Baker and Jones Ch. 14

"Apologies, Miss Jones," Annette says gently, "but the Sister is quite desperate in her need, and my heart is moved for my former home."

Cordelia steps close, dropping her voice to a concerned whisper. "Do you need me to put a stop to this?"

"Not at the moment. I'll be fine."

"A mild disappointment," Cordelia smirks. She takes a long breath, taking in the brisk air. "Very well, Miss Baker."

"Thank you," Annette smiles back. "And I apologize for canceling our scandalously early dinner plans."

"Sister Pullwater?" Cordelia calls back to the nun, waving her over. "Miss Baker is yours for the afternoon. Please ensure she receives lunch."

Cordelia places a quick hand on Annette's shoulder and squeezes it, careful that she conveys enough warmth that Annette feels supported, but not too much familiarity that the Sister might be suspicious. She tips her hat at the two of them and sighs, strolling off down the opposite side of the street. Annette turns quickly, beginning the short walk over to the cathedral nearby.

"I despise your hair," Pullwater chokes out. "You look like a man."

Annette runs a hand through her short hair, her neck cold from having to have her collar exposed. "I assure you, my breasts seem to prevent men from making the same accusation."

"What was the point in all of this if you were simply intending to act as a man regardless of your rebirth?" Pullwater complains, her hands waving accusingly. "Trying to keep your hair short, always playing in the dirt, sinning with every woman you meet... Why waste the Lord's gift like this?"

"I've not sinned in such a way with you, dear Sister," Annette quips back. "Unless you do not count under 'every woman?'"

"Feeling bold today, are we?"

"Feeling immune to your critiques," she shrugs.

"What a waste of my efforts," the nun grumbles and increases her walking pace slightly.

Annette furrows her brow, but keeps her voice calm and measured. "My happiness matters so little in your calculations?"

Pullwater scoffs. "How many souls do you believe meet the Lord in the next life and ask him the same question, only to be cast down below instead?"

"Enough to believe the Lord should devise a new strategy for measuring the work of men," Annette answers quickly.

"I didn't realize you possessed the infinite wisdom of the heavens, Miss Baker."

"Only on Tuesdays."

The nun frowns deeply. "It's Wednesday."

Annette puffs out a quick peal of laughter. She truly had thought it was Tuesday, and it seems that in her blissful state with Cordelia at home, she had entirely lost track of the correct date. She maintains her sarcasm, and replies, "Then I shall provide a more satisfactory answer next week."

They arrive at a small home built just beside St. Bartholomew's cathedral, set aside for the local clergy. It's comfortable and well-kept, with a small garden out front that Annette remembers helping tend to while she was growing up. Sister Pullwater leaves her at the door, passing along one final supportive smile that could be mistaken for a scowl. Annette takes a breath and steps inside.

She finds Simon sitting in a large recliner in the center of the cozy living room. Each wall is covered with large bookshelves and adorned with holy images and icons, perfectly situated as the library of a priest who loved to read as Father Thomas had. Simon sits motionless, with his palms gripping each arm of the chair and his face staring vacantly out into the room. Annette creeps into his field of view and remains standing.

"I've been told you wished to speak with me?" She asks quietly.

"Miss Baker," Simon greets, his voice containing a warmth that didn't meet his empty expression. "How are you?"

Annette returns a concerned smile. "How are you?"

"Quite well," he smiles.

She frowns, looking over his unsettled and frozen demeanor. "You seem... well."

"I've decided something recently that has helped tremendously," he chirps up, still hardly meeting her eye.

"Oh?"

Simon nods, speaking as though all of the answers in his life might be settled by this singular statement. "You are my problem."

"If that is what you have decided."

"No, think about it," he insists, clasping his hands together and placing them in his lap. "Before I met you, I felt quite prepared to endure great suffering for the sake of the Lord. I welcomed it." He drops his shoulders. "But then I met you, and everything inside feels rotten once more. You ruined me."

Annette purses her lips, looking away and hiding her full frustration. "Not the worst confession of love I've ever received," she quips.

"It isn't love," he growls.

"Forgive me if I feel relief upon hearing that."

Annette stares him down, trying to read through the scattered array of emotions on his face. He holds her gaze for a moment, meeting her determined position with an equal force, until he folds in on himself. He throws his head into his hands and groans.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he shakes his head. "I'm a priest now. I shouldn't be speaking this way." Simon lifts himself up, takes a shallow breath, and places another fake warmth into his expression. "What brings you here today?"

"... Your summons, father?"

Simon collapses in on himself immediately, dropping deep into the chair and letting his face fill with a look of grave horror. "I can't do this," he whispers, running his hands frightfully through his hair. "I can't do this."

"Then step aside."

"I can't do that either."

Annette folds her arms across her chest. "Send for a replacement priest."

"I mean that I cannot leave this place," Simon exhales a shaky breath. When he speaks, his voice is filled with the panic of a man who is building his own fortress around himself. "The priesthood is my only refuge. It is the only place I can be."

Annette swallows her frustration and forces herself to feel as much compassion for him as she can. She doesn't exactly succeed, so she settles for a functional pity instead. She takes a seat in the reading chair next to him and sits in silence for a long moment, coming to understand his meaning.

"You never told me his name," she says.

"Peter," he sighs weakly. "I recognize the irony."

"Irony?"

"Simon Peter, the disciple," he explains.

Annette nods. "What was he like?"

Simon shakes his head slowly and frantically. "Please don't ask me to think of him. Not now."

She pushes forward, gently repeating, "What was he like?"

He looks at her, testing her seriousness, and closes his eyes for a breath, almost as though recalling the image of Peter. "He was kind," Simon's voice fills with tender nostalgia and longing. "God, there's so few kind men in the world. He was gentle and quiet, and he loved nature. We used to take long walks by the river back home and talk for hours."

"What would you talk about?"

"Poetry," Simon sighs wishfully. "Philosophy. Why the ducks looked the way they did. Why a willow tree was so beautiful. Everything."

Annette smiles. "You seem calmer when you speak of him."

Simon leans over and glares at her, his eyes filled with fear and urgency. "I'm burning up, Miss Baker."

"Annette," she says quietly.

"I feel rabid," he leans back into the chair and stares at the ceiling. "It's like my mind has been bewitched. And it is all because of you."

"It isn't because of me," Annette replies calmly. "You know that."

Simon nods and closes his eyes. "I know."

"So why are you actually angry with me?"

"You are constantly running headfirst into sin, with little-to-no care about it whatsoever," he grumbles, "and it's working for you. The ground hasn't opened up to swallow you."

Annette laughs politely, sympathy filling her voice. "It doesn't tend to do that."

"But it should," he insists. "It's supposed to."

"Are you happy, Simon?"

"What does that matter? Sin brings nothing but ruin upon-,"

"I am," she interrupts the spiral she could tell he was about to descend down. "Happy, that is. Tremendously so."

"You shouldn't be," he whines.

"And yet I will be regardless," she shrugs peaceably. "Am I to believe the holy life is one where I live in misery for every day on this earth, only to possibly find happiness in the next life?"

Simon's voice fills with the tone of a man who has been in the church long enough he's forgotten how to answer in any other way. "The scriptures say God's presence brings unending joy."

"Then my heaven must include a woman's touch," she asserts, ignoring his scandalized glare. "I will never be happy without it, in this life or the next. Don't make yourself miserable."

Simon sighs once more and mulls over her words. Instead of replying, he reaches over to the small desk beside his chair and retrieves an envelope. "He wrote to me," he says weakly. "We haven't spoken in years but then he wrote to me. On the eve of Father Thomas' death, no less."

"Is this what has sent you spiraling?"

Simon nods slowly. "It's been years. What could he possibly say?"

"It seems you'll have to open it."

He frowns and shoves the letter towards her. "Would you?"

Annette takes a long breath and ponders the decision for a moment. But, as she sees the turmoil in his eyes and the conflict across his face, she feels moved to kindness. "Yes," she exhales. She takes the letter from him, opens it, and reads it aloud:

"Dear Simon,

'What stories could dare lift the branches of willows?

Call them friends, whoever cross twixt their curtains.

For a willow must only tell stories befitting the weight of ages;

Ages long forgotten and ages never lost.

Comrades who stand the trials and turmoils of time, and if their efforts,

demand to withstand the partition of days apart.

Brothers, friends, lovers all the same:

Who but a willow could measure their worth, and in so doing,

proclaim the undying love all things must carry?'

I met myself beneath a willow, and so too, met you on a day never forgotten, never past. I seem to recall you were afraid of nothing but the bees, and that I loved all I could see under and about the world so near to me. When conjuring the memory of your final day greeting me alongside Mother Willow, my heart can never decide if it is more convenient to sigh or to sorrow; and I've often indulged both. How wretched it is to miss a friend so dearly, how pitiful not to reconnect after so long, and in so doing, be made whole once more. You said once, on a day more beautiful than even this unique sun I write to you under, that I almost felt like a lost half to your soul, necessary to restore you to completeness.

Forgive me for indulging my verbose prose; I find my ego tragically and unexpectedly inflated since my first collection of poems has been brought into publication. Many of them were the ones I read and wrote to you, looking for your critique and often your praise; and while I am flattered by the warm reception of my work by the public, I find myself only truly interested in knowing whether my collection graces your bookshelf. Does it sit beside your tea in the morning? Are its pages well-loved and worn? Do you see it only in passing at a bookshop, afraid to open its stories as though your memories too might fly out of it?

I learned recently that you took refuge as a Deacon in Bellchester. I am jealous that you may spend your days devoted to the study of theology and philosophy. Perhaps, if you are ever in need of a practiced partner in discussion, you might think of this letter, and in so thinking, be moved to write back to your old friend. My business, on occasion, takes me past your new city of residence, and I would be overjoyed at the possibility of diverting my travel to visit you. Remember all that I told you beneath the willow, with the hope that such memories bring a smile to your kindly face and a brightness to your day.

Your eternal companion,

Peter"

Annette looks over to see Simon has removed his glasses, and he slowly wipes away a tear from the corner of his eye. He's silent, allowing the words to wash over him again and again as he replays it in his mind. Annette folds the letter carefully and returns it to him.

"Are you going to write back to him?" She asks softly.

"I shouldn't," he croaks back hoarsely.

"Yes, you should."

Simon shakes his head. "It wouldn't be good for me."

Annette sighs. "It isn't good for you or anyone to languish under the pain of your aching heart."

"I never knew he was... well, you know," Simon replies with a mournful remembrance in his voice. "Nor... we, we were the greatest of friends. We spent time out of every day speaking with one another. And then... we were sitting in our favorite place, the grand willow tree he writes of, hanging just over a grassy clearing at the riverbank. It was always so peaceful.

"Peter... he... he kissed me," he admits frightfully. "And I didn't prevent him from continuing. I left to follow God's calling and we haven't spoken since."

"You should write to him."

"What if he despises me?"

Annette avoids the urge to roll her eyes. "His letter is notably absent of resentment."

Simon presses deep into the chair, his head shaking once more. "I don't trust my unruly heart. The temptation... what if it is too great?"

Annette looks away, thinking about her own experiences with the sin Simon feared. She thinks about the warmth and sweetness of Cordelia, and the restoring comfort of her love.

"Do you know what temptation is?" She asks him after a few breaths. "It is revelation. It is an opportunity to seize upon what lies inside your soul and bear it forth, good or evil. It doesn't corrupt you. It unveils you."

"Then Peter would unveil my corruption," Simon concludes.

Annette presses on. "I am in love with a woman," she tells him. "And she with me."

"Annette-,"

"And do you know what this love has uncovered in me?" She pauses, feeling herself dwell on the image of Cordelia in her mind. "Joy. Peace. Kindness. Compassion. Her love brings out the goodness in me. Perhaps Peter might pull the goodness out of you."

"I am a priest now," he rebuts.

Annette snorts. "Some priests steal from their church. Some lie and cheat. Some assault their loved ones or the vulnerable. If the greatest sin you can uncover in yourself is being a kind and gentle lover to a man, you will be a greater priest than most. Write to Peter."

"I... I will think about it," he says simply, his tone a little more secure and resolved. "Thank you," he adds after a hasty breath.

"The ground will not swallow you up, Simon," Annette affirms. "But your aching heart will, if left untreated. Be... be open to him."

Simon smiles weakly. "It seems your wit is not restrained simply to humor or disobedience."

"Write to him," she pushes one final time.

"I will," he nods. "Thank you."

With his confirmation, Annette rises to her feet. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezes it, then exits the house. Outside, Sister Pullwater awaits by the gate to the garden, pacing with great tension and an expectant anxiety.

"He will recover," Annette tells her, moving to lean her hips back against the short fence.

"He will remain?"

"I believe so."

The Sister pauses from her pacing and looks at her, thankful. "Then it seems I owe you my gratitude. Perhaps there remains something other than sin in your heart."

Annette smirks. "Oh, there's plenty of that in there as well."

"Annette..."

"Sister, I am happy," Annette exhales, letting her shoulders drop and embrace the cool air. "I ask only that you place some value in this quality in me, and trust that if humans are to be judged by their actions, there are far too many evil men to be concerned with before me."

Pullwater looks as though she wishes to protest, but she relents, saying instead, "I should have known you would have turned out this way." She gives a frail and kind smile, the sort of a parent who is beginning to accept their child might not be what they expected, and that this might not end the world. "There never was a cure for headstrong."

"I am becoming a woman I am proud of," she takes Pullwater's wrinkled hand into her palm, squeezing it warmly and gently. "I hope you can find it in yourself to feel the same."

The sister smiles and places her other hand to Annette's cheek, holding it there for a moment and looking at her with something that could almost be perceived as fondness. She lowers her hand, and for a brief, unexpected moment Annette almost wishes it would remain, appreciating the comfort of such a motherly gesture.

"Do you wish to see Judith?" Pullwater asks a moment later.

"I do."

"Might I make a request of you, dear child?" Her voice croaks. Annette waits for a moment, then nods. "I find that despite your constant tomfoolery... I miss seeing you grace my doorstep. I am not so hard-hearted not to think of you as my daughter."

Annette continues holding Pullwater's hand, running a thumb over it thoughtfully. "Will I be subjected to lecture and judgment on each visit?"

To Annette's surprise, Pullwater returns a kindly and mischievous grin. "Only on special occasion."

"I will join you for tea," Annette negotiates. "Once a month."

"Could you be convinced for twice?"

Annette looks away and smiles with a polite resignation. A feeling of bemused agreement and hope for something better between them presses forward inside her. "Twice a month," she agrees.

- - -

Annette sits across from Judith in Sister Pullwater's office, alone, and feels strange to be seated in the Sister's chair. She was so used to being in Judith's position on the bench, and it feels a little alien and unnatural to sit in the place of honor, the place of correction. Judith watches her carefully, holding herself in a careful and polished posture. Her hair has grown out a little, and she wears the simple dress that all of the girls in the orphanage were given.

"Miss Baker," her voice squeaks politely as they settle in. Her tone is far more formal than before, and Annette swears she's even added a twinge of the accent more commonly heard from nobility.

"Miss Judith," she bows her head warmly.

"It's actually Miss Velore," Judith smiles. "That's my surname."

"Of course, Miss Velore," Annette bows once again. "It's lovely to see you again. I'm sorry that I was unable to attend your baptism."

"That's quite alright," she replies, careful to enunciate each syllable correctly. She looks as though prepared for a formal tea party, and Annette knew that Pullwater must be working diligently to train her femininity as quickly as possible. "Sister Pullwater said you were called away on important business." Her eyes peek up towards Annette's hair, and her formality drops ever-so-slightly. "I didn't know women could cut their hair so short."

"It isn't a popular notion," Annette admits. "Though, I suppose I'm not concerned with popularity very much. How have the others been treating you?"

"Very well," she answers quickly.

Annette furrows her brow softly. "Do they actually?'

Judith looks away and holds her breath. "Sister Pullwater tells me I'll need to learn to endure," she sighs. "That a true mark of a strong woman is to suffer hardship gracefully and patiently."

"There are other paths towards womanhood," Annette says as a gentle challenge.

"I didn't know that."

"One of the strongest women I know wears trousers and boxes with men," Annette smiles. "Sister Pullwater will teach you to survive," she adds after a breath. "She will likely save your life in the process, and you should be grateful for that. But survival is not all that life must be."

Judith nods slowly, and it seems as though her guard lowers. "The other kids only tease me because of what Sister Minerva says."