Baer and Jones

Chapter Two

"You're Kerish," Cordelia declares suddenly, peeking up over her book and setting down her tea. Annette is still surprised she's downstairs for dinner tonight; everyday for the last week she's eaten in her study.

"If that's what you've deduced, Miss Jones."

"So you won't confirm it?" Cordelia's brow furrows.

"Everyone has always told me I am," Annette shrugs, picking at the potatoes and gravy before her. The mash is a little too salty, but she hopes Cordelia doesn't mind. Annette is still getting used to having a plentiful supply and it's difficult not to overindulge.

"Sister Pullwater affirmed it constantly," Annette continues. "She said my 'cantankerous and indolent person' must be attributed to such a background. The other kids just said it because of the red hair and freckles. I've never been to Kereland as far as I know."

"Hmph," Cordelia grunts, taking a long sip of her tea. Annette is amazed that the boiling heat hardly seems to bother her at all.

"What has informed your assertion, Miss Jones?" Annette smiles politely, amused at Cordelia's preoccupation with guessing her background. The past few days she's ambushed Annette with a variety of questions, each seemingly independent of the rest and none with any warning.

"Your name," Cordelia says simply.

"Annette Baker is not a Kerish name."

"That's what I mean," she sets the teacup down onto its saucer, letting it clink loudly into place. "You're Kerish, but you don't have a Kerish name. So Annette Baker must be a name given to you."

"Sister Maxwell gave it to me,'" she confirms. "She said it was more befitting of a young lady than what I had before." Annette takes another bite, sizing up the detective in front of her. "I fail to understand your logic, Miss Jones. If Annette Baker can't be my real name because it's not Kerish, you're already assuming I'm Kerish. The name isn't evidence to prove that claim."

"Very good, Miss Baker," Cordelia flashes a rare grin. "What is your birth name?"

"Not Annette," she replies vaguely.

"Indeed."

"So you're testing me again? Like with the railroad spike and the surprise arithmetic and the constant investigation."

"What is two thousand and four hundred divided by three?"

Annette sighs. "Eight hundred."

"Annette suits you, Miss Baker."

"Sister Maxwell always said so. How did you know I'm Kerish? I don't even have the accent."

"Of course you don't, you were raised by nuns in Bellchester." Cordelia takes another long sip of her tea, smug and satisfied. "That will be all, Miss Baker."

"All for right now or all for this evening?"

"You require so much context for my words," Cordelia muses, taking a few bites of her dinner and savoring the flavor. "It's never: '

Yes, Miss, no elaboration necessary.'

"

"Perhaps you could be more clear going forward."

Cordelia places her fork down carefully, lifting her elbows onto the table and touching her fingertips together into a bridge. She furrows her brows and lets her eyes pierce into Annette for a few long moments.

"Most owners would resent you for talking back in such a way," she says, her voice painfully absent of any clarifying tone. "I've never heard of a collar who feels comfortable enough in her position to question directions."

Annette shifts uncomfortably in her seat, refusing to meet Cordelia's gaze, instead staring down at her plate. "I am simply trying to understand the format of your words."

"Collars aren't required to perceive format.

'Yes, Miss,' 'No, Miss:

' that's all you need to reply when given orders."

Annette is quiet, but looks up at her after a moment. "I suspect

'No, Miss'

is an insufficient answer to the question of two thousand and four hundred divided by three."

Cordelia sits back in her chair, smirking proudly. "This is exactly what I mean, Miss Baker. You are unlike so many of the collars I've met. They all seem terrified of me. You're not terrified?"

"Confused is more accurate."

Cordelia lets out a peal of laughter. "Perhaps you should be more terrified. Why aren't you?"

"Are you finished with your dinner, Miss Jones?" Annette deflects, looking at the mostly empty dish in front of her. She stands, picking up her own plate and extending a hand to Cordelia's, but the owner remains in place, refusing to gesture for Annette to remove it.

"Have you considered that perhaps I

do

resent your behavior, Miss Baker?" Her head tilts to the side, sizing up Annette. "That even now I might be considering terminating your contract and removing you from my home? I could so easily snap up some other collar who wouldn't talk back to me."

Annette feels like she is supposed to be alarmed by the threat, but for some reason she isn't. As with so many moments with Cordelia, the words feel empty of true malice, as though she's simply playing and prodding and trying to study Annette's responses. They are a little troubling, and more than a few nights Annette has tossed and turned in bed, replaying conversations and trying to understand Cordelia's intent; yet, even in this moment she feels secure.

"I do not believe you resent it, Miss Jones," she replies with as neutral of a voice as she can muster.

"You don't?"

"I... I would go so far as to wager you appreciate my candor."

"A bold claim, Miss Baker."

"Are you finished with your dinner?"

"Indeed," she answers, though refuses to assist Annette in any way. Annette leans forward, grabbing the plate and depositing it in the kitchen behind her. She is just about to return, only to be blocked by Cordelia in the doorway.

"Aren't the collarhouses supposed to teach you proper conduct?" The owner asks, preventing Annette from leaving the room. "Penny was so uptight and formal in all of her movements and speech."

"Are you dissatisfied with my manners?"

"I'm not sure," Cordelia's face splits in a bemused smile. "I was told that if a collar behaved as you do, I was to sharply discipline them. I was even given a small pamphlet of techniques for punishment when I purchased Penny's contract."

"I'm sure Harold would resent the noise," Annette jokes.

"It can't just be because you're Kerish and that somehow makes you quarrelsome by blood," Cordelia thinks out loud. "There's something defiant about you that I don't understand. You should fear me, but you don't."

"Would Miss Jones prefer me afraid?"

"Did the nuns somehow teach you this?" She lays her back against the doorframe, bringing a fingertip to her chin and ignoring Annette. "Perhaps Sister Pullwater is more revolutionary than she might seem at first glance."

Annette stands in place, bending her elbows to rest the backs of her hands on her lower spine. She suspects Cordelia could continue with this for quite some time and it's best not to interrupt.

"Unlikely," she concludes, sizing up Annette with her inquisitive glare. "Another possibility is that you truly despise this station you have arrived in and can only cope through small acts of disobedience. Perhaps."

She pauses for a moment, then adds, "And while I might wish to hypothesize that your behaviors are simply the result of ignorance, your proud eyes deny it immediately."

Annette grabs a wide bowl as she listens, opening a bag of small seeds and pouring them into it. She opens the window above the sink and sets it down on the cozy windowsill outside, ready for Harold's consumption in the morning.

"Am I still dismissed for the evening, Miss Jones?" Annette replies at last.

"In a moment, Miss Baker," Cordelia steps forward, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want you to kneel."

"Kneel, Miss?"

She snaps, pointing at her feet. "Kneel."

"Are you quite sure that's necess-,"

Cordelia snaps again impatiently. "I have given you an order, Miss Baker."

Annette releases her breath and shakes her head in disbelief. She drops her shoulders, walking towards Cordelia and lowering herself down onto her knees. The hardwood floor is rough and solid against her legs. Cordelia drops a hand to Annette's jaw, tilting her head upwards to meet her gaze with eyes glistening.

"I welcome your attitude, Miss Baker," her voice is low and direct. "You might even say I find it endearing."

"T-thank you, Miss."

"If you were my sister, I would love you dearly."

"Miss?"

"Remain here, Miss Baker," she declares. "In this exact position. I will return in a short while."

"Where are yo-,"

"In this exact position, understood?"

Annette sighs, hardly caring to conceal her feelings. "Yes, Miss," she says quietly, refusing to meet Cordelia's eyes and trying to shove away the myriad of feelings inside of herself.

"Very good," she clicks her tongue and exits the room. Annette can hear her retrieve her coat from its place on the rack and the door opening and closing. The lock ticks shut quietly behind her.

*****

Annette remains dedicated to the task for only a quarter hour. The hardwood quickly grows uncomfortable on her knees and shins so she unfolds them out from under her. She crosses her legs, sitting down casually onto the floor and resolving to quickly return to her position once she could hear the front door lock jingle.

After a half hour, she abandons her place in the center of the kitchen floor, electing to lean her back against the lower cupboards and recline.

Where could she possibly have gone? And what is the benefit of forcing me to remain here?

When the church belltower a few blocks away finally chimes the nine o'clock hour Annette relents even further, retrieving a stray book from a nearby shelf and pulling a pillow down onto the floor with her to cushion her bottom.

Cordelia couldn't possibly expect her to actually remain kneeling the entire hour, could she?

She'd selected a random book, plainly entitled, "Forms and Conceptions of Consciousness: A study in three parts." It's a thick, leather bound tome tucked away with one of Cordelia's scattered piles of cases. It seems to be a part of a more recent investigation, though Annette isn't sure why it's relevant.

She flicks through the pages absently, letting her eyes wander over various passages and study the intricate diagrams. The author, Sir Lord Hemslem Kent, must've been well-respected for his research. The tone is authoritative and complex, postulating on a range of topics from altered states of consciousness to religious descriptions of the soul to roundabout musings regarding the occult. Annette can't fathom why it would be related at all to any of Cordelia's cases, so she places it back onto the shelf and returns to waiting.

A quarter hour later and her curiosity and boredom overcome her. She pulls out the rest of the case materials with it, piling them up in a large stack to her left. Annette considers each item individually, eventually laying it flat in front of her and returning to the next piece. As various themes begin to emerge, she slowly begins organizing the files, laying them out and placing perceived connections next to each other. It'll be a great deal to clean up before Cordelia returns and she resolves to move rapidly once she hears any noise outside.

Sir Lord Hemslem Kent died, according to a letter written from a woman Annette eventually concludes is his niece, Lady Wilva Kent. She writes that the doctors claim he suffered a heart attack, though she is convinced they are incorrect. She maintains that his demeanor changed rapidly in the days before his passing, turning harsh and vile, and insists that he must have been possessed. Wilva asserts that his demise was caused by the spirit growing tired of the fight her uncle must've wagered against it, leaving his body to succumb to death as it left him.

Next, Annette inspects a strange, narrow jar of bones. They appear to belong to a small rodent, perhaps a gopher or large rat, though the skull is notably missing from the collection. A few rose petals drift in between the bones.

She also notices a ledger of his finances, which appear to be in good order, as well as a number of undeposited bank notes. There's no record of the notes on his ledger, and it appears he must've passed before registering them. Their subject is left blank.

Cordelia wrote a variety of stray notes on scraps of paper, which Annette keeps together in a small pile. They're jumbled and seem half-finished.

Inspect Morridin. Visit bank on a Wednesday. Request appetizers from Wilva. Banquet rescheduled. Wilva grieving, remind desk. Page forty-six, not forty-eight.

Annette pokes through Hemslem's book, reading over pages forty-six and forty-eight. She's unable to pry any sort of connection between the two. Page forty-six discusses a particular story about an exorcism performed by a nun nearly a hundred years ago and contests her accounting of it. Page forty-eight is a diagram of what Hemslem claims to be the 'structure of a soul;' which looks like a septagram superimposed over a human skull with confusing labels at each point. It's difficult to tell if the model is his own or a reconstruction from someone else.

As for the rest of Cordelia's notes, it's difficult to categorize them as evidence or simply reminders for herself. There's no detail as to who Morridin is, and Annette struggles to make sense of

'remind desk.

' The final clues make even less sense to her: a broken pocket watch, a trio of empty glass vials, and another letter from Wilva inviting Cordelia to a memorial banquet for Hemslem.

Annette stares at the assemblage for a while, furrowing her brow and trying to detect patterns within Cordelia's logic. Every time she ventures towards an idea, one of Cordelia's notes troubles the waters for her. She wonders if it makes more sense with the extra context the detective was surely given when she took up the case.

The second hour is nearly completed when Annette finally hears the door rattle softly. She scrambles, gathering all of the materials into a messy pile and plopping them onto a couch in the dark living room, throwing the pillow on top of them to cover her tracks. She slides down back to her knees in the kitchen just in time for the lock to finally click open, pushing herself into the most proper kneel she could muster.

After placing her coat back onto the rack, Cordelia strides through the dining room and into the kitchen, throwing her hands in her pockets and grinning at Annette. Her hair has been pulled up into a messy bun and her lipstick is slightly smudged. She looks modestly disheveled and rushed, though there's a delighted pep in her step. Annette even swears the collar of her shirt is carefully hiding a soft purple bruise.

"You remained in place, Miss Baker," Cordelia whistles, smiling contentedly.

"Yes, Miss Jones."

"You look as though you truly haven't moved a muscle."

"Where... where did you go?"

"To visit a friend," Cordelia shrugs, satisfaction beaming in her demeanor. "It had been too long since I'd come calling."

"Why did you want me to kneel, Miss?" Annette asks quietly, trying not to let her annoyance seep into her voice.

"To remind you of obedience," the detective walks around her, clicking her heeled boots on the floor with each step. She's hardly looking at Annette, choosing to gaze around the room instead. "What did you learn from the experience?"

Annette scowls, facing down at the floor and feeling a warm frustration bubble in her chest. "That I will never understand you."

Cordelia snorts. "I don't believe that was the intended lesson. Try again, Miss Baker. We can always repeat the exercise."

"Not necessary, Miss," Annette's voice deflates. She scrambles to think of a compelling answer, whatever will excuse her to return to her room as fast as possible. "I learned... that I shouldn't question your orders. I should be obedient."

"Indeed? I'll believe it when I see it, Miss Baker," Cordelia is now behind her, pausing her circling walk. "What else?"

"That I value your ownership of my contract," she attempts to add more luster to her tone, though it feels disingenuous. "You are very generous to provide for me."

Cordelia resumes her stride, exiting the room through the conversation area and circling back through the dining room. In her hands, she holds the pillow Annette had sat upon, amusedly spinning it between her palms.

"Who killed Mr. Hemslem?" She asks, something hidden behind her words. "And why?"

"I wouldn't know, Miss Jones," Annette continues staring at the hardwood, only occasionally allowing her eyes to flick up at the detective. "This is the first I'm hearing of Mr. Hemslem."

"Would you rather I believe you exited your posture to clean the shelves again instead? I'd much prefer to examine your curiosity than your hygienics, Miss Baker."

Annette is clearly caught, so she relents. She drops her shoulders, forgoing the need to keep a proper kneel together. "I am unsure, Miss... I'm sorry for disobeying your explicit orders. Please be merciful."

"Oh, I don't care about that, Annette." Cordelia sighs and repeats, "Who killed Mr. Hemslem?" She tosses the pillow at Annette, forcing the servant to react quickly to catch it. "Retrieve the case, if you would be so kind."

"Yes, Miss Jones." Annette rises carefully, collecting the materials and bringing them back to the kitchen. Without thinking, she lays them back down on the kitchen floor, lowering herself and recreating her previous organization.

"These are the full facts of the case," Cordelia supplies, lowering herself to the floor as well and surprising Annette. She looks up at the owner, and from a closer view she's convinced Cordelia is hiding a hickey underneath her shirt collar.

Annette clears her throat, trying to refocus her curiosity to the case instead of Cordelia's sudden disappearance and disheveled reappearance. "I cannot fathom your notes, Miss Jones. They don't make sense."

"Who killed Mr. Hemslem?" She replies, deflecting quickly.

"How am I to know, Miss Jones? I don't have the required context."

"Neither did I," Cordelia grins. "Suppose this is all the information you possessed. What do you believe happened?"

Annette sighs and thinks for a long moment. She crosses her legs and leans back onto her hands, locked at the elbows. "He died of a heart attack," she asserts. "I don't think it was natural."

"So you agree with Lady Wilva's claim of occult involvement?"

"Not at all."

"And why not?"

"I don't believe in the occult."

"You were raised by the Sisters, yet you don't believe in the occult? Nigh impossible, if you ask me."

"It isn't real. They just use it to scare people."

"If you say so, Miss Baker," Cordelia purses her lips.

"I don't understand how, or necessarily why, but I believe someone instigated Mr. Hemslem's heart attack," Annette declares, though she's hardly confident in her answer.

"A bold claim. Who could've done such a thing?"

"His niece," Annette replies quickly, surprising herself.

"You believe Lady Wilva killed her uncle?"

"Yes," she doubles down.

"Explain your logic."

Annette attempts to collect her ideas together into a logical format, though it still feels like a tenuous grasp. "Lady Wilva signs her letters with,

'As a servant of the Holy God Above.'

She's religious, very much so. It would be thoroughly expected that she would assert supernatural influence in his death."

"And yet you believe this is a smokescreen, Miss Baker?"

"Yes," Annette exhales, feeling the jumble of instincts and observations she'd gathered over the last hour push forward. "Mr. Hemslem's ledger doesn't report these banknotes," she grabs the stray papers, "and your own notes direct you to visit the bank to investigate. I believe Lady Wilva was attempting to siphon away his money, but was caught. She killed him to cover her tracks."