Baker and Jones Pt. 02 Ch. 03

Chapter Three - Annette

Living with Detective Cordelia Jones is not the easiest thing, and Annette is sure to attest to this fact. Loving her provides additional complications, at least in regards to the level of eccentricity one experiences, but one can be sure it's a wholly unique lifestyle. In the roughly three-quarters of a year she's known Cordelia she's come to know her quite well; and with three of those months involving waking up beside her... well, some mornings she can just tell it is one of those days.

"What do you mean they moved?" Annette scowls at her, taking a bite of her breakfast. She opted simply for oatmeal this morning, with a little cinnamon and honey. Cordelia, on the other hand, insisted on toast with jam and eggs, her usual.

"They were in a different location than when I saw them last," her detective answers simply, as though it is obvious.

It isn't unusual for Annette to rouse from bed to find herself alone amongst the sheets. She's a heavier sleeper than Cordelia and doesn't often shuffle awake at her leaving, and Cordelia is a fabulously poor sleeper. Some mornings, the indentation of the detective's form is still clear, holding on to a residual warmth - and on those mornings, Annette will often cuddle up into it and enjoy the feeling. Most occasions, however, the spot has long since gone cold.

It is slightly less common for Cordelia to be spouting nonsense so early.

"I'm aware of the literal meaning," Annette replies after another bite, chewing it slowly to summon forth her patience. "You've never been to Kereland, when could you possibly have seen the woods outside of Fieldston last?"

"From the train."

"From the train," she hangs the words into the air, hoping Cordelia will deduce how ridiculous it sounds. "From the train... in the dark." A steadying breath. "And then, when you saw another forest later, you concluded the entire woods had moved."

"It did."

"It's a different woods!"

Cordelia snorts, incredulous. "Preposterous."

Annette chuckles nervously to herself, glancing down at her oatmeal and gazing over its contents. She locates a particularly honey-filled quadrant and brings her spoon to excavate it. "I can no longer tell if you're joking, but I chose to believe you're not presently serious." She glances at the clock. "At any rate, Mrs. Drayburh should be here shortly. You ought to spend your time eating instead of hypothesizing the teleportation of wildlands."

Mercifully, Cordelia seems content to let the point rest. Or rather, as is more likely, would wait to gather more evidence before presenting such a theory to Annette again.

Annette watches her and feels her body settle slightly. Even just the sight of Cordelia is comforting, taking in her motions and her expressions - the nearly constantly raised eyebrow, perpetually prepared to ask a question of the world around her; her thick and smooth skin which is so warm to the touch; the beautiful raven-black locks of hair that fall in loose curls around her head, tucked carefully behind her ears so they can't tickle her face.

Cordelia seems less settled. She takes a bite of her toast and makes a sour expression. "The bread tastes different than it ought to."

"Give it a day, you'll adjust," Annette replies, undeterred from the responsibility of making sure she eats.

The detective makes a pouting expression and suffers through another bite, evidently resolving herself to finish as much as her stubborn constitution will allow. Annette is sure she's having a raging debate in her mind of the differences in flavor profile for yeast in places outside Bellchester, curiously and scrupulously challenging her own assumptions of what bread ought to taste like.

Or, at least Annette hopes so.

Patty Drayburh arrives at the door while they're still at the table, and Cordelia has forced herself through eating at least half of the breakfast Annette has made for her. Progress.

"How did you find your lodgings, Miss Jones?" She asks, holding her heavy hands at her diaphragm. Annette briefly shudders at the mistake of asking Cordelia a question that requires opinion while she's in this sort of mood.

True to form, her detective replies, "Functional. Though the upstairs bathroom has quite a draft-," Annette gives her a look and Cordelia quickly adjusts course. "Quite lovely, indeed. Ahem, I enjoy a draft."

Whether or not Mrs. Drayburh believes her is lost behind the Emrishwoman's frigid scowl.

Well, we're not here to make any friends. Off to a great start.

The carriage ride across the hills to the Cunninghill home is quiet, adorned only by the shuddering of the lacquered wood and the clomping of horses' hooves. Cordelia keeps her head affixed to the window, gazing out across town and surely building a mental map of it even from a distance.

The Cunninghill estate, unaffectionately nicknamed Hill Castle by the local Kerish, sits at the crest of a large mound overlooking the city below. Its front gate opens to a winding path down into Fieldston, whilst most of its land descends down the backside of the hill and off into the surrounding country.

The Drayburhs deposit them at the front door, bidding a disinterested farewell and muttering something about spending their morning reading and cleaning at home, available should their services be required any further. Annette doesn't expect to come calling on them anytime soon.

Hill Castle, despite looking down on the town with an imposing view, is a relatively unremarkable estate - not nearly matching either the size or grandeur of some of the nobility in Bellchester. It looks positively modest compared to Lamishton, the Winchester Estate where Annette -

She shoves the thought aside with a tightness in her chest.

The servant girl who greets them at the door is Kerish, perhaps only a year or two younger than Annette. Around her throat is a stiff leather collar.

When she sees Annette, the servant's eyes flick down to her neck instantly, soberly glancing over her matching band. From there, she returns her gaze back up, a hint of sympathy tucked away behind a demure, servile neutrality.

"Good morning," she inclines her head, voice ringing out in the famed Kerish accent, soft and light and forming words in a pleasingly distinct dialect. It's folkish and casual, and Annette likes it instantly. As she rises, her focus is entirely on Cordelia, careful to ensure she receives the proper attention due to the owner of a collar. "How might I be of service?"

Annette looks at Cordelia, who has just as carefully read the microexpressions of disdain for their dynamic, and sees that she's once again been served a reminder of the difference of their social status. She knows Cordelia hates it - knows that it makes her feel controlling and tyrannical and a host of wretched emotions that will surely set her spiraling.

So she steps forth, hands respectfully tucked behind her back. "Detective Jones and Miss Baker, here at the request of Mr. Cunninghill."

The servant's polite demeanor cracks just enough for her to cock her head, glance over the tall, dark-haired woman before her and ask, "Detective?"

A woman? Annette is sure that is the surprise that's just played through her mind. It was a challenging enough idea in the urban Bellchester - surely it was even less conceivable in the countryside.

"Bluebells or Campions?" Cordelia asks in response, dropping her hands into her pockets and allowing her brows to drop seriously.

"I... I'm not sure I follow your meaning, Miss."

"Both are in season," her detective charges on, "and I've noticed dirt under your fingernails. You seem a rather tidy sort of person, with a well-manicured appearance, Miss..."

"O'Hinnley," the servant offers. "Susie O' Hinnley."

"O'Hinnley," Cordelia completes. "I'd not expect you to neglect care for your nails as part of your thorough hygiene, thus, gardening must have been part of your morning duties. You've changed clothes since then from the mess the dirt caused, but you've yet to polish your nails." She takes a satisfied breath, strutting along with satisfaction at her powers of deduction. Annette finds it endearing. "Both flowers are in season, and thus, I'm curious if you were tending to Bluebells or Campions."

Susie holds out her hands for her own inspection, then glances back up at Cordelia, wearing an expression between amusement and awe. "Campion, Miss. Very observant you are." She steps to the side and extends an arm beyond the threshold, gesturing within. "Mr. Cunninghill is just this way."

The interior of the estate is more impressive than the exterior, full of imported furniture from the colonies - heavy dark oak, colorful tapestries, and ornate rugs. Susie leads them beyond the foyer and past the greeting room, depositing the two of them in the dining room of the home. A lone woman sits at a table with space enough for twenty others to sit. She's not at the head chair, electing instead to sit deferentially at the right hand, and with such a massive table she seems rather small.

"Ma'am, the detective that Mr. Cunningill requested, and her servant," Susie announces. She bows, and with a flick of a hand the woman dismisses her.

"Thank you, Susie," is all she says, her voice frail. Her arms are narrow and boney, her hair wiry and just beginning to gray. Annette had never found proper use of the word waif until she'd met Mrs. Cunninghill, but that is how she appeared - reserved, sickly, neglected, and hollow. Turning to the two new guests, she croaks out, "Mr. Cunninghill should be down in a moment."

Silence hangs in the air, oppressive.

Annette finds herself unable to bear it and attempts, "You have a very lovely home, Ma'am."

The woman simply nods in affirmation, shakily taking a sip of her tea. Cordelia considers her carefully, leaving Annette curious to know what conclusions she must be drawing about the source of her frailty. Illness? Grief?

The wait continues and Cordelia grows bored quickly. Without much care for decorum, she begins ambling around the room, inspecting the various pieces of trophies from abroad. Regardless of perceived value she has no issue picking items up, turning them about in her hands, and making a curious noise in her throat as she replaces them carefully.

Annette feels mildly embarrassed as Cordelia snoops through their items, though Mrs. Cunninghill doesn't seem to even register the actions. She remains fixed upon her tea and the silence of the space. Annette can't help but pity her, though she isn't quite sure why.

Boots thumping down the staircase alerts them to the lord of the house's arrival. They sound out metrically, purposefully, and soon Mr. Cunninghill fills the room with a newfound energy and life.

He's a tall man, encroaching well over six feet, and his form sits comfortably between slender and muscular. He wears his form proudly and easily, seeming more at home in his body than Annette knew a person to be. He's Emrish, with the characteristic brown hair coiffed into a fashionable cut, with a set jawline and dashing smile.

Despite not being inclined in any way towards the appeal of men, Annette begrudgingly concedes that he would be well regarded as a highly attractive specimen.

"Detective Jones, a pleasure to meet you in the flesh. I've heard the most remarkable things about your work," he greets warmly, even going so far as to stridently cross the room and shake her hand. His voice is a smooth tenor, with the cadence of a man who likely could sing, and sing rather well. "Algers Cunninghill, in the flesh."

His brilliant blue-green eyes find Annette. "And you've procured one of the locals for assistance, wonderful."

Annette loses the battle not to frown. "I'm not-,"

This time it is Cordelia's turn to politely diffuse the outburst. "I've brought her with me from Bellchester, actually. She's a valued partner in my work."

Algers pats a sporting palm on Cordelia's shoulder, much in the way a man might greet a comrade, and pronounces, "Well, with luck she's not inherited any of those pesky Kerish idiosyncrasies, then. Nature or nurture, eh?"

Annette frowns deeper.

"Neither," Cordela says, a little sourly.

"Pardon?"

She decides not to press the issue. "How might I be of assistance, Mr. Cunninghill? I'm eager to learn more than your letter detailed."

"Lord," he corrects, clearing his throat and never giving up his perpetual grin. "Lord Cunninghill, not that I'm particularly attached to such things. Simply important for a detective to be precise, don't you agree?" Cunninghill glances over at his wife, who returns a weak smile, and returns his attention to Cordelia. "Now, a turn about the garden while we talk, perhaps?"

Cordelia nods, and so Annette follows the two of them out from the dining room and towards the hallway, only for the Lord of the house to suddenly turn and face her. "Nothing further required from you, Miss," he dismisses, eyes holding fast on her collar rather than her eyes. "Perhaps you could join Susie in her duties for the time being?"

"She is my assistant," Cordelia insists. A pause holds over them, and Algers blinks innocently, causing the detective to sigh and add, "She takes notes for me. I'll need her to join."

Algers doesn't abandon his chipper attitude as he observes, "She hasn't got a notebook," pointing an accusing finger down at her empty hands.

"I've an excellent memory, my Lord," Annette attempts. "I take the notes down onto paper at a later time."

Cunninghill doesn't seem to like it, but for the moment he acquiesces to including Annette in their trip outdoors. Despite the gloomy day, ripe for rain at any possible moment, Algers strides out comfortably in his trousers and button-down shirt, leaving the sleeves rolled up to his elbows much in the way of an athlete.

The gardens extend only a little past the house, filled with a variety of flowers from breeds Annette would never be able to name. Cordelia watches them thoughtfully, likely categorizing them into various groups based on species simply for the sporting fun of it.

Beyond the gardens, the property opens out into acres and acres of vibrant, mossy green hills, rolling into mounds like waves in the ocean. A wooden fence stretches farther than Annette can see, enclosing the space for the hundreds upon hundreds of sheep grazing throughout the area. She notices a pair of sheepdogs nipping the heels of the shaggy creatures, guided by a singular shepard ambling slowly behind them.

"Do you have an affinity for sheep, Detective Jones?" Algers asks, resting his palms onto his hips and exhaling out over his property, resolutely content in its idyllic expanse.

"It seems you do."

"They're wonderful livestock. This breed? Wensleydales. The wool upon them is unmatched in either volume or quality," he announces proudly. Annette had never known a Lord to care much for something like the upkeep of his land, but she notices him begin inspecting some of the cords tying the fence posts together and ensuring they were still holding from the seasons. He then kicks a boot up onto one of the cross beams and rests his palms casually over the top post, leaning on it comfortably.

Annette watches over the land along with the two of them, remaining a few steps behind Algers to avoid receiving any more of his attention. The land around Fieldston stretches out into rolling pasturelands as far as she can see, expanding across the whole of the northern view. South of the home is Fieldston, with its dozen streets and populace somewhere in the range of two or three thousand. To the east are more pastures and farmland and the railroad pointing to the coastline facing Emril. To the west are unremarkable, meager woods within a half-hours walk of the town, and a strange, boggy-looking set of mounds beyond them.

"Any any rate," Algers continues, shifting his focus from the livestock to Cordelia, "I'm sure you're eager to hear the details of the case-,"

"Would you say those woods are in their usual position?" Cordelia asks, pointing to the west.

He pauses, tilting his head in confusion. "I... erm... I suppose so, yes."

"Same as the day before?"

Cunninghill now looks over to Annette, who can only offer him a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders and an expression that reveals her to be just as confused as he is. He considers Cordelia for a moment, possibly trying to ascertain her meaning, but he eventually returns to his usual grin and answers, "Yes, Detective Jones. Same as the day before, and the one before that."

He waits for a moment to ensure Cordelia is satisfied with the answer. Seeing no further reply, he continues. "Now - the case. As you may have noticed, Fieldston is a place bursting with promise; pasturelands more beautiful than any poet could profess to. We've been cultivating it into some of the most envied countryside in all of Kereland. But we've met a..." A pause. "Well, there's an unfortunate obstacle to our progress."

"The Coven," Cordelia supplies.

"Witches. Devil-women. They're comprised of the locals, and..." At this his eyes latch onto Annette once more, scanning over her red hair, her freckles, and resting finally upon her leather collar. His back straightens and he drops his boot back to the ground, stepping away from the fence to face Cordelia. He sighs. "Detective Jones, I should like what I say to be for your ears only."

"My assistant is indispensable-,"

"I'm afraid I must insist."

Cordelia looks ready to hold her ground, refusing to budge even an inch for the man. Annette, on the other hand, is less inclined towards provoking his particular ire while living in a home he owns, and relents. She bows her head to Cordelia, gives her a look that says it's alright, and departs to leave them to talk, resolved that she'll hear it all from her detective later today anyway.

- - -

As far as Annette is concerned, peeling potatoes feels a bit too on the nose. She's been in Kereland for just over a full day, and somehow she's already been delegated to the task of potatoes. To be sure, she's also peeling carrots and dicing the occasional onion for the service of the kitchen - but the potatoes feel personal.

Susie O' Hinnley has plopped down on the stool beside her, wielding her peeler with an expert care, clearing rehearsed in the artform. The woman spiralizes each spud, taking great pride in disrobing it in a singular, springly peel. Annette is far less gracious with it, lopping off chunks as needed. She struggles briefly, not used to performing the task in the volume of crop needed to feed an entire estate for dinner, but soon she's found a functional rhythm.

So she sits in the pantry, trying to feel the importance of having returned to the country where she was born and orphaned so many years ago, and wonders if this is all she ought to expect from it.

"Are there many handsome sailors in Bellchester?"

Annette perks up, looking over at Susie with a mild surprise. The servant hasn't even looked up from her work, evidently deciding it would be more enjoyable with conversation. "A few, I suppose."

"But it's on the water," Susie insists. "I'd expect there'd be heaps of 'em."

Annette shrugs and tosses another lump of peel into the growing pile at her feet. "Not quite on the coast. Just a large river with access."

"I've never met a sailor, but I'm told they're mighty fine to look at," says the woman beside her. She glances up, brandishing a perfect, peeled spring with pride. "I'm going to marry one someday," she declares.

Ah. Boy talk.

There's worse things to discuss, as far as Annette is concerned, though only a few. She'd taken to avoiding the subject altogether given her situation - better not provoke the inevitable inquiries into her own romantic life.