Chapter Thirteen
It's difficult not to feel as though something grand and mysterious has changed as Annette reenters 167th Mill Street, once again knowing that it was, in some impossible way, her home. The smell is slightly different, or the temperature changed with the season, or perhaps something even less detectable than either detail. Perhaps it is simply Annette who has changed, or Cordelia; or, and what is most likely, they have all departed from their former selves and stepped forth into something new.
Annette puffs out a long breath, running her fingers across the wooden walls as she ambles down the familiar foyer and into the hallway. Cordelia stands at the threshold, almost as though concerned Annette might change her mind and pitch another escape. A small part of Annette wonders if she should be worried about her own capacity or desire to flee.
"It's... you've cleaned," she remarks, stepping into the familiar living room once more. At a closer inspection, it isn't exactly clean, per se, but an effort has been made. The shelves have been piled full of notes and books and scattered trinkets, all teetering precariously as though ready to fall at any moment; but at least the tables are clear.
"I made my best attempt at replicating your organization," Cordelia steps inside, quietly shutting the door behind her.
Annette turns and turns, taking in the sights of the home and trying to settle into the space once more. The two months away from the townhouse feel both like no time at all, and eons. She releases a breath that was somewhere between melancholic and nostalgic, and clasps her hands together.
"Well... I suppose I should get started on dinner preparations," she nods in resolution, feeling the collar around her neck complain at the quick movement.
"I forbid you from doing so," Cordelia asserts.
Annette raises an eyebrow, spinning around to face her. "Forbid?"
"You've only just returned," she fidgets with her hands. "Please, take the day to yourself."
"I'll need to eat sometime."
"I'll cook."
"You'll cook," Annette repeats quietly. Her eyes peer over towards the pantry. "Do you have sufficient ingredients? Should I make a trip to the market?"
Cordelia places her hands on her hips. "It's almost as though you believe me incapable."
Annette smirks. "Recall the state of your home when I first arrived."
"Incisive strike, Miss Baker."
Annette pauses, frowning thoughtfully. "It's been some time since you've called me 'Miss Baker.'"
Cordelia takes a slow breath. "I... I suppose it has." She furrows her brow, then shrugs. "The afternoon is yours, Miss Baker."
Cordelia steps past her into the kitchen, and Annette is left with a strange feeling of coldness in her presence. She watches Cordelia's back for a few moments as the detective begins preparations, then relents and ascends the stairs to her former room, now hers once more.
The room is just as she left it, small and cozy, with a lovely window overlooking the street. She absent-mindedly thumbs through her dresser, letting her hands feel the forgotten fabrics of all the dresses she had left behind. Annette looks down at her tunic and trousers and sighs, accepting that she would need to change at some point. After a few days in her current attire without changing... they needed to be washed, and so did she. She exits her room and strolls down the hallway to take a bath.
After bathing, Annette spends a significant amount of time simply staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her hands run through her short hair, over and over again, trying to adjust to the strange feeling of it. She received plenty of harsh glances from passersby on the streets as Cordelia walked her home, and she's sure that it'll be common for some time until it fully grows out again. It frames her face surprisingly well, despite being a little haphazardly done, and a small part of her enjoys the novelty of the look. Slightly begrudgingly, she pulls a dress over one of her button-up shirts, leaving the top buttons open to display the collar, and returns to her room. On her bed, she notices a single envelope.
Dear Annette,
In some ways, I must lament the fact that you will return to 167th Mill Street so soon after your last departure. Whereas days ago you were an exciting new penpal, a perfect candidate in all regards to be a fascinating partner in written correspondence, I now find that this prospect has been snatched away from me. I was excited to discover the hidden quirks behind the stroke of your pen, and was likewise eager to witness the translation of your wit into a new format. Thus, I have come to a decision. Whereas I previously believed it frivolous to prepare parchment and ink for a guest in my own home, I have decided to withhold my sense of shame and write to you regardless.
A word on the ring now positioned upon your collar - it is actually a highly sentimental artifact. The symbol enshrined upon it is that of my father's home, the Hasting's family Coat of Arms, with a slight modification. My mother, during my pursuit of the good graces of high society, saved up a great deal of money to add her own crest to join it. She designed it herself, possessing no inherited wealth or coat of arms to join it, but wished to have the ring connote a certain honor to represent the dignity she believed our family to be worth regardless. I regret to say that I had been too ashamed to wear it during that time of my life, and took little pride in who she was then. I give it to you now, with the hope that it might represent a new awareness of dignity, especially the dignity of those who come from humble backgrounds, and that you might not experience the same shame that I was previously trapped by.
I hope you find your former room comfortable, and your circumstances sufficiently to your liking, all things considered.
Cordelia
Annette closes the letter and lets her hand rise to the collar. Her finger circles around the ring, tugging on it absently as she gazes around her room once more. She thinks about writing a reply to Cordelia but feels no inspiration draw forward. She sighs, feeling a creeping emptiness dangle inside. Compared to the constant excitement and anxiety of life with the Mallets, her room now feels so terrifyingly calm. She thumbs through the modest bookshelf that she acquired before her departure, disinterestedly flipping through the pages of a few books, and shakes her head. She leaves her room and goes downstairs. She makes an effort to poke around the shelves in the living room, hoping to begin reorganizing them, but is gently scolded by Cordelia to rest and relax.
At dinner, Cordelia places the table with a surprising seriousness. She's prepared a simple meal - some turkey alongside a side of greens and baked carrots - which smells fresh and delightful. She sits across from Annette, quietly serves her a plate, and begins eating.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Cordelia finally asks, "Is your room to your liking?"
"Just as I left it," Annette holds her next bite.
"But it's to your liking?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Cordelia nods, returning to eating. She continually glances back up at Annette, as though worried she might disappear if not checked upon regularly enough. Annette meets her eyes a few times, furrowing her brow and trying to read the detective's deadpan.
Eventually, Cordelia speaks up once more. "Did you have a chance to read my -,"
"Your letter? Yes."
"Good," Cordelia nods. "Good."
A pause.
"Dinner's lovely," Annette attempts.
"Thank you," Cordelia swallows another bite. "It was taught to me by my mother. She enjoyed the simplicity of it."
"It's delicious."
"It was actually from Susan," Cordelia adds quickly. "Samantha's mother. Susan taught my mother, who taught it to me." Her face drops nervously down to her plate, and she quietly takes a few more bites. "Are you... is your hair alright?"
Annette smiles politely. "It's colder than I expected."
Cordelia appears concerned. "I can acquire you some new hats-,"
"That's alright. I can cope."
