Baker and Jones Ch. 07

"Annette," Cordelia says in a low voice, joining her in the hallway and propping herself up opposite of her. "I... hmm... What am I trying to say?" She thinks aloud.

"I am out of guesses," Annette mutters.

"Here it is," the detective pips. She lifts her hands, gesturing forward. "You feel the feeling. Or if you don't, you understand the feeling and why it's important." Annette hides behind her hands once again, pushing the hair out of her face, so Cordelia continues. "I've never met anyone else who does. Christ, they're all so static and unaffected and pedantic and tiresome and -"

"Might we get on with it?"

"They're boring, Annette," Cordelia concludes, her voice filled with something important. "And not just their conversations or livestyles; I mean that the essence of who they are is dull and lifeless. But you... you're... well..." she gestures to the room around her as though it explains everything. "Penny could never be in such a space."

"I'm not sure I deserve credit for the way I am currently occupying it," Annette mutters, "I am longing for the moment when we depart it and never return."

"No, no you're not."

"I am, Miss Jones," Annette stands, frustrated and impatient. "Now, please, may we conclude our business and be done here?"

Cordelia is quiet for a long moment, and Annette is surprised to find that she seems disappointed. She's even more surprised to find that she feels disappointed that Cordelia is disappointed. She takes a deep breath, pushing away the grumpy side of herself that simply wished to return to sleep, and returns into the storage closet to inspect the body.

"I cannot fathom how you found him so," she says softly to the detective, who joins her a moment later with a neutral scowl.

"I suspected arson," Cordelia answers, her voice disaffected and flat. "The signs indicated it was set from within the building, and I traced out the trajectory a fleeing culprit might attempt an escape from. The logical exit," she points in the direction of the locked door outside, "fell through, so he would have sought protection from the fire. And thus, storage room."

Annette feels guilty that her enthusiasm seems to have disappeared, and she shuffles in place repentantly. "That's quite clever of you, Miss Jones."

"It's nothing," Cordelia shakes her head. "Simple hunch."

"Truly, it's brilliant work."

"It's fine, Annette," the detective drops to her knees to inspect the body closer.

"I'm quite serious. I can't imagine anyone else would-,"

"Just stop talking, Miss Baker."

Annette takes a step back and feels a trickle of guilt in her chest. Cordelia's presence has lost its intrigue and warmth, and the detective seems to have once again retreated behind her wall of cool, superior hostility. Cordelia squats above the body, carefully searching it and refusing to look back at Annette.

Cordelia sighs. "You didn't even notice the most interesting part."

"What might that be, Miss Jones?" Annette's tone returns to her domestic habit, and she feels a bit like she's fallen from her good graces.

"Do you recognize him at all?"

Annette stares at the man, but shakes her head.

"Neither of us have met him before," Cordelia stands, holding a wallet in the palm of her hand. "But can you at least picture a likeness?"

"I..." Annette squints, trying to read the lifeless face and recall some familiar connection, but falls short. "I'm afraid I don't, Miss Jones."

Cordelia half-heartedly offers her the wallet, encouraging her to look inside. Annette timidly opens the leather wing, rummaging through the papers for anything identifying.

"He left his usual papers at home: checks, identification, et cetera," Cordelia says. "But study the handwriting for a moment on one of the notes he's carrying." Annette pulls out a small scrap of paper, which reads:

If by industry they climb atop us, then by industry they will be cast down.

Underneath the writing, there is a small symbol; a mallet striking a nail, circled by steam and smoke. Annette reads the note a few times, looking at the writing and feeling a familiar itch in the back of her head. Hours upon hours of studying these words and pen strokes made it all too recognizable.

"This is Henry's writing," she declares suddenly. "Henry Rosen."

Cordelia nods, her apathy clouding her excitement. "Which means..?"

Annette stares down back at the body, feeling a shiver descend down her spine. "It can't be. Henry must've given him this note, or something..."

"Look at his face," Cordelia shakes her head. "Those are his mother's eyes."

"But how!?" Annette crumples the note in her hand without thinking, clenching her fist tightly. "Henry died in the locomotive crash."

"His body was never recovered."

Annette strolls back into the hallway, pacing up and down it and running her hands through her hair. "So, what? He derailed a train for show, just to escape? Kills Bembrook, sets a factory on fire?"

"Have you seen that mallet symbol before, Miss Baker?"

Annette unfolds the wrinkled note, looking at the symbol yet again. "No."

"Nor do I," Cordelia admits. "'If by industry they climb atop us, then by industry they will be cast down.'"

"So we were right initially then?" Annette furrows her brow. "The manager at Pemberley Exports, Mister Bembrook, and now this factory fire, all caused by labor sympathizers? Does this mean Brimwell has nothing to do with it?"

Cordelia thinks for a few breaths. "I believe we've stumbled into something much larger than we can see at the present. Don't discount Lord Brimwell just yet." She stares at Annette and pushes her lips into a dejected frown. "I need to think."

She strolls away past Annette, storming out of the factory and leaving her to return to 167th Mill Street on her own, worried once again about fracturing the tentative peace between them.

- - -

"It was a very... informative homily, Deacon," Annette attempts, holding her hands together at her chest and fidgeting with them. "I'm impressed with your capacity to rival the length of Father Thomas' speeches."

Simon chuckles, strolling casually beside her as they walk alongside the Fennes river. A winding path traces along the retaining wall, and when followed for long enough away from downtown, it turns into a relatively peaceful walking route.

"You hated it," Simon smiles.

"Not true," Annette protests. "Perhaps I would have a more formulated opinion of it had I not been lulled into the sweet embrace of a nap."

"You fell asleep during it?"

"I believe that in the convent the Sisters refer to such an incident as 'deep meditation.'" She grins weakly, careful that she walks near enough to him that it seems friendly but not too near that she might brush against him.

"A shame, Miss Baker," he shrugs. "With a mind so clever as yours, I would appreciate the feedback. It's... difficult to hear honest reviews of my work at times. Not everyone is eager to injure the feelings of the priest-to-be."

"Then I shall tell you it was horrible," Annette teases, "so that you might feel the pressure to improve regardless."

"Clever," Simon inclines his head approvingly. "I'll redouble my efforts to impress you with my future homilies."

"I'm not easily impressed."

"Isn't this lovely, Miss Baker?" Simon sighs, opening his hands to gesture to the comfortable early afternoon around them. A few trees hang over the pathway, allowing their towering branches to provide shade and dangle towards the river.

"It's... pleasant," she says in a low voice.

"I could so easily imagine this as my weekly routine," he smiles. "I'd perform mass, then take a turn about the river with my wife rather than be bogged down by the chores of the cathedral."

"I... I hope that you receive an opportunity to fulfill such hopes."

Simon glances over at her as they continue to walk, and Annette quickly turns her head away to stare out over the river instead. Despite having had more time to strategize with how to deal with him, she's no closer to finding a solution to be rid of Simon or neutralize the effect of the information he possessed. It would almost be easier to pretend to go along with him if he were less polite or cordial... any outside observer would struggle to find a compelling reason why someone might reject a proposal from him. She briefly considers attempting to push him into the river.

"I should like it to be with you, Annette," he leans a little closer, his voice warm and optimistic. "I truly admire how sharp your mind is. Conversation with you is like fencing, or some other finesse sport. It keeps my mind alive and my wits sharp."

Annette stifles the instinct to make a quip about the difficulty of sharpening a perpetually dull knife. "Unfortunately, I've no answer for you, Deacon."

"Simon," he nudges once more.

"...Simon," she relents. "Marriage is still so far from the forefront of my mind."

"Twenty-three is not young to marry."

"And yet it feels so young, does it not?"

"I'm afraid I can't relate," he shakes his head pleasantly, gazing down the path before them. "I've wished to be married since I was a young boy. What did you wish for when you were younger?"

Annette exhales and gestures to her body. "This."

"Right," Simon says quickly, flushing brightly with embarrassment. "My apologies, I should have-,"

She holds up a hand to absolve him of the awkward moment, having endured it enough times. But, she had been far more worried he would ask whether or not she had always wanted to marry, and that question felt far more treacherous.

Simon clears his throat, resetting. "I wondered if we might discuss a more sensitive subject, Miss Baker."

Annette frowns and takes a long breath. She looks around, realizing that Simon had deliberately waited until they had more privacy before turning to this subject. She's a little grateful for the fact, though she wishes he'd just let her walk in silence and be done with it all. "I suspect you'll ask regardless of my permission."

"I'm only broaching the topic because of its importance," he affirms. "Should it be anything less than necessary I would gladly leave it be."

Annette grumbles, but fortifies her defenses. Stringing Simon along would likely require plenty of moments like this, and so she may as well learn how to navigate the topic of her attractions in such a way that he is satisfied with seeing her shame. Meanwhile, she would attempt to insulate herself from the encounters, trying to hold on to her own vital sense of dignity.

"If you must," she sighs.

"What is it like, being twice-born?"

"Oh," Annette stops in her tracks, surprised.

"My apologies, I understand that it can be sensitive to-,"

"It's alright," she interrupts, resuming her walk. "I had expected an entirely different subject matter." She takes a deep breath, reeling from the unexpected twist. She's relieved to talk about a far less charged subject. "Being twice-born... it... it just feels normal. To be honest, I don't think about it very often anymore. Hardly anyone knows or recognizes me as such, so in most of my life I'm simply just some woman on the street."

"I find it profound," Simon replies.

"Profound?" Annette furrows her brow.

"Well, it's such a perfect image of resurrection, of Christ," he says, looking at her with an excited gleam in his eyes. "'There is no male or female... for you are all one in Christ Jesus,' the Apostle tells us in Galatians. That through rebirth we might cross over from one side to another, from male to female or vice versa, is truly a testament to Jesus' resurrection. That everything masculine about you can die and be reborn as perfectly and exclusively feminine... it's marvelous."

Annette feels a tense bubbling in her chest, shrinking inside at his words. There's something strange about the way Simon says them, and Annette cannot conjure what it is. One the one hand, it almost sounds as though he was convincing himself of the point. On the other, that somehow he felt Annette needed a reminder. But then there's something else creeping underneath even those motives that Annette doesn't understand.

"It's a wonder, Deacon," she mumbles.

"Thank you for indulging me on the subject, Annette," he smiles. "I find you fascinating."

"For being twice-born?"

"Amongst other reasons," Simon nods. "I likewise admire your mind, as I am oft to declare."

"Why would you find me more interesting for being twice-born?"

He's quiet for a moment. "It's a marvelous picture of God's-,"

"There's another reason, isn't there?" She accuses, halting her walk and crossing her arms over her chest. "You told Pullwater that I would be an acceptable wife because priests are not required to sire children. Why don't you care about having children?"

Simon stops, looking away from Annette and leaning up against the stone wall that overlooks the river. His face falls unusually solemn, his typically ever-present smile slowly drifting away as he gazes out over the water. Annette remains in the center of the path, watching him with a cautious curiosity.

"Compromises," he says at last, his voice low and thoughtful. "The path of following God with integrity is all about compromises. What might we be called upon to sacrifice for his will? What might we compromise to remain on the right path?"

Simon takes a long breath and turns back to look at her, a little bit of warmth returning to his face. "I sacrificed much to enter the clergy. I expected to be placed in a monastery, possibly somewhere far away with an oath of silence and poverty and celibacy and the like. But instead, I was called to popular ministry."

Annette stares at him, suspecting where this point was going and desperately hoping her instincts were wrong.

"And then," Simon shakes his head, a little amused and frustrated, but also excited, "the Lord called me to marriage. He found that little boy inside of my soul and spoke to that great hope I had always dreamed for, and told me there was a way to honor his path. He brought me to you... my compromise."

Annette turns and walks away.

Simon jolts from his position, leaping forward and carefully grabbing her wrist to prevent her from leaving. She glares at him angrily, unsuccessfully attempting to free herself from his grip while he clenches his teeth apologetically.

"I'm quite sorry-,"

"It is highly inappropriate to grab a woman so," Annette threatens, lowering her brows with a firm warning.

"Please remain, Miss Baker," he urges, maintaining his grasp.

"Let. Me. Go."

Simon holds her eye-contact for a tense few breaths, but relents. His fingers slowly unfurl from her hand, and Annette quickly turns around to storm away once more. He dashes forward to continue walking beside her, his longer legs easily matching her stride.

"Allow me to explai-,'

"I'd rather not," she snips, "if it's all the same to you, Deacon."

"God is calling us together, Miss Baker. He has clearly prepared us for each other-,"

"God would be wise to maintain his own business, and allow me to conduct my own unhindered," she grumbles.

"You can't possibl-,"

"Enough!" Annette shouts, halting in place and clenching her fists tightly to restrain her frustrations as best as possible. She quickly gazes up and down the trail, dropping her voice to just above a whisper after confirming they're still alone. "How dare you."

"How dare I? I am following God's-,"

"What was his name?"

"Pardon?"

Annette scowls and crosses her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. "The man you were caught with; what was his name?" Simon maintains a nervous deadpan. "That's what drove you to the clergy, isn't it? What better way to avoid speculation of your sins?"

"I assure you I am guilty of no such-,"

Annette's frown deepens, and Simon's sentence drifts off. "Does Sister Pullwater know? Is this why she's thrust you upon me, to strike down two queer birds with one marriage?"

"I am not queer," he whispers, quiet and harsh, then takes a breath and speaks as though repeating a rehearsed line, "I have correctly identified my attractions towards women of your particular nature."

"And where is my compromise?"

"Compromise?"

She paces away a few steps to control her fury. "If I am to be your consolation prize - far enough from a once-born woman to entertain you but close enough to quell suspicion - then where might mine be? Am I to simply waste away under the shadow of your desires?"

"God has a plan-,"

"God has no plan for me," she bites back. "Nor you. Nor any of us. Where might God be while you pine for a man you cannot have?"

A pause. "I'd wager he's erasing my name from his good book."

Annette exhales a tense breath. "When I meet you in hell I will know that at least I walked there of my own volition. I bid you good day, deacon."

"I can protect you," Simon asserts. "Marriage would shield you from the consequences of your past transgressions."

"I've not asked for your protection."

"It would absolve your past."

"Perhaps my past is my present," she hisses back.

"You don't mean that," he shakes his head. "You cannot."

"I do."

"You don't," Simon's brows lower seriously. He steps away slightly, burying his hands into his pockets and gazing upon her with a look of revolting concern. "You have an option, Annette. Punishment is inevitable, in this life or the next. If you marry me, I can protect you from the justice of man, and you'll be given grace from the justice of God."

"'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,'" Annette quotes back at him, flashing a final dismissive look of scorn and making her escape. She departs back along the path from where they came, beginning the journey back towards downtown.

"God's sinlessness becomes unfortunately relevant after his first stone strikes you," Simon calls back weakly, finally allowing her to leave.

Annette storms away, aggressively ruminating with every click of her heels on cobblestone. She clenches and unclenches her hands as she goes, trying to find some outlet for the bursts of rage pushing all throughout her. It was the hypocrisy, the entitlement, that truly ate her away. If what she suspected and he all but admitted was true, Simon should understand the impossibility of his request. Annette had heard of arrangements between men and women like her, who married as cover for their true attractions, but Simon wasn't even proposing such a deal. He truly believed he could change himself, and he'd be watching over her at all times.

Fuck, she mutters inside, stopping briefly and remembering that she was supposed to swing by the market on her way home. She adjusts her course slightly, turning back towards the nearest market, where she quietly grabs whatever her mind will allow her to remember. Her face must look sour indeed, because even many of the shopkeepers and vendors and tradesmen she'd built rapport with steered clear of her attention. She appreciates the silent agreement to leave her be.

She replays Simon's words in her head as she tosses a variety of items into her bag, only partially recalling what Cordelia requested. After the initial fury subsides, Annette's anxiety returns.

You were supposed to lead him on, a voice inside warns.

Annette sighs loudly, earning a disgruntled side-eye from another shopper. There was hardly any chance that Simon would decide to give her another opportunity to reject him. She'd made her feelings clear enough. Once he reported it back to Sister Pullwater, the nun was sure to interject herself into Annette's life with even more force.

They'll tell Cordelia...

A pit forms in Annette's stomach. As eccentric as Cordelia was, as much of an outcast as she may be, it's impossible to tell how she might react to such news. While Cordelia may have allowed Annette to occasionally gripe at the strictness of the nuns, she seemed unwilling to invoke the ire of Sister Pullwater. As strange as 167th Mill Street could be, it was the most stability Annette could realistically ask for, and Cordelia was one of the most lenient owners she'd ever heard of. Would Pullwater really jeopardize that?