starting to scan at the beginning and running his eyes over it. The further in he gets, the deeper the furrows between his brows. Light reading this isn't. After a moment, his lips begin to move, silently, before he speaks aloud softly. "And so the bird takes wing, but the shadow shall remain, though its housing has become ash. But neither part is complete without the other," His lips twist, and he flips through the notebook, pages ruffling under his fingers. But at one of the ones nearer the end, he freezes for a moment, gaze growing even more intent. "But the knights shall approach the tower, the hub of the wheel..." He closes the notebook gently, and sets it down on the table. "Less than coherent indeed," he echoes, though he looks faintly shaken. "Of course, lately we've all fallen short of coherence ourselves," Constantine admits. He pauses to blow smoke up at the ceiling, then glances back at Romany. "There's a spell I've been hunting down. I've it mostly figured out, but I'm not sure about some of the materials I'll need--I know there are a few missing from my list." He takes out a folded piece of paper from his trenchcoat pocket and hands it to Romany. "By the way, I'll be doing the spell in question well away from the city, using only myself as bait." Romany accepts the paper, starting to unfold it - and stopping partway through, going rather still at what Constantine says. She sets the paper down carefully on the table, as though she expected it to leap up and sink sudden fangs into her hand. "That," she says slowly, "must be a first, John." Caution? That he's willing to admit to? What is the spell, a nuclear strike? She looks over to Celliers instead, slowly. "Any of that mean anything to you?" Might be asking either of the men, really. Jack's gaze flickers back and forth between the two, before he meets Romany's gaze frankly. "Well, it might, if I'm not reading too much into it out of sheer wishfulness. The language is abstruse, to say the least. But it's more promising than anything I've encountered thus far." At her reaction to the paper, he eyes Constantine suspiciously. "Spell?" "There are some things I need to find out," Constantine says simply. What, you expected information from him? Might as well pull teeth. Romany should be able to tell the gist of the spell John's been patching together. It's a truth-binding, and a fairly powerful one--and like any spell of that type and power, it will work on the caster as well as the target. John must really want this information. Romany reaches up, absently, and slips off her glasses as she finishes reading, holding them lightly in her hands as she leans back. "Hm. Won't be coming back quickly after finishing, either." She's going to need a moment to assimilate that. Pale grey-blue eyes lift to Jack, far less focused than when she had the glasses on - looking past him rather than at. "Trouble's going to be knowing which parts to take literally, I imagine. Still, it's something." Jack bows his head slightly, now unwilling to meet her gaze, his own washed-out blue slipping to the scuffed surface of the table. "Far more than I've had, up until now," he admits in a murmur. "May I borrow this, and copy some of it?" "Not unless I have to, no," Constantine mutters, watching Romany closely, his gaze occasionally darting to Jack, curiosity piqued. "Feel fr-- mm. Wait." Romany draws the notebook back and tears out several pages defly: those which are written in a hand that /isn't/ hers. Then she slides the book across to Celliers again. "There. If you need anything in the part I removed, I'll see about getting permission." Her gaze turns to Constantine again, still distinctly unfocused. "You're sure you want to go through with this?" she asks him dubiously. "Doesn't seem your style." The notebook vanishes into one of the myriad pockets in the coat - it looks capacious enough for him to tote along a good-sized library. "Thank you. I'm sure this section alone will take me a good little while, by itself." While his tone's as deadpan as ever, his eyes are gleaming with eagerness. The spidery hands have resumed their old spastic fidgeting, this time with a little multiplex knife that emerged from yet another pocket. Constantine's gaze flickers over the torn-out pages, and he grins suddenly. The expression is gone, then, replaced by a more focused, serious one. "Very sure. This is important--and if I can get it done soon, so it doesn't fuck up Pryde and Wisdom's wedding, all the better." He seems sincere. But then, he often does. Constantine generally seems particularly sincere when he's manipulating the fuck out of people. Romany, thus, gifts him with a distinctly annoyed expression. "Bloodstone?" she suggests to him dubiously. "Tourmaline? Spinel? Or is price an object?" Rarely is for her, but then, she rarely actually buys the more expensive items she needs. Absently, she hunts about herself, coming up with a little pad of notepaper with the address and number of her hotel - jots another three digits down on that, and passes that top sheet to Celliers as well. "Room number, in case you need to get hold of me." "Thank you," he returns, quietly, tucking it away with a quick motion. "And you've still my current address and cellular phone number?" Constantine's ignored for the moment - what can he add to magician's business, anyway? He folds his hands on the tabletop, to prevent further aimless fussing. "Price is not an object." There's a morbidly cheerful note to John's voice. He almost never actually buys the more expensive items he needs. His gaze flicks automatically to the address and numbers, but he pulls it away before he can memorize them. No need to risk having Romany tie him up somewhere or worse for the crime of knowing too much. Romany says "Blue spinel, then, and silver." Romany draws a finger over the page and frowns. "What the devil are you trying to target with this? Half of this seems to be oriented simply around the principle of not blowing any fuses." Her, worried about what Constantine might be playing with? Well, yes. "Yes, I've your number," she confirms to Jack, then - and adds the last four digits from memory. "Isn't it?"" He nods mutely, hoping he won't be asked to leave while the pair talks shop. It's all so much nonsense, but that doesn't keep him from being utterly curious. Constantine shrugs and flashes Romany that swift, inscrutable, and annoyingly charming smile of his. "I'm trying to snare the toe of a giant so I can see what it tells me; maybe I'll even hurt the giant a little." A beat. "That was metaphor," he hastens to add. The last thing Beacon Harbor needs is a giant with a stubbed toe stomping into town. Romany puts her glasses back on simply so that she can regard Constantine over them, disapproving. Apparently she doesn't mind Jack being there while she informs John, "You /are/ mad." Well, of course not. Jack already knew that part. Constantine being mad. "IS there anything the peons can do to prevent damage?" he wonders, drily, reaching into his coat for lighter and cigarette. "Or shall I be ready to pick him up off the floor again?" Constantine ignores Jack's question. It's irrelevant, anyway--he won't be doing this from his apartment. If he ends up in a coma or worse on Mount Caith, he's highly unlikely to be rescued. Instead, he merely flashes that damn smile again. "Glass houses, Romy." He retrieves the paper he'd handed to her and tucks it back into a pocket, then turns to head away. "Ta." Romany gives Constantine an annoyed look over her shoulder - one that redoubles itself in the instant before she exhales sharply and adds, "Do try not to get yourself killed. Imagine your young lady would be disappointed." Not that she disputes his comment. Instead, she merely lets her posture slip a little in her chair as she glances back to Jack. "Imagine we should go looking if he disappears for a week or so, pointless as that would be," she adds to Celliers, resigned. Jack tips his head back to eye the ceiling with some exasperation. "Indeed," he agrees, resting his hands over his belt. "I've met the young lady in question. I shudder to think what she'd do if she believed either of us had aught to do with his disappearance." Since John's girlfriend has sense enough to go packing. "I've survived this long," Constantine calls, not looking back. (Never look back.) "It's got to be a bit of a habit." And then he's gone. The bastard's always got to exit on a line like that. "So have I." Romany considers this for a moment. "Don't suppose I could convince you to memorize the hotel and room number and destroy that bit of paper? For safety's sake." Yes. The bastard's got /far/ too many habits. Grr. By way of answer, he calmly takes the little scrap of paper from his pocket, fishes out the zippo, and proceeds to light it over the ashtray, letting it dangle burning from his fingertips until the last possible moment. "Forgive me for the gesture from a bad espionage thriller," he requests, giving her a sidelong glance that's bright with sly amusement. "Do you think that that might be sufficient?" "Quite forgiven," Romany assures him, actually looking mildly pleased at the demonstration. "Yes, more than. Don't imagine the girl knew enough to put it back together from that. Thank you." He flicks the last of it into the ashtray without a flinch. The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts. "I should hope not," he agrees, in a murmur. "And thank you again for bringing me that notebook. It should shed some light on my current dilemma, or so that cursory reading seems to indicate." "Do hope so," Romany admits. "Would make up quite a bit for getting a crossbow aimed at me trying to get some of it." Not that she seems particularly put out by that. He looks up from the smoldering ashes to arch his brows at her, enquiringly. "May I ask how that happened?" he wonders, tucking the lighter away in a pocket. "Misjudged the hours a particular librarian kept." Romany considers this for a moment, then adds, "And the sort of thing he'd have on hand. Was more amusing than awkward, really." He grins at the idea - not one of those smirks, but a genuine smile. "I see - not a hazard one would expect." "Worked out all right, anyhow; we both got what we wanted. Quite reasonable of him on the whole." Romany pauses to glance over at her tea. It's started to seep out the bottom of the cup. "Hm." "Stuff looks as if it would etch glass," Jack notes, good-humoredly. "Well. Shall I walk you home, Miss Wisdom? Or at least call you a cab?" "Might very well. Not at all sure what they put in it." Absently, Romany slides her papers away, and her chair back. "Probably be safest to leave the area, yes. Isn't far; shouldn't mind the company at all." He rises and shrugs his coat back on, before offering her his arm. He's well aware it's an archaic gesture, at this point, but, why not? "Lead on, then."