Baker and Jones Pt. 02 Ch. 02

You need a drink.

She pushes that thought aside as quickly and frantically as possible.

"You're dripping wet," Mrs. Drayburh observes.

Cordelia snaps. "You made us-,"

"We look forward to warming by a hearth," Annette interrupts politely, kicking her boot against Cordelia's to silence her. A brief flare of Cordelia's temper ignites at her companion, only to be tempered by the resolve not to be angry with Annette, particularly when she is doing her a favor. "It's been a long journey."

Annette glares at Cordelia, nodding at Mrs. Drayburh and demanding Cordelia apologize for her outburst. The best the detective can manage is a grumbling, "Long indeed."

A few minutes of silence overtakes the carriage, until Mrs. Drayburh - Cordelia finally remembers her first name is Patty - declares, "I am sure Mr. Cunninghill can put the full details into your hands, Detective, but this madness needs to stop." She crosses her arms over her chest and makes a noise like, hmpfh.

"Madness?" Annette asks.

"Witches and the rest," Patty sours. "Foul devil-worshippers."

Annette gives Cordelia an excited look which says something to the effect of, You didn't tell me this case involved witches. Fun.

Cordelia had not wanted to spoil the surprise. Unable to match Annette's enthusiasm at the moment, she turns her focus back to Mrs. Drayburh.

Firm brow. Stern tone. Gloomy demeanor.

Daughter doesn't write anymore.

Likely that she and her husband hardly speak to one another, either.

You are, perhaps, biased, a little voice challenges, which she rejects.

"Here we are," Mrs. Drayburh coughs out after a while, the carriage rustling to a stop. "Old Billie Lane."

Outside is a dimly lit two-story house, up in the hills outside of town. It looks just at the beginning of disrepair, the paint chipping and the gate creaking in the wind, while the fields around it have long since been neglected.

The Drayburhs have had the foresight to light some lanterns in the home for them, and the chimney puffs out smoke that promises a warm and welcoming hearth.

It'll do.

"Mr. Cunninghill was soon to remove this home and turn it into a pasture, but he recommended it for your use while in town," Mrs. Drayburh supplies as they shuffle their items through the threshold. Gerald Drayburh seems less inclined towards people than even Cordelia and remains seated on the carriage in the rain. "Gerald and I live just over the hill that way," she jabs her finger behind her, "and Mr. Cunninghill has directed us to provide for whatever you may need."

"Thank you, Mrs. Drayburh, truly," Annette inclines her head.

Patty makes an approving grunt. "We'll be by to ride you over to him in the morning. Ten-o'-clock sharp."

"A ride?"

Twenty-five minute walk.

"Half hour's walk to town," Drayburh explains. She shoves a hand into her pocket and holds it out to Cordelia. "Here's the key."

Left handed. Not wearing a ring. Too small for her boney knuckles.

Gross wrinkles.

After Patty Drayburh finally leaves, Cordelia exhales and announces, "I hope never to be an old woman. It seems dreadful."

"I always suspected you'd die in a gunfight," Annette places a hand on the small of her back. Cordelia gives her a look, and she adds, "Joking, dear. Now, to the fire, please."

Cordelia elects instead to take a warm bath. Better to fix the issue of temperature of her body first before dryness - solving both at once has occasionally proven to further disrupt her own internal sense of peace, a sort of inconsistency that aggravates her.

Her mind, through the entire bath, races across a wide range of topics, unable to settle upon any of them for a meaningful duration of time.

Annette ought not to wear the collar anymore -

I hope Samantha is settling in comfortably in our home, and does not feel too awkward about the fact-              

You're a monster.

Magic, a construct of legend, mythology, foolishness, and misunderstood application of scientific-

You and her ought to be equals, but she has a collar around her neck and everyone knows you own the key-

Kereland is not precisely what you expected, and it almost feels as though it should be more foreign in appearance-

You are hiding the letter from her. She deserves to know-

Even after exiting the bath, drying off appropriately, changing into warm, clean clothes, and having a cup of soothing tea, Cordelia cannot sleep. Her mind doesn't allow her to indulge the need, and it grows frustrating how quickly Annette was able to succumb to it.

For a while, she simply watches her woman, glittering inside at each breath that sustains Annette. Little little puffs of breath which are not quite her snoring, though she has done so on occasion. Annette's face infrequently twitches, or her nose scrunches up. And then she turns onto her side, facing away from Cordelia, and suddenly the Detective feels quite alone.

She rises from the bed and departs to the porch. The rain has stopped for the present moment - sometime past midnight - and through the gaps of clouds she can see starlight.

Cordelia throws on her boots and wanders out into the fields around Old Billie Lane, gazing down upon Fieldston from their vantage point over it. Then, she finds a nice, relatively dry rock to sit upon and watch the rolling hills sit silently in the night. She tries to feel peaceful, tries not to let her mind race, tries not to explore the house and see if any liquor has been left behind, tries not to-

The woods have moved.

The Sixth Reply - Eleven Years Prior

To Sonia, of distinguished penmanship,

I agree wholeheartedly, though I believe you will find my minor amendment to your statement to add some fascinating complexity to the issue. While I do not, in any way, contest the assertion that Heinrich von Luthhollen is amongst the most distinguished champions of the sonnet, it is not his command of the rhymes which give him the title. His mastery of the rhythmic scheme is undisputable, to be sure, but I am of the opinion that it is his attention to detail between the lines which set him apart entirely.

Take, for example, his great work, "Upon the banks of yon river Gloom," where he establishes a parallel to the dropping waterline and the loss of his wife. His morbid obsession with the scattered pebbles, the waterlogged branches, and so forth, is indistinguishable from his anguish and grief - the maggots eroding her body, the loss of color in her skin. Such things astound me in their import, and I also conceive of myself as one who notices the world with as much fixation on detail; perhaps, this biases my appreciation for his work.

Likewise, I feel overwrought to imagine what it would be to lose a wife. Should I have a husband, I suspect I would be upset at his passing, properly mourn him and so on; but if I were husband to a wife, and lost her from this world, I sorely doubt I should ever recover from such a thing. I wonder if you, too, feel this way?

Regardless, I must say that after your second or third letter, I've felt quite useless as an instructor to guide your practice in this language. You have taken to it astoundingly quickly and I must believe you to be a savant in the study of foreign tongues. A thousand commendations from me; though, if I may be so forthright, I hope you continue in your training, if not for the furthering of your development as a writer of Emrish, but so that I may maintain you as a companion over letter. I have found your insights, your musings, your perception to be highly fascinating, and I would be greatly honored to consider you a friend, even if only over parchment.

Humbled and with great reverence,

Cordelia