Baker and Jones Ch. 13

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."

"Very well," the detective nods. "It looks nice. It suits you."

"How kind of you."

There's another long pause, and it takes Cordelia a few minutes to break her silence. "Regarding dinner tonight, and the rest of your duties," she begins, "would you like to do the same tasks as before, Miss Baker?"

"I was expecting to," Annette furrows her brow, confused by the formality. "...Miss Jones," she adds.

Cordelia stands quickly. "Christ, I'm being an ass." She darts away into the kitchen, and Annette calmly follows.

"You are acting quite strange-,"

Annete stops herself as Cordelia turns, holding a small dish of gravy in her hands. They make eye contact, quickly sizing one another up, and Cordelia tilts her head and mutters, "I'm acting... strange?"

Annette looks at the dish, then back at the dinner table, and says, "You called yourself an ass for forgetting a component of dinner?"

"It completes the meal," Cordelia objects. "... I'm acting strange?"

Annette returns to the table, giving Cordelia a moment to sit as well. "It's... it's as though nothing has transpired between us but a short holiday."

Cordelia holds her breath, then releases it slowly. When she speaks again, her voice is filled with burden. "You are dependent on me again," she says gently. "And I understand that it was the best option to prevent ruin... that it was the deal you struck." Cordelia sighs and places her head against her hand. "You told me last time you wouldn't want to return as my servant, and now you're here against your will. I'll not add insult to injury by being enthusiastic about your circumstance."

"But you're happy I'm back?"

"Painfully so," Cordelia replies tersely.

Annette smiles, a little amused. "Cordelia, I'm not your prisoner. I chose to return."

"Under duress," the detective rebuts. "It was the lesser of two evils."

She shakes her head. "I wouldn't consider you an evil."

Cordelia takes a sharp breath and sits up straight, holding her posture firm and proper. "I think it's only fair we amend the rules from your previous employment here. You do not need to provide anything for the upkeep of the house, save that which you do of your own volition. Should you desire to have company over, and have privacy, you need only say the word."

Cordelia quickly adds, "Actually, you needn't even say the word. I'll not stand in any way between you and Marian, or whomever-,"

Annette rises from her seat, crossing around the table and pulling out the chair directly next to Cordelia. She leans in, grimacing gently, and asks, "Might we simply talk about it?"

"I am," Cordelia insists. "I want to ensure you are as unhindered in my house as-,"

Annette interrupts, lifting herself forward to calmly kiss Cordelia. The detective pulls away quickly, flustered, with a look of surprise on her face.

"Pardon me," Cordelia chokes out, rising from her seat.

"Cordelia, I am not different simply because I wear a collar again," Annette insists.

"But you are."

"I don't wish to be," Annette drops her shoulders. "Not with you."

Cordelia shakes her head, seeming as though convincing herself of something. "You are living under my care. You had to dispose of your connection to the Mallets and the work that brought you meaning."

Annette stands as well. "And I am still your friend."

Cordelia frowns. "Who has kissed me thrice now."

"Be happy that I'm back, for my sake." Annette tries to take Cordelia's hand into her own, but the detective steps back apprehensively.

Cordelia's walls return in full force, and she shoves her reaction behind a painful expression of neutrality. "Do you require anything further from me, Miss Baker?"

Annette sighs and shakes her head.

- - -

Annette wanders through the assembled stalls and vendors across Market Street, and quickly feels unwelcome in a way she should have expected. It was difficult to predict how much the news about her had spread; but even without the rumors of her associations with the Mallets, the knowledge of her escape and the scandal of her hair is enough to cause the market to treat her with suspicion. She shops in silence, deeply missing the familiar comfort of casual conversation. The market had been her most joyful place in her first days as a servant, a bastion of affirmation that she could be trusted and honored in society. Now, it was a cascade of reminders that she broke social convention. She may as well have been outed as an adulterer, or a lesbian, for the way she was now treated. She grimaces at the culpability in both she also possessed.

At one point, she even notices Guy quietly canvassing potential recruits. She and him share a tense glance, and his face softens enough to crack a gentle smile. But, he makes no motion to greet her, and Annette knows the implications are clear. She was burned in the eyes of the Mallets, and no association with her could be tolerated. She briefly contemplates going to see Marian, simply for the sake of having any comforting company, but sighs and relents from the idea. Marian may have always been a reluctant Mallet, but she was a Mallet nonetheless.

She spends the rest of her afternoon half-heartedly cleaning her home, carefully reorganizing everything into an order that made sense. She cooks dinner, ears constantly perked up to hear if Cordelia might return home at all today. Annette sits at the dinner table and eats alone.

When she does eventually attempt to accept the day was lost and go to bed with the intention of sleeping away her feelings, the sleep is only a temporary escape. Annette awakes around midnight, restless and exhausted. She tosses and turns for another hour, eventually giving up and accepting her fate for the evening. She begrudgingly pulls out a piece of parchment and a pen, starts and stops a half dozen letters, and grumbles to herself. It takes some time to construct a passable response to Cordelia's letters.

Cordelia,

I am sorry to say that I have little experience in writing letters outside of my general instruction at St. Bartholomew's orphanage. I will endeavor to be a satisfactory partner in the medium, though I cannot say with any great confidence that I will be memorable in the form in any way. I trust you will be generous and forgiving if I allow this letter to be direct and to the point; the late night has a way of pulling honesty out of oneself, willingly or otherwise.

The night of the thunderstorm, I kissed you simply because I wanted to. It was an impulse I might not have indulged without your past encouragements for me to be as authentically myself as possible, and for the practice of living in such authenticity with the Mallets. But, I desired to do it and I did. As for the second kiss: I was preoccupied with the fear that I might never have the opportunity to do so again. As for the third...

I do not desire a position of neutrality between us.

Annette

Annette sighs, feeling her fingers slightly cramped for the stress of writing with so much tension in her body. She folds the parchment in on itself, rises from her desk, and ascends the stairs to Cordelia's study with the intention of sliding it under her door. But, just as she kneels down to place it, the door suddenly pulls open.

Cordelia makes a noise of surprise, and Annette mutters, "Pardon."

"It's alright, Miss Baker."

Annette rises, holding her letter tightly in her palms. "I was delivering a response for you."

"So late?" Cordelia cocks her head to the side.

"I could not sleep until it was written," Annette utters gravely.

It is then that she gazes down and notices a bottle of whiskey in Cordelia's hands. Annette frowns, flicking her eyes worriedly back up at the detective.

Cordelia meets her gaze, sighs, and gestures towards the roof. "Would you care to join me?"

Annette nods, and the two of them rise through the attic and onto the roof, sitting down against the frigid tiles in the brisk evening air. A small amount of frost slowly forms on the nearby roofs, and Annette watches her breath condense in the space in front of her.

She places a gentleness into her voice and looks over at Cordelia. "Have you been coming up here still?"

"Not for a couple nights," Cordelia replies. She notices Annette staring apprehensively at the bottle. "It's unopened."

"I thought you had removed them from your home."

Cordelia shrugs. "I purchased it today."

"How long has it been?"

"Two weeks," she mutters.

Annette nods and looks away, trying not to allow Cordelia to feel her judgment or her worry. "Do you want to drink it?"

"No," Cordelia exhales slowly. "But I should."

"I don't see why you must."

"Are you cold?" The detective asks suddenly. "With your hair so short?"

"I am," she replies.

Cordelia looks away. "You may go inside if you wish, Miss Baker."

"I would prefer to stay," Annette says simply. She feels a resolve inside of her, a mixture of concern and determination combining with her general feeling towards the detective.

Cordelia taps her nails against the glass, thinking quietly for a few breaths. "It would warm me up," she says at last.

"There are other ways."

"I miss the taste."

"There are other tastes."

Cordelia turns it over and over in her hands. In her eyes, there's a painful and tired expression, almost a sense of inevitability and an inescapable destiny. Annette extends her hand. "Give the bottle to me," she orders softly.

"Okay," Cordelia nods, passing it over. She looks a little lighter as it leaves her hands.

"Would you like me to tell you what I wrote in my letter?"

The detective smiles weakly and shakes her head. "It would spoil my fun. You truly stayed up writing it?"

"I cannot promise it will be the next Shakespeare," Annette smirks.

"Doubtful," Cordelia puffs. "I am confident in your talents."

Annette shares a gentle look with her. "I enjoyed your first letter a great deal. I'm not sure If I told you that yet." She gazes away at the sky, seeing the moon as a bright crescent amongst the stars. "If only there were a thunderstorm tonight," she whispers longingly.

"If only," Cordelia agrees, shivering slightly.

"Are you cold?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to return inside?"

"No," Cordelia says after a moment.

Annette looks down at the bottle in her hands, noticing Cordelia taking a glance at it. "Would you like a drink?"

"God, yes," Cordelia sighs.

Annette frowns, but nods. She breaks the seal on the bottle, pulling out its stopper and inhaling the scent. She takes a quick drink, stomaching the burning feeling of it entering her throat and chokes it down. She then proceeds to pour the remainder of the bottle out onto the roof, emptying it.

"What are you-"

Annette interrupts her. "If you are cold, allow me to be your warmth. If you desire its taste, you will find it upon my lips."

Cordelia shakes her head incredulously, watching the liquid slowly trickle down off of the roof. "I'm not going to kiss you."

"Tell me why," Annette demands.

"I won't."

"I deserve to know why."

"You do," Cordelia affirms. "And I won't. I can't."

Annette sets the bottle aside and shifts to sit closer to Cordelia. "Nothing has changed between us, Cordelia. I need to know what I've done wrong, or if you've changed your mind about me, or..."

Cordelia rises slowly, but instead of standing, she carefully climbs into a position hovering just over Annette. She moves gracefully and purposely, letting her face hold its place just a half foot above Annette's while her eyes fill with a painful sense of longing and burden. Annette feels her breath catch in her throat.