Chapter Ten
There is a gentle trio of knocks on the door to Annette's bedroom, but the servant makes no effort to rise from her bed. The curtains have been pulled shut, the lights extinguished. The covers, far more warm and comfortable than she feels she deserves, drape lovingly across her body. She sits alone in the dark wondering if that was her lot in life.
The knocks repeat, calmly and softly, devoid of any real sense of urgency. They were a simple tug from the outside world, gently there to remind Annette that her bedroom was not all there was. She rolls over and stares at the wall, content in her misery. After the second day of her mourning she's sure Cordelia must be concerned, but that only peripherally matters to Annette. The detective was clever enough, she could surely piece together what may have occurred.
There is no third appeal to her attention, and eventually Annette can hear the soft shuffle of feet ascending the stairs to the third floor. She pulls the blankets even closer and returns to her muted sobs.
Some time later, she isn't quite sure how long, the need for a bathroom disturbs her rest. Annette groans and grumbles, rising from the bed and feeling her cheeks wet and puffy, her eyes blinking out the remnants of tears. She finds a cloth to blow her nose, and then opens the door.
She nearly stumbles over it, but just outside of her doorway, someone has placed a small dish of soup and a slice of bread. It's not quite hot anymore, the steam no longer rising from its surface, but it looks fresh and warm and smells of soft herbs. She pulls her face into a weak smile of gratitude and places it on a table inside of her room.
- - -
"You alright, Red?" Guy leans up against the printer, tucking his arms away into his chest and softening his face. Annette nods, unwilling to meet his eyes, and continues resetting the typeface for the next issue. This one reads:
Pemberley Rejects New Contracts; Posts Record Profits
"Uh-uh," Guy shakes his head gently. "I can tell something's the matter. What's going on, Red?"
Annette sighs and shrugs, wishing he would simply leave her to work in peace. She isn't even sure how she managed to drag herself to the print shop today. Maybe she wanted the distraction; but her interest in the case feels hollow at best, some remnant of a confused loyalty to Cordelia, as shaken as that may be at the present. Maybe it was the dedication to Mary Rosen that brought her out of bed, hoping that she could somehow provide a more satisfying answer to the cause of her son's death. To Annette, it likely wasn't enough to know
that
Henry died setting the fire. They needed to discover why he would risk himself so.
"Is it your owner again?" Guy nudges. There's a sincerity to his concern that is at least comforting to Annette. He does seem to truly care about her condition, and that was more than she expected from a revolutionary at the start.
"No," Annette exhales. "It's... It's a long story, Guy."
"I'm all ears."
Annette considers how dedicated to a lie she was willing to be. Her mind feels as though it was moving through jelly, and she doubts she could actually construct a satisfying explanation. "I've experienced a breakup."
"I'm sorry to hear it," he says. "Was it mutual?"
"No," she whispers.
"And I take it that it wasn't your decision?" He asks, and Annette shakes her head in affirmation. "I'm sorry to hear it, Red."
"I'll be alright."
"It takes time," he consoles. "Can't imagine any man foolish enough to reject the affections of a woman like yourself."
Annette bristles a little at his assumption, but pushes it away. She instead deflects with humor, "If you are about to declare that you fancy me, it's a poor moment for it."
"Not at all. I've got it too good at home," he chuckles. His fingers twist his ring absent-mindedly, and he smiles with the gratitude of a rare man who seemed to truly care for his wife. Annette appreciates the sentiment. "At any rate, perhaps I might be able to offer a worthy distraction for you."
"Oh?"
"I had a conversation with Jarl," Guy begins, letting his voice dip lower into a more serious tone. Annette notices that he watches the door to the print shop carefully. "I mentioned our last conversation we had, and the passion you carry. He wants to speak with you."
"Jarl wants to see me?" She repeats. Her head tilts and she buries her excitement. She didn't know much about Jarl other than the fact that like the rest of them, it wasn't his real name, and that he seemed to be higher in the leadership of the Mallets. Annette didn't truly know how high, or even what the structure of the Mallet's leadership looked like, but she knew it was a step upwards. "Whatever for?"
"I'll leave that to him," Guy explains.
"Am I in trouble?"
"Not at all. He sounded enthusiastic."
"What might he want from me?"
Guy smiles politely. "I'll leave that for Jarl to explain." He takes a few steps towards the door and looks over his shoulder at her.
"Oh, Jarl wishes to speak with me
now
."
"Do you need to return to your duties at home?"
"No," Annette nods resolutely. "No, we should go."
- - -
Guy leads Annette inside of the dock house. It's old and beaten down, sitting just low enough along the waterline of the Fennes river that the occasional wave creeps up through the floorboards. It looks entirely out of use, and was the sort of building that after a short time of seeing it so decrepit, it would rapidly fade from your notice. It smells of rank mold and brackish water, and the odor of fish from the nearby market fills Annette's lungs. Her guide leaves her at the door, passing along a final reassuring smile before allowing her to enter of her own volition. She thanks him quietly and steps inside.
It's dark, only lit up by the feeble rays of sunlight through the holes in the shambled roof. A small boat sits in the center of the shack, long abandoned to repairs that would never come. A young man sits on a stool just beside it.
"I take it you're Red," his voice rings out. It's surprisingly low for a man who seemed tall and lanky, and his large Adam's apple protrudes out and bounces with each word. He has long blonde hair that's pulled up into a bun atop his head, and his face has dramatic, boney features, with a low brow ridge hanging like an outcropping above his brown eyes.
"Jarl," she greets.
"Thank you for arriving," he gestures to a stool just across from him. She makes note that in his position, Jarl would be able to watch the door, but she could not. She sits. "Tell me," his strong brow lowers, "what do you think of our work thus far?"
"It's powerful," Annette places her hands in her lap, resolving to project confidence. There's an intensity to his words and expression that is both unsettling and reassuring. "It's good to be around so many people who care so deeply. I didn't realize anyone else felt the way I did."
"More than you'd expect, less than we need," he shrugs.
Annette nods sympathetically. "Why did you want to speak with me?"
Jarl leans back and exhales a thoughtful breath. "To see if you're one of the people we need." He crosses an ankle up onto his knee. "Guy speaks highly of you, but we can never be too careful."
"You want me to prove myself."
"And more."
"More?"
Jarl looks over at the boat, extending his arms to rest along its rim like a backrest to a sofa. One of his hands picks at the chipping wood, and he watches it thoughtfully as he speaks. "Guy says you have an inquisitive mind. What do you know of the Mallet's that we haven't shown you?"
Annette ponders for a moment, deciding how many of her cards she was willing to play. She takes a breath and resolves to tell more than she previously was withholding. Jarl wanted trust, and she needed to give him that.
"It isn't just a run for parliament," she observes.
"What is it then?"
