Baker and Jones Ch. 10

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?"

She crosses her arms over her chest. "I think you're taking the fight to them."

"Something I've noticed," he tilts his head thoughtfully, only casually glancing from his hands flicking along the boat, "I don't think you're as frightened and shy as Guy seems to think you are."

"I'm not," Annette asserts.

He cocks his head back at her, suddenly letting his fierce eyes meet hers. "So why did you want us to think you were?"

Jarl drops one of his hands from the boat and pats it down onto his waist, where it meets something firm and metallic, obscured by his coat. Annette swallows her next breath and takes his meaning. She wonders if Guy likewise carried a gun as he watched the door outside.

"I wanted to infiltrate your group," she replies, trying to remain calm and not think about the weapon nearby.

"To see if we were criminals?" His head leans slightly to the side and his hand settles on the outline of the gun. In Jarl's eyes, there's a terrifying sincerity and commitment.

Annette drops her hands into the pockets of her dress so that he couldn't see them shaking, and attempts to place a more confident expression on her face than she feels. "To see if you are truly what I believe you are."

"Which is?"

"Someone who can hold the barons accountable. Someone who can be the justice that they constantly escape."

"Then tell me," Jarl smiles, though it's a grim and empty one. "Based upon this metric, what is your assessment of us?"

Annette returns his grin. "I don't believe the straw dummies in Docksims park were just dummies."

"Interesting."

She continues, leaning forward slightly and letting her interest in the investigation instead appear to be passion for the cause. "The one with the impaled eye. That was Mister Bembrook, wasn't it?"

Jarl's smile leaves his face and he returns to fidgeting with the edge of the boat, no longer staring her down. "Not many people would be able to make such a connection," he says, a mild threat in his tone.

Annette's heart putters quickly and she scrambles to give an explanation to account for the knowledge she possessed. For a panicked moment, she wonders if she's made an error and overshared. She takes a deep breath and pushes the feeling down, replying, "A friend's son was killed by Bembrook. It's personal."

"Who?"

"Mary Rosen," Annette provides the half truth. "Her son, Henry, died in an accident on Bembrook's dollar. He ignored Henry's warnings."

Jarl's faint eyebrow pops at the name. "You knew Henry?"

"I know his mother," she deflects.

If he questions her story, Jarl doesn't show it. "So, you believe we might have a connection to Mister Bembrook's demise?"

Annette leans forward even more, resting her elbows onto her knees. "I am sorely hoping you do."

She lets the implications rest in the air as Jarl muses over her words. It was risky, playing some of her hand out in the open. He could easily deny it and push her away from joining the Mallet's, or decide she knew too much and dispose of her.

He thinks for a long moment before returning to look at her and saying, "Tell me about your collar." He taps his own throat to accent his meaning.

"It's voluntary," she answers. "I sold myself to get off of the streets."

"Why were you there?"

"I'm not married," Annette shrugs, then quickly adds, "If you're about to tell me that I ought to have no shortage of potential suitors I'll scream."

Jarl chuckles and shakes his head. When he speaks again, still smiling, his voice carries none of the enthusiasm of humor. "Why are you single?"

Annette bristles. "Is my response required on this matter?"

He returns to picking at the boat. "You may always return to the print shop."

"I'm a lesbian," Annette sighs, deciding to take the risk.

Thankfully, Jarl accepts it as a complete answer and doesn't pry further. If he has any feelings about the revelation, he disguises them well, casually moving onto a new line of questioning for his inquisition.

"Who owns your contract?"

"I'd rather not say."

"I hear next week's pamphlet is on the subject of Kereland's coal miners' strike," Jarl replies nonchalantly.

For a moment, Annette considers telling the truth. But just as quickly as she considers it, she rejects the idea outright; it would be too easy for them to guess that Cordelia had sent her to investigate them and report back to her. In a panic, she replies with the first idea that comes to her mind.

"Simon Billings."

"The Deacon?" Jarl's brow pops. "I wasn't aware he owned a contract."

"I was traded to him."

"Guy says he's wretched to you. Does he hit you?"

"No."

"Then why do you resent him so?"

Annette looks away and supplies another easily constructed half-truth. "He's chainlaid."

"And you're a lesbian," Jarl completes.

She scoffs. "Even if I wasn't, I still wouldn't return his affections."

Jarl smirks and returns his focus to her. When he speaks, his tone has shifted towards a new direction. "The Mallets don't operate on trust and good favor alone. Captain Beckett and his police would take swift advantage of such naivete," he explains. "There is a place with us, if you desire it."

"But not without cost," she surmises.

"Not without leverage."

"Is my lesbianism insufficient?" Annette grumbles.

Jarl shakes his head. "We have two tasks for you."

"And what might those be?" She asks and leans back in her chair, trying not to seem too eager by the possibility of joining.

"First, we'll go see your owner."

Annette panics. "He's away."

Jarl pauses, pursing his lips as though deciding if he trusts her words. "And left you behind?"

"I feigned illness."

"A keen actor you must be," he muses. "When will he return?"

"Tomorrow. In time for Sunday mass."

Jarl stands. "Then we will see you at mass."

Annette remains seated and furrows her brow. "And what of the second task?"

He waves away her question, gently gesturing for her to exit the dock house. "It is precluded by the first." He waits for her to rise, then shakes her hand and says, "Good day, Red."

- - -

Cordelia chokes softly on her sip of tea, quickly returning it to its saucer on the dining room table. "Pardon me," she coughs. "I must have misheard you."

"I wish I could say you had," Annette mumbles, resting her head down against the hardwood.

It's quiet between the two of them for a few moments, which Cordelia spends thoughtfully staring out of a window, perhaps waiting for Harold's unscheduled and typically inevitable return. She clears her throat and speaks again with a slightly different affect in her voice, "I'm impressed that you've still set yourself upon this case, all on your lonesome." She takes a sip of her scalding tea. "Why have you?"

Annette listens to the clink of the cup onto its saucer and pushes her head a little deeper into the table, letting the cool, polished wood soothingly press back against her. She shakes her head softly.

"At any rate," Cordelia moves along, "you're on your feet and your spirit is ablaze with investigation. I suppose that's all that matters."

Annette tilts her head to the side and looks up at the detective. "Will you do it?"

Cordelia exhales and hides behind another sip. "Must I?"

"I'll never gain entry without it."

The detective looks out the window once more, possibly hiding from Annette's serious eyes. "I'm not keen to lose you as an asset" she admits.

Annette's a little touched, and she feels her head twinkle softly. After Samantha's departure, Annette has decided to simply leave Cordelia's past be and to move along. They'd yet to really speak since the dinner, but she's grateful to feel the normalcy of their routine return, ever so slightly, a silent understanding passing between the two of them.

"Might you be content as a friend?" Annette asks weakly.

Cordelia is quiet, still looking out past the home and towards the sky. She holds the hot cup in her palms, and once again it seems as though the warmth doesn't bother her. "I suppose that's what friendship must be, isn't it?" She sighs. "The trust that another enjoys your company enough to return of her own volition."

"I don't expect I'll be gone forever," she attempts to console her.

The detective meets her eyes and smiles weakly in gratitude, though her face soon after falls grim and it seems as though a concern has washed through her mind. "Are you really willing to place yourself within their path once more?"

Annette shrugs, her cheek puffing against the table. "I endured it before."

Cordelia nods curtly, then lets her eyes drift away. "It's so tempting to say 'no.'"

"Miss Jones," Annette pleads gently.

"You're really not content to let sleeping dogs lie? You must see this whole thing through?"

"Y-," Annette begins, only for Cordelia to quickly interrupt.

"No, take another moment before you answer," she requests. Her brows furrow seriously and there's a glimmer of something important in her eyes. "Is this necessary? Truly necessary? Will your soul be able to find peace if you were to step aside? Does this mystery insist upon your being?"

"I'm not sure I understand what you are asking."

"You do," Cordelia asserts. "Do you feel the feeling?"

Annette is quiet, and when she responds it's barely above a whisper, almost as a defeated sigh of relent. "...yes."

"Then you may go with my blessing," Cordelia nods, satisfied. "I'll draft up the papers and make the necessary arrangements immediately."

Annett sits up from the table and smiles graciously. "Thank you, Cordelia."

A single bark of laughter erupts out of the detective, and she halts herself from rising to stand. Her eyebrow raises accusingly at Annette. "It took farewell for you to finally abandon decorum?"

Annette smirks. "It isn't really farewell."

Cordelia grins and walks away to the stairs, presumably to rise up to her study and assemble the required papers to send with her. She stops, her hand resting upon the railing. Her face lowers, a little somber. "Annette?"

"Yes?"

"Do come back."

- - -

Like many proper girls who had the church thrust upon them from a young age, Annette could follow the movements of mass without a single thought given to the task. She could proceed from the readings to the prayers to the homily to the eucharist without any conscious effort, and mass often served as a surprisingly productive ground for her fantasies about the other girls her age. She used to grin and blush any time Rachel would meet their eyes across the pews, or stifle a giggle anytime Susan mimed a joke out of Father Thomas' watchful glare.

The talent serves her well once more as her eyes roll over the stone columns and arches of St. Bartholomew's. The worn wood pews push into her backs and the smoke from candles across the cathedral hall fills her lungs. She takes a breath, folding her hands over and over into her lap and wondering how much she was going to regret this decision.

At the very least Simon's homily seems especially motivated this morning, and his voice bounces with far more energy than before. She can tell that he is carefully trying not to steal too many glances at her as he pontificates, though from the number of rushed and awkward breakings of eye contact, it's clear that he is fighting a losing battle.

"And so, the mystery of which Jesus speaks of, as told by the Apostle Mark in his gospel," Simon declares to the room, "is no such mystery to be left unsolved. Jesus provides an answer, inasmuch as he himself is the provision. The mystery of the Kingdom of God is quite nearly a misnomer, for Christ Jesus himself supplies both the question and the answer. Seek first the Kingdom of God, and ye shall find Christ. Seek first Christ, and his path of righteousness, and ye shall find everlasting life."

Annette's eyes glaze over as her shoulders shiver with the intimate judgment of Jesus' watchful eyes, glaring down upon her from his crucifix. The first challenge was over - Cordelia had sent along the papers for her transfer late last night, and Annette had greeted Simon just before the mass was set to begin. She touches the collar around her throat once more, hoping desperately that its signal of Simon's ownership would be thoroughly temporary. She can almost feel the weight of a ring upon her finger.