Baker And Jones Pt 02 Ch 04

Chapter Four - Annette

"Of course, my daughter. Will I see you for tea next week?"

"Indeed," Annette confirms. "Though, it is possible there may be a disruption in the following week. Miss Jones may be accepting a case in Kereland in the near future."

"Indeed?" Sister Pullwater grows quiet.

"Something the matter?"

"Inform me if you do take the case," she requests, her face stern and focused. "I may have some things to discuss with you."

- - -

Annette had walked into Sister Pullwater's office on many occasions, plenty of them for less-than-positive reasons. As a child at the orphanage, particularly a child prone to pushing the lines of what she could get away with, Annette had received more than her fair share of punishment from the Sister.

But, recalling their final meeting before Annette sailed off to Kereland with Cordelia is an unusual array of feelings for her to parse through. On the one hand, she was nervous as she always was around Pullwater, particularly in that setting where she, as a girl, had so often been corrected for her errors. On the other, things with Pullwater had reached an uneasy-but-pleasing truce, and the Sister was insistent that the news she carried was good.

And it was sitting at that desk, just a pair of weeks ago, that Sister Pullwater had told Annette that she had a cousin.

An actual, living cousin.

In the time since, Annette is still sorting through the contradictory and confusing assortment of emotions that have emerged with her.

At first? At first she felt nothing; a sort of empty, hollow, incomprehensible nothing. How long had she wished nothing more than for a family of her own? How many nights had she slept in that orphanage dreaming of what they would look like, what they would act like, what they sounded like? She'd come up with names for them, even. Her mother - she decided her mother's name was Candice, for it sounded sweet and kind. Her father was Paul: a strong name, but a gentle sort of strength.

The tears from the news came later. She remembers curling up into a ball on Cordelia's roof, sobbing into her arms and wishing it hadn't been true that she was an orphan. She'd never known why, never been told the reason why her life had to be set upon such a lonely, awful poverty of love. Sister Pullwater never had the answers to it, but in her kinder moments Annette remembers the nun wrapping her up into the billowing sleeves of her habit and letting Annette stain them with tears and snot.

Then there was the anger, brittle and acrid. The sight of families on promenade down the street would set her off, ranting to Cordelia about the injustice of it all. She'd just come to peace about the fact she had no family, and was feeling settled in the comforts of the family she'd been crafting herself as an adult.

The news of her cousin wrenched it all open once more.

Pullwater says the letter arrived a couple months prior, and that she wasn't sure what to do about it. For a time, she feared it would only cause Annette more pain to know there was family for her out there this whole time, unknown to them all. But, when Annette told her that she was going to Kereland with Cordelia, the nun knew she was owed the truth.

Cillian MacFerron. 1287 8th Street, Allenway.

The letter itself doesn't say much, just that he remembered having a cousin sent away to Emril after losing parents, and was trying to locate them. Apparently he'd sent the letter to quite a few orphanages, only knowing the general region of Emril to search and the birth name of the cousin.

Annette wasn't using that name anymore, and Cillian would undoubtedly not know that his cousin was twice-born, either. She briefly marvels at the surprise that'll ensue for them all.

Cordelia had been delighted to hear this and deliberately planned their trip to go see him. They were to work on the case in Fieldston for as long as needed, then head up north to Allenway afterwards and meet him before heading back to Bellchester.

And now, as Annette peruses through cuts of cured meats in this butcher shop on an island that was supposed to be her home, she can't help but think about hunger.

Of course, there was The Hunger, the famine which had devastated Kereland with the failure of the potato crop forty years prior.

But then there is the hunger within herself - a sort of desperate yearning for life which compels her like she could never have believed. Cordelia, in all of her confusing and delightful strangeness, had unknowingly plucked Annette out from the frustrating stagnation of survival and given her the push towards

living

, towards the seizing of life for one's self with a necessary greed for it.

And Annette feels greedy for it. And hungry.

It's an unsettling, gnawing pain that comes from being twice-born, she suspects. The knowledge that it is her femininity that both liberates and shackles her. Womanhood sustains her, gives the stability of self and joy in being that makes life survivable in the first place; and yet, it is womanhood that deprives her of life in public. The constant scowls at her short-cut hair, the disdain she is treated with when she opts for trousers instead of skirts, the existence between fetish and desire.

Without it, she will die. With it, she is in chains.

She would never have been happy growing into masculinity. She knows this as a fact more clearly than even the knowledge that the sky is blue. It's axiomatic. It's self-evident. But it exists, on occasion, as a taunting villain in the back of her mind:

All the freedom you could have ever wanted, yet, you would never have lived peacefully enough within yourself to enjoy it.

A prison either way.

And once more, Cordelia arrives like a paragon in Annette's mind. A woman unshackleable. Unconquerable. A woman so committed to her freedom she will fistfight any man who dares strip her of it - and she will win.

How could Annette not love her, envy her, and desire her more than anything she's ever witnessed?

She feels another little prickle at Cordelia running off to investigate on her lonesome. Annette knows that there's different roles in the investigation - the same had been true in taking down the Winchester Conspiracy and the scattered array of minor cases in between. They can't

both

be the detective. And Cordelia's gifts come with something of a curse - she will often forget to eat, forget to bathe, forget to do any of the basic tasks of life. For a woman so brilliant, she's surprisingly inept at managing her own needs.

Annette is stabilizing. Cordelia needs her.

She touches a hand to the collar around her neck as she makes another selection, watching the burly butcher pull it off the rack and wrap it up. He's a weary man, a breath past middle age, and kindly introduced himself as Elias MacArthur, stating that he was glad to see a new face in town.

The collar, like womanhood, has likewise come to be a source of tense debate within herself. It was, as terrible as it is to admit, her salvation. Becoming a servant saved her from the streets, and by the insane fortune of Cordelia picking her contract, it gave her a life better than she thought she deserved. Very few who entered collar service could say that.

When she'd run away, removing it to join the Mallets months ago, it almost felt like giving up that life with Cordelia. She'd needed to do it, to set out on her own, but she can't deny the feeling of relief that came from Cordelia putting it back on her. She tugs her fingers along the signet band bearing Cordelia's family crest as well, tucked upon the ring finger of her right hand so that no one would confuse it for betrothal. But Annette knows it's something more.

When the collar was removed again, Annette felt an equal with Cordelia. Partners in life and in business - it felt like the culmination of everything she wanted to be. The three months afterwards were bliss - domestic and exciting and freeing.

But on the news of going to Kereland... Annette found herself scared. Maybe the person she had become only existed in the relative safety of Bellchester - familiar and homely. Maybe across the sea, it would be safer to not be thought of as Cordelia's equal. One woman at odds with the patriarchy of their society was difficult enough for most to swallow. Two? Two would certainly arouse suspicion.

She'd offered to Cordelia to do it, just as she'd offered to let her go off and investigate the Abbot so that Annette might shore up their supplies. It isn't fair of her to also feel a bit resentful for her lot.

It isn't.

But as she makes her final selection, staying behind to tend to her detective's physical needs rather than the excitement of the case, Annette feels a quiet resentment fester like a cyst. She shoves it away quickly and decides that it isn't a fair feeling. She offered. She can hardly blame Cordelia for accepting the offer. She was making herself unassuming to any watching eyes of the case, someone who could be invisible and uncover things - while Cordelia presents their bold, outward investigation.

Partners

,

still

. She takes a breath and shoves the worries aside, best as she can.

Someone taps her on her shoulder, pulling her out of the reflective fog which has consumed her.

"Annie!" Susie's voice sounds out, arm wrapping around into a friendly side-hug. She steps back as Annette shakes out of her rumination, holding her own shopping bag in arm. Then, her face grows serious and she utters, leaning her face in curiously, "Oh, this is quite awkward, we've left home wearing the same necklace."

She pokes a finger against the leather band on Annette's neck, causing her to smirk and reply, "You'll have to go home and change - I was here first."

"We'll just have to accept the awkwardness and press on," Susie decides. She marches up to the counter and makes a few selections for herself, greeting Elias warmly as Annette also finishes up her purchase. "Fortunate I've run into you," she says, "I was going to invite you to tea later, 'till I remembered I still need to do the washing up, so I was going to invite you to drink tea while I wash."

Annette feels her now heavier bag tug against her arm. "I really ought to get these back."

"I can carry 'em with you and lessen the burden," Susie offers, gesturing to her comparatively fewer bags.

Annette considers the offer. She had been planning on getting these home and trying to track down Cordelia, wherever she is. But, she thinks of the inclusion she felt with Susie, the welcoming into being Kerish. Part of the point of this trip was also so Annette could get a better sense of her past and heritage, why not get to know people here?

So, she accepts Susie's offer and allows the woman to take one of her bags, leading them both out onto Main Street and making polite conversation. Until, that is, Susie quickly ducks off the cobbled road and races to a house just off to the side. "A quick stop!" She calls behind her.

Susie leaps up the few steps to the doorway of a townhouse, knocking aggressively on the door. "Mercy Fitzpatrick-Clark! Come on out, else I'll swipe your husband out from under you!" And, mischievously to Annette, "I could do it, no doubt 'bout it,'' she boasts, winking.

Mercy throws the door open and grins, leaning her hips against the doorframe and rolling her eyes. "A good afternoon to ya', you ambitious homewrecker."

"You still owe me help with the washing up," Susie asserts. "I've come to collect."

"Fine," Mercy exhales. She turns back into the house and calls out, "Kevin, my love, I'll be off helping Susie!" An unintelligible noise sounds back from inside in affirmation, so Mercy swipes her coat and hops out onto the steps, noticing Annette for the first time. "A cousin I've not met?"

"Newcomer to town," Susie answers for Annette, then leans in towards Mercy and excitedly adds, "Here on business."

Mercy raises an eyebrow. "What sort of business?"

Annette only briefly considers a lie. "Keeping a detective from ruffling too many feathers."

The new woman, a decade older than Susie, shrugs and accepts the information. She reaches down to grab one of the bags, only for her younger friend to swipe her hand away.

"Shoo!" Susie diverts, clutching carefully onto the bag to prevent Mercy from helping. "Different task for you, Miss. Go invite Fanny Hornbeck to sup with us."

Mercy laughs and nods, ambling off down the far side of the street.

Annette glances over at Susie. "Fanny?"

- - -

It feels, perhaps, cruel to say that Fanny Hornbeck lived up to the name. It's not as though she deserved it, the unfortunate innuendo as her referent, but rather that she was making the most of it. A great many people would curse their parents, scorn god and all things holy, and live their life in shame if forced to accept such as her name. Fanny easily took on the first two tasks. As for the third? A life of shame was not within her capability.

"So I've gone and told him," entertains the curly-haired woman with the unfortunate name, "Pa will

never

accept your offer 'less you can drink 'em to sleep and bring a pig pretty enough he'd kiss it!"

She kicks back on the barrel she's sitting upon, chortling. Fanny is somewhere in age between Susie and Mercy, a trio of years older than Annette, and seems to be the surliest and crudest of the bunch. Where Mercy is mild-mannered, amiable, and kind, and Susie is teasing, friendly, and between them in speaking volume, Fanny is boisterous, playfully devious, and commands the attention of all.

"Now, Cael knows he can't outdrink my Pa," Fanny continues, leaning in towards the three of them around her - Mercy and Susie kneeling over a large wash-bin and diving their hands into the soapy water, Annette sitting comfortably with a cup of peppermint tea. "So, my suitor pours the glasses and slips something naughty into my Pa's, hoping it'd even the score. Only, Cael mixed up the drinks!"

She cackles delightedly. "Pa's leaping with laughter after Cael can't even hold a single glass of scotch, and somewhere in the young lad's knackered head he mixed up the directions - so

he

kissed the pig!"

The rest of them join in laughter, and Annette snorts some of her tea into her nose on accident, poorly timing her next drink. Mercy and Susie have clearly heard the story before, and both turn back to ensure Annette is properly amused.

"Anyway," Fanny finishes up, "poor lad sobered up and heard what he did. He was so embarrassed he ran for the hills and I never saw him again." A mischievous pause. "Shame, he was quite the lay."

It's pleasant, tucked away on the outside edge of the Cunninghill estate in the servant's quarters and spending time with these women - women who look like her, who don't obsess over the mild-mannered standards of Emril. They wear themselves fully, outwardly - not meticulously scrutinizing each and every word, not shying away from getting mud on their skirts. It's difficult to tell if this is more from their rural life or if it is simply the way of Kerish women.

A part of Annette hopes it's the latter.

"Now, tell the one about Miss Mary Lou and the druid," Susie directs, grinding a white collared shirt against her washboard. A sloshing sound fills the outdoor air.

Mercy tilts her head. "Bit crass, that one."

Susie waves her away. "Annie can take it, can't you, Annie?" She sends a rascally smile up towards Annette, daring her to meet the challenge of the story, and it takes very little effort within herself to want to meet it.

So, with a sly grin and a tightness in her chest, Annette takes a sip and whispers, "Can't be worse than the time I killed a man."

They all fall silent, considering her carefully.

Fanny is the first to decide it must be a jest and breaks out into a rambunctious cackle, which is soon joined by the rest, so she begins the story undisturbed. "Miss Mary Lou was an Emrishwoman who came here with a husband, two babies, and twice as many collars. Her man used to own Old Billie Lane, before it all happened..."

Annette perks up, curious to hear the cause of her borrowed home's vacancy.

"So get on with it, Fanny," Mercy complains at the woman's artificial pause.

Fanny leans in, resting her elbows on her knees. "All her perfect little life, but Miss Mary Lou wasn't happy at all. No... no, she kept sneaking out at night, disappearing for long bits of time. One day, her husband had enough.

"Every night, Miss Mary Lou makes him his favorite tea to calm him down to sleep, classic good wife behavior. But that night, he doesn't ask for tea, rejects it when she brings it to him, says he's been having bad dreams and doesn't want to stay up. Mary Lou is nervous, puttering about until he falls asleep on the sofa and she sneaks out like always. Only, her man was just pretending to sleep..."

Fanny pauses long enough to sip on her own tea before going on - though Annette suspects it's also for making them wait. "Her man was in the military, an officer, and he knew how to follow someone without being spotted. He trails her in the night as she makes a beeline for the woods. It's dark in there, real grim, and she manages to give him the slip. Until, that is, he hears singing..."

"Singing?" Annette furrows her brow.

"

Singing

." Fanny confirms. "Eerie, but beautiful. He follows the sound towards a clearing in the woods, where he finds his darling wife is the one making such a noise. But she's not only singing, she's dancing and turning about, ass bare in the moonlight." The woman stands and does an unusual dance, arms thrown over her head and twisting oddly, and jokingly lifts her skirt to reveal her knees . She remains standing as the movements end, turning to Annette. "And then, her man sees her: a druid."

"What's a druid?"

Susie pips up. "Magic wild woman."

Mercy looks giddy. "A faerie."

"Not true!" Susie contests, splashing her with the bubbling, soapy water.

But the older woman is undeterred, her innocent demeanor set aside to mysteriously and delightedly utter, "From the world of spirits."

Susie rolls her eyes and looks at Annette as though to apologize for her ridiculous friends, though Annette is hardly unamused. "A druid is just a normal woman gone a bit weird for trees and critters," she claims.

"

Anyway

," Fanny takes command of the conversation once more, "the druid, she was chanting something ancient and from the world beyond, dressed up in nothing but some pasted-on leaves, performing a sort of ritual with her staff." She waves her arms around for effect, then drops into a squat in front of Annette. "And then, the husband watched as the druid... she sucked Mary Lou's soul out of her!"

Annette snorts incredulously, albeit entertained. "Sucked out her soul?"

Susie answers for her, scandalously whispering, "Kissed her right on the mouth, tongue and teeth and all."

Annette plays around with the image of being kissed by a half-naked woman in the moonlit woods, enjoying the idea far more than she might otherwise have expected. She briefly wonders if she could convince Cordelia to indulge her. She hopes none of them notice the light flush in her cheeks, hidden behind a long and overdrawn sip of tea.

"The husband lept into action," Fanny continues, "but Miss Mary Lou was bewitched, possessed! She screeched out into the night and disappeared into the woods with the druid - gone into the spirit world. Old Billie searched and searched, cut down that whole part of the woods just to find her, and nothing.

"Few years later, he went totally mad and died. The kids were sent away to live with other family, and a long while later they sold off the house as soon as they were old enough to know what money was."