Baer and Jones

Annette strolls inside of The Kingfisher's King and immediately understands the urge to fight. In a bar such as this one the impulse is nearly irresistible. It was something about the dim lighting, or the smell of sweat and cigars, or the restrained electricity in the air. After a few minutes inside she could feel her senses heighten and her inhibitions lower. It was only her objective that kept her grounded.

Cordelia returned late the night they investigated the fire. The following night she'd hardly returned at all, stumbling through the door at the crack of dawn already nursing what was sure to be a mighty hangover. Tonight, Annette could feel something tense around the house when Cordelia left, and once midnight arrived and Cordelia had yet to return, she resolved to go pursue her. It wasn't unusual for her to be out late; but three rough nights in a row surely meant something.

The Kingfisher's King was Cordelia's bar of choice - the source of most of her hangovers and the battleground for most of her boxing matches. There are plenty of nicer bars with better drinks but this is where the athletes go, and so Cordelia follows them. Annette suspects Cordelia likes the fact that it was almost exclusively men and that she was often the sole source of any gendered integration. She liked the power that carried.

The bartender greets Annette with little more than a scowl and a shrug, deep brown eyes looking her over with an amused distrust. "You lost?" He grunts.

"Poor name for a bar," Annette chirps back. "You only need 'King' in the title once, don't you agree?"

"What do you want?" He sighs, grabbing a pint glass from behind the counter and setting it down loudly. He keeps it notably far back from her, as though convinced she couldn't handle it.

"Searching for my owner," she taps her collar. "I suspect she was here tonight."

"Ain't that a little backwards?" His bushy brows furrow.

"In which way?"

"Aren't owners usually hunting down you pesky lot?"

"Mine is eccentric."

"Cordelia," the bartender guesses.

"The very same. Was she here tonight?"

He shrugs again. "I don't keep this job by running my mouth."

Annette glares at the glass in his large hands, still carefully tucked out of her reach. In many ways, this barkeep reminds her of a messier version of Bill from the Fleeting Faery, and the thought is mildly comforting.

"Whiskey, if you'd be so kind," she smiles.

"It's strong," he warns.

"And I'm not?"

He snorts quietly. "No."

"Whiskey," she repeats.

He turns around and fills the pint glass with the nearest cider instead, letting the golden liquid rise to the brim and foam pleasantly. He sets it onto the counter and slides it over to her.

"It's on her tab," he mutters.

Annette looks over the glass and debates fighting the issue. She hates whiskey, but she suspects he'd only talk if she was drinking and whiskey is the only drink men like him would respect. She concedes, grateful to not have to fake enjoyment of it, and takes a sip from the pint.

"I'm worried about her," Annette tells him. "She's not usually this upset."

"Didn't seem upset to me."

"So she

was

here?"

He grunts ambiguously. Annette places a neutral expression on her face, trying to read him and deduce the correct way to gather her information. It's difficult to detect if he's lying - Cordelia has hardly spoken with Annette since investigating the 8th Street Textile Factory and finding Henry's body, where Annette had yet again disappointed her. Every time the detective notes hesitancy in Annette on the job, she shuts her out until she proves herself once again. Annette figures that proactively hunting her down and dragging her out of her drunken stupor was sure to do the trick.

"What's your name?" She asks politely.

"Haggis."

"Like the food?"

He grunts.

Annette can't tell if he's joking or not, but decides to humor him. She takes a sip and asks, "Well, Mr. Haggis, I need to find her, and you're going to tell me how."

"And why would I do that?"

"Kindness of your heart?"

He chuckles and raps a knuckle on his chest. "It's all empty here."

"She could be in danger."

"Cordelia often

is

the danger."

"I could convince her to stop causing trouble here."

He shakes his head. "Her trouble brings in business."

"Is she that good of a boxer?"

"She defeated Winston last night."

"How?"

"She just did."

Annette furrows her brow. "She's strong, but the boxers are mountains of muscle. How does she defeat them?"

"She just does."

"Does she out-think them?"

"If you're thinking while boxing you're doing it wrong."

"Is she more cunning?"

"Than the heavyweights? No." He sighs. "You gonna keep bugging me?"

"Until you tell me where she went."

Haggis scowls and points a lazy finger to a well-dressed man in the corner of the bar. "Ask him."

"Who is he?"

"Just

ask

him, girl." Haggis swipes the barely-touched cider from her hands and gulps it down. He stomps it down onto the counter, waving her away from his area.

Annette shakes her head and lifts herself off of the stool, avoiding the various stares in the room as she walks. She's the only woman in the bar tonight; a thought that would be unsettling if not for the meager protections offered to collared servants. Anyone who'd dare lay a hand on her would face Cordelia's ire, and it was one of the few ways that her reputation was highly beneficial to Annette.

"I'm searching for Cordelia Jones," Annette declares, confidently strolling up to the gentleman. He's short and polished, with the air of an accountant who's definition of letting loose involved a tame night in with a drink in hand. He looks up from his book and smiles politely.

"Owner?" His creaky voice asks. Annette nods.

"Was she here tonight?"

"Oh, yes," he bobs his head affirmatively, "though not for long. She was quite excited about the news."

"What news?"

"Are you authorized to conduct her business without her-,"

"Yes," Annette answers quickly. He looks as though he might contest her assertion, but relents.

"She received word last Friday evening that she was approved for betting pools."

"Betting pools? How on earth would they qualify her for that?"

"She's got friends in high places it seems," he gestures for Annette to sit. "Gerard Monteborn, at your service," he greets.

"Annette Baker," Annette furrows her brow. "So... They've let a woman join the betting pools. That's never happened before."

"She was in the ring and everything."

Annette's eyes bulge. "She fought in the ring?"

"Against Borne a few hours ago."

"Where is she now?"

"Might I be expected to know the whereabouts of every boxer in the city?"

She bites her tongue. "Is there any chance she's still at whatever place they hold the matches?"

"Well, the Kingfisher's King is her usual stomping ground," he shrugs. "If she isn't here, then it's possible."

Annette stands hastily, "Good evening."

"Now, wait a moment, Miss," he extends a hand, "might you be amenable to remaining in my company for another drink this-,"

"No," she dismisses, quickly exiting the bar.

Annette was vaguely familiar with where they held most of the boxing matches in this part of town. It'd likely be on 17th street, where an unfinished factory building was snapped up towards the end of its construction, quickly renovated to a modest boxing arena after the previous arena burned down in a fire. It wasn't huge, just enough room for a standard ring, a few stands, and a few stalls for bookies.

It's mostly empty when she arrives, and looks as though the evening's activities have ended less than an hour before. She strolls inside with a confidence that teetered on hubris, making her way over to the betting stands like she truly belongs there. She receives a few confused or pernicious smiles from the workers cleaning up the stands and rings, but ignores them.

"Where might I find Cordelia Jones?" She demands, throwing her hands onto her hips as she arrives.

"If you're here to collect your winnings you've arrived remarkably late-," the bookie stops himself as he looks up from his stall, noticing her collar. "Oh. What might your business with her be?"

"She's my owner," she lifts her chin to emphasize the collar. "I've heard she was here tonight. Do you know where she might have gone off to?"

"Likely to moap in some dark alleyway," he shrugs.

"Why would she be moping?"

"I don't work for you, girl," he frowns. "Get out."

"Simply point the way she departed and I'll leave at once."

"Out," he waves her away.

Annette sighs and strolls back towards the workers in the ring, approaching the stage with an impatient and purposeful expression. "Have any of you seen where Cordelia Jones has gone off to?"

A number of them pause from their work, exchanging knowing looks between themselves. A few of them grin wickedly, and for a moment Annette wonders if she might need to leave after all.

"She fought here tonight, didn't she?" Annette asks.

One of them nods, though the rest maintain their distance.

"And what happened?"

A scattered array of laughs bounce between them.

Annette sighs. "Just point me in her direction and I'll be gone. Please and thank you." There's no reply. "Even just which exit she departed from?"

One of the workers shakes his head but points out of the south exit.

"Thank you," Annette mutters, turning on her heel to depart.

"Why don't you stay and give us some entertainment, eh?" Another scattering of laughter.

Annette ignores them, returning out onto the street and wondering if she would have been better off stealing some of Cordelia's clothes again. While she'd enjoyed the power that came with them, and the comfort, she was worried that tonight people would see through her veneer and it'd cause more trouble than it was worth. She hoped her collar would at least endear the helpful sympathy owed to a laboring woman, but it seems she was largely mistaken.

She looks up and down the street from the South exit. Down the right, 17th street would curve towards various residential districts. Nothing particularly remarkable or relevant, unless Cordelia knows anyone there. Down the left, there were three main options: downtown, which would be mostly closed up at this time of night; the maritime district, which couldn't possibly be her destination; or the railyards... and Elenore's Gallery. Annette sighs, preparing herself to drop by the brothel and have to retrieve Cordelia from whatever sorry state she might be in.

Why didn't she tell me she qualified for betting pools?

Annette grumbles inside as she makes her way down the street. She keeps to the shadows, hoping to attract as little attention as possible.

It must be that she's still disappointed in me

, she concludes. Once again, the detective felt Annette wasn't up to the task of keeping up with her, so she withheld information. Typical.

Annette frowns as she walks, pulling her coat tight and complaining about Cordelia's unhelpful self-reliance and lack of communication. Annette hates to see her come home drunk and wounded from her fights, and if she could simply be allowed to accompany the detective on these escapades, she could tend to the injuries faster or help prevent them altogether. Cordelia would rather let an injury get infected or develop nasty swelling than let Annette simply help her.

But apparently she just wasn't up to Cordelia's standards. There was no moderation with the detective, no compromise. If one wanted to follow in her activities they had to keep up and not slow her down at all. She seemed to see Annette's groundedness or reasonability as a hindrance. Just because Cordelia could handle the sight of mangled bodies didn't mean everyone else could, and she unrealistically expects that Annette could match this ability.

She arrives at Elenore's Gallery frustrated and bitter, sure that the last three days of Cordelia's late night bender were a convoluted way to punish Annette. She even suspects that coming to the Gallery might just be a way to embarrass Annette. She's probably waiting for her up in some wretched room upstairs, ready to laugh and cackle at the servant and scold her to stomach her restraint.

"We don't serve collars in th-," a worker begins as Annette arrives, but she hastily interrupts her.

"Just bring me to Miss Jones," she groans.

"Oh, thank God," the girl drops her head into her hands.

"Pardon?"

"We're worried about her," the worker explains, waving for Annette to follow her. She speaks in hushed tones as she leads her upstairs, moving quietly and quickly. "She's always... erm... passionate, but tonight she seems rabid."

"Rabid?"

"Or feral. Like a stray cat."

"And you let her in?"

"She's a regular," the worker replies dispassionately, as though the fact explained it all. She stops at a door on the second floor, gesturing for Annette to enter if she wants. Annette sighs, gripping the door handle and swinging it open.

Her heart skips a beat at the sight before her, and Annette briefly wonders why she hadn't prepared herself for what she might possibly walk into. Cordelia lounges casually on a bed, propped up on her elbows without any pants on. One woman lays atop her, entirely naked and burying her kisses into the detective's neck. Another woman, also naked, wraps her arms around Cordelia's thigh, massaging the soft skin and kissing it as well. A final woman's face is deep between her legs, expertly going to work on Cordelia's privates.

Cordelia's face sports a dark purple bruise around her left eye, as well as a scattering of other cuts and scrapes along her face. From what Annette can see elsewhere on her body, she looks thoroughly beat up. It seems someone cleaned the blood off of her wounds and lightly bandaged some, but Annette knows she's going to be in a significant amount of pain in the morning.

But as Annette stands in the doorway, witnessing the scene unfold around her, she can't peel her gaze away from Cordelia's face and the expression she makes. Her lips part ever so slightly as she exhales joyfully. Her cheeks are flushed and full, and with her eyes closed she looks as though profoundly enraptured. Annette feels a burning sensation in her chest that she doesn't understand and her clenched hands tremble. Her mind feels as though it's either been frozen or set aflame. All of the muscles across her body tighten, and she feels a powerful emotion wash over her.

She slams the door behind her and strolls into the room, angrily shouting, "

Miss Jones!"

Cordelia's eyes rip open and she bolts up suddenly, accidentally kicking the woman draped across her thigh with her knee. "A-Annette?" She stammers.

"Off of her!" Annette orders, snapping her fingers at the women around her. They nervously look back and forth between the two, and only remove themselves from the detective when Annette repeats herself louder. She steps aside as they scramble to grab their robes and race out of the room.

"Christ, Annette! What are you doing here!?" Cordelia exclaims, swiftly retrieving her underwear and pants and donning them once more. Annette tries not to watch, but she feels out of control of her own body, consumed by an emotion she doesn't understand.

"What are

you

doing here?" Annette snips back, folding her arms across her chest and towering over the detective on the bed.

Cordelia anxiously glances at the door, "Whatever you think you saw, I am ordering you to keep it to your-,"

"I have been worried sick about you!" Annette stomps her foot. "Where have you been?" Cordelia stands, an angry expression forming, and moves to exit the room only to have Annette block her path. "Sit down," Annette commands.

"I'll not be taking orders from-,"

"

Sit... down...

" She repeats through clenched teeth. Cordelia locks eyes for a long moment with her, testing her resolve. She slowly lowers herself back down onto the bed.

Cordelia sighs, dropping her face into her hands. "Look, Annette, you cannot tell anyone about this."

"What happened tonight?" Annette deflects, her voice still tense and measured. She paces away a few steps, trying to regain some control of her feelings.

"I... I'm not-,"

"Actually," Annette interrupts, "I'll tell you what happened. On Saturday, you woke me up at the crack of dawn to stare at burned corpses, only to be upset with me because I found it repulsive."

"Annet-,"

"Then," she continues, "because you decided that this meant I wasn't up to your standards, you decided to go on a drunken rampage through the nightlife of our city for the next three nights, leaving me at home to wonder if you'd return at all."

"That's not-,"

"

Then

, you somehow qualified for an actual boxing match and competed without letting me know, getting yourself thoroughly beat up in the process. You knew I'd be concerned, and of course I was. So I tracked you down, only to find you drowning in women in a brothel. Am I correct?"

"Christ, Annette," Cordelia shakes her head. "You think this is about

you

?" She groans loudly and drops back into the bed.

"It

is

," she affirms. "Now apologize."

"I'm not going to apolo-,"

"Do it!"

"Christ," Cordelia mutters and turns to her side. "Just, go, Annette."

"Not until you tell me I'm right and apologize."

"I won't be do-,"

"Do you understand what happens to me if you don't come home?" Annette interjects. She raises a brow, daring Cordelia to answer. When the detective doesn't, Annette says, "I lose everything. As baffling as it is, you, and your ownership of my contract, are the best thing that has happened to me in ages. I'll not lose all of this because of your nighttime antics."

"You're not going to report me?"

"Report you?"

Cordelia turns back, a surprisingly concerned look adorning her battered face. "You've caught me in bed with three women."

Annette feels her face warm again. "And I'm furious at you for it."

"So then report me."

"Why would I do that?"

Cordelia scowls. "Then why are you angry with me about it?"

A rush of unrecognizable feelings race through Annette's mind.

Just tell her,

a small voice inside pleads.

You're the same as her.

But Annette panics, too used to defending and deflecting this identity to reveal it.

"Because if you are consumed with scandal, so am I, Miss Jones," she answers, shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat. "It's already difficult enough to function as a servant with your reputation as is." She holds her breath for a moment and shakes her head. "Why are we still here? We need to leave."

"Now, wait, I'll not be-,"

Annette steps towards the door and opens it, snapping her fingers. "

Now

, Miss Jones, if you'd be so kind."

Cordelia raises an eyebrow, challenged by the commanding forwardness of Annette's speech. She stands slowly and allows Annette to lead her out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street. She smiles at the workers as she goes, many of whom must be confused by the sight before their eyes: an owner being escorted out by her servant.

Cordelia walks ahead of Annette on the way home, as though subtly punishing her by refusing to allow the servant to match her stride. It's a quiet walk initially, until Annette feels her frustrations surface once more.

"I'll never be good enough to earn your respect, will I?"

No response.

"Do you know how many dead bodies I witnessed before your service?" She says a little louder. "Significantly less, Miss Jones."

Still nothing.

"I'm not simply a tool for you to use as you wish. I am a person. I have feelings. I can't be expected to meet all of your ridiculous standards."

Cordelia halts her walk, hanging her head low. She takes a long breath, and when she speaks again, her voice is tired and burdened. "Must you twist the handle, Annette?"