We do! Yes! There is a map, [has the less than confidence inspiring sound of a young lady who has in fact only just remembered the folding paper map she'd stuffed into the console space between the seats she and Viktor currently occupy. The volume at which Wysteria shouts this back from the cab does not, in fact, increase the reassuring qualities of this statement.]

Viktor, if you would be so kind as to attend to it I believe I have everything quite under control now. I would propose we make our way to Getty Center. It's drawn on a hill in the map, and sounds like a far more likely location for a rendezvous than the tar pits.

[Yes, see, everything is under control. She has even drawn her head back in from the window and has begun to make sense of the spiderweb cracks across the windshield. So focused is she to the task that she is certainly not regarding the reflection of the rest of the phaeton's occupants in the mirror stuck up it, lest she spy Enchanter Rowntree looking there— No, she has glanced back. But only just very briefly, and only to consider Mister Dickerson's dazed appearance with a very, very slight measure of guilt.

(What also has nothing to do with them: the blaring of horns and squawk of brakes as they blast through an intersection.)]