Baker and Jones Pt. 02 Ch. 03

But it's that, or sitting in silence.

"He'd be gone half the year," Annette counters.

"I'll marry another one who's gone the other half." Susie's face cracks into a mischievous grin. Annette decides she likes Susie.

The servant woman, when not relegated to her second-class status, has a rambunctious energy to her, despite her otherwise innocent-seeming demeanor. She abandons her poise and her complaisance, sitting onto her stool with legs spread wide, back hunched over, and her curly red hair tied up into a ragged bow. She yanks up the sleeves of her dress and talks with a boisterous enthusiasm, develing even deeper and deeper into the accent of the region.

She lifts her head up to Annette with a knavish glee. "Say, what's the hardest part of an Emrish farmer's wife and cow giving birth on the same day?"

"What?"

Susie leans forth. "Tellin' which is which."

She hollers, kicking back in her stool delightedly as Annette puffs out a laugh that grows louder and louder the longer Susie's cackles sound out. A small part of her resists the urge to be mildly irked, especially considering she's entangled with an Emrishwoman herself.

But another part of Annette feels something special. Susie doesn't see her as Emrish, despite the lack of a Kerish accent. Neither does she see Kerish as synonymous with scoundrel or vagabond the way many in Bellchester did. No, instead she offers Annette the camaraderie of identity, something she's scarcely felt before.

Kerish meaning Kerish. Nothing more, nothing less. Not rogue, not trickster, not lazy, self-entitled, dirty, or fetish. Just... Kerish.

So Annette gives herself into laughter and allows it to tend to that stinging feeling inside that she'd apparently grown used to.

"I've got another," Susie resets, heaving out her last heavy breath and steadying herself for the next joke. "What's the first thing an Emrish man says after rescuing his tenant from a house fire?"

"Hm?"

She jabs a finger over her shoulder and puts on a mockery of an Emrish accent, formal and ridiculous. "The rent wasn't in the fire, was it?" Then she cackles triumphantly once more, adding, "And he's just as likely to throw em' back into the fire once he learns they've not got it!"

They giggle together as they work through the pile of vegetables to prepare, chatting and joking and enjoying making the chore less tedious than it otherwise would have been. Annette would still rather be assisting her detective in the case, eager to finally hear more about this coven at hand, but supposes that there are worse ways to spend time than chatting with Susie.

"Have you got a man waiting at home, Annie?" Susie asks, now standing beside her at the cutting board with a pile of diced onions under her knife. She bumps her hips into Annette's. "Handsome sailor, perhaps?"

A quick deflection. "With only Emrishmen to choose from?"

Susie snorts approvingly. "That's a fair point." She leans in close to deviously whisper, "I'd rather kiss the barnacles on the boat." Another rousing laugh before she calms back into her work. "So, you've never been to Kereland?"

"Not since I was very little."

"Hopefully it's not too dreary for you."

Annette sets her knife down. "Dreary?"

"Since the Hunger," Susie replies as matter of fact. She shrugs and doesn't look up from her work, a little shadow descending across her face. "Ma' says we've not nearly the same liveliness after all that. I like it here, though I guess I never knew life before."

Annette had heard of the Kerish Famine her whole life. Most people insisted that it must've been the reason she was brought over to Emril as just a little girl, though it never really made sense to Annette why that would be. The Famine ended at least a decade before she was born, so it can't have been the reason.

But then again, its scar on Kereland is evident, even from the initial exposure Annette has had. Seabrook, Fieldston, even the surrounding country all seem... emptier than they ought to be. Abandoned houses dot the countryside, even some in town proper. The streets feel far less active than Bellchester, and not just because Fieldston was leagues smaller.

Unsure of how to respond, Annette simply acknowledges, "There's a lot of empty houses here." She briefly thinks of her time living on the streets in Bellchester, considering how much easier it would be if there had just been a few abandoned houses to squat in.

"Not for lack of people," Susie returns. "The homes have all been snapped up by the landies, but no one can afford to rent 'em." The woman sounds a little defeated as she adds, "They'll all be pasture lands soon enough."

Annette begins to sound out a reply, though isn't quite sure what to say, when a knock on the door halts her. Cordelia pokes her head into the room and beams at her, bubbling with excitement.

"Miss Baker? We've got our first lead."

Happy to see her, and enthusiastic to get on the case, Annette rises quickly and bids Susie farewell, thanking her for the conversation.

"See you around, Annie Baker," Susie smiles, though it fades just a little as she exhales and returns to her chores.

- - -

Annette's first look around town proper isn't an impressive one. Fieldston is more active now that the early afternoon has arrived, sporting a few dozen people mulling about its main avenue, lined with a variety of brick-and-mortar storefronts and scattered townhouses. It has something approaching a proper downtown, though its main road - aptly and unimaginatively named Main Street - is the only stone path, with lumping cobblestones cemented together.

It's strange to be in a place where most people shuffling about look like her. In Bellchester, if another Kerish woman and her happened to bump into one another in a market, most vendors would assume they were related somehow. Here, it's the Emrish who form the minority - though it seems to be an established, profitable minority if wardrobe is to be believed.

Cordelia struts along with purpose, letting the tails of her overcoat flick and snap in the fluttering wind. Her hair seems to bother her less, hopefully suggesting she's feeling more settled within herself.

And it's revitalizing, matching the detective's stride. Beside Cordelia, Annette feels capable of nearly anything, feels as though she's a person of esteem and significance to the world. That, more than anything, is what Cordelia gives her - a sense of meaning, of drive.

The sex is quite good, too.

Annette need not settle for survival, not when adventure could lie within her grasp.

She'd grown up a reader, adored all the lessons taught to her by the Sisters, though she'd hated that most of the material she was offered involved the scriptures. As soon as she was old enough to work odd jobs for spare coins, or pilfer a few from an unsuspecting target, Annette was buying books.

Books about adventure. Books about the world. Books about brave heroes and daring conquests. Better still was the day she learned of the far less popular works, scandalously brandishing women as adventurers themselves. The Ballad of Lady Heartshall, Captain Calaviere, The March of St. Masie in Winter, these lifelines sustained a brooding young child trying her best to become a woman.

In one ear, Sister Pullwater scrutinized her every manner, every word.

In the other, Lady Heartshall was preparing to slay the vile Duke Tybalt.

Somewhere between the two formed Annette.

Cordelia may as well have been a character pulled from the pages of a novel - a stern and strong woman, unafraid of the chastisement of men or society, dedicated to mystery as something of an artform. And Cordelia had looked upon Annette, frantic and struggling to survive, and saw within her nothing but potential.

An equal. Someone who could keep up with her.

Partners.

So it had been an easy choice for Annette to strap her collar back around her neck and cross over to Kereland - it was even her idea. Her detective had once taught her that to be what people expected, to be what they wanted to see you as, could be a power in of itself - lulling them into a fall sense of complacency around her. No one need expect anything of Annette, not when Cordelia knew her true tenacity.

Annette's fond reflection is interrupted by a commotion in the center square. It's hardly much of a plaza at all, just a cobblestone floor and open space for market stalls.

A woman with wild hair and frenzied eyes shouts at the top of her lungs, clearing a wide circle around her. Most peddlers and farmers only pay her a half-moment's mind before shrugging and returning to their days, despite the hysteria that follows her.

"-and I was flying!" She screeches, gyrating her hips and throwing her hands into the air for effect. "Lashing through the night's canvas like Satan had plucked me from the Earth himself." She drops down into a squat, forming claws of her hands. "And I saw screaming beasts of the night, gnawing and gnashing their teeth, ready to devou-,"

A man in an Abbot's smock kindly approaches, arms outstretched to try pacifying her. "Miss Clowers, do you need somewhere to sleep tonight? A warm meal, perhaps?"

She leaps at him, stopping just before his face and chomping her teeth in the empty space between them. "I need protection from the night-creatures, beasts with hundreds of eyes, claws sharper than-,"

"The Abbey is more than capable of keeping them out," he placates. "Why don't you come with me?"

For the moment, her fury abates, and the mad-woman allows him to wrap and arm around her shoulders and lead her to the church at the near end of the square.

Annette cants her head back to Cordelia and whispers, "Not your lead, I hope?"

Her detective raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I intend to double back and speak with that one. Flying? Night beasts? Seems rather witchly to me."

"You don't believe anything truly occult is occurring, do you?"

Cordelia makes an amused noise in her throat. "If it appears to be magic, there's likely something explainable plus deception." She puffs out her chest as she marches on and proudly declares, "I'm a woman of science."

At that, she makes a sharp turn onto an avenue that juts off to the west. It leaves behind the cobbled stones of mainstreet and gives away to a packed dirt path full of pockets and puddles of water.

"Now, care to finally bring me up to-,"

Crash!

"Out! Out!"

A man in a bespoke suit tumbles out of a door and rolls across the ground, one of his boots landing flat into a sloshing pothole. Annette's eyes quickly dart towards the origin of his fall and spots a burly, uncharitable-looking woman in a heavy baker's apron. She shakes out her forearms and tucks them across her chest, standing menacingly in the doorframe.

The Emrishman in the dirt and mud stammers over himself, aghast. "I have money! I'm trying to spend it-,"

"Filthy Emrish money," the woman accuses, accent thick and full of vitriol. "I'll have none of it."

He scrambles up to his feet, giving a half-hearted attempt to clean off his suit before abandoning the effort as fruitless. His lip curls condescendingly. "You're acting positively uncivilized-"

Crack!

"And I'll be more so unless ya' tuck your tail between your legs and scurry off."

He recoils back as the woman's palm hangs in the air, letting the force of her smack ring out. For a long moment it seems like the man won't be able to remain on his feet - his fear wins out, however, and with a muttered curse under his breath he charges away, fleeing down the block.

Annette smiles up at Cordelia as the woman lumbers back into her shop. "A woman after your own heart. Your lead?"

"Indeed," she affirms, undeterred in her march into the shop. Annette follows her, entering the bakery and delighting in the warm embrace of fresh-baked bread. Cordelia leans up against the wall, somehow commanding and unassuming in the same motion. "That was quite the strike against that poor man."

The baker faces away from them, pulling off a sheet of loaves from a rack and carefully stacking them onto a small display shelf. She rolls her shoulders after depositing them, sizing up Cordelia with a sneer in her eyes. "I've not the desire to chase out two Emrishmen from my shop this morn'. Out."

Cordelia doesn't move. "Not fond of my countrymen?"

"No."

"What's not to love?" The detective tilts her head sardonically. "We're such a happy, hospitable people."

The baker almost cracks a smile. "That's a piss-poor joke if ya' ask me." She grunts. "Out anyway."

Annette decides to leverage her Kerish look to her benefit, gently approaching the counter. "Might I buy a soda loaf?" She asks, eyeing the rich, oat-covered wheat.

The baker scowls and tips her head at Cordelia. "You gonna' share it with her?"

"Throw in some butter and I'll have it all to myself."

After a moment's pause, she decides to accept Annette's terms.

"Annette Baker," she greets as the woman grabs her items.

"Alma Brien O' Darcy," she grunts.

Once the loaf has been wrapped - then unwrapped so Annette may slowly start ripping off sections to lather with butter and eat - Cordelia takes her cue to step forth and make another effort of diplomatic interrogation.

"Might I ask you a few questions?"

Alma furrows her brow. "Pay double, and only if she's the one talkin' with me," she agrees, pointing at Annette.

So Cordelia acquiesces to muttering her questions for Annette to repeat out, acting as a go-between for the two brusque women.

"I've heard you grow your own crops-,"

"My man does," Alma corrects abruptly.

Annette nods, listening to Cordelia's next ask. "I've been told that your potatoes were recently blighted. Could you tell me more?"

The baker sours further, if that's even possible. "Not blighted. Cursed."

Cordelia's reliance on herself compels her to attempt, "How do you know-,"

A look from Alma silences her. Her detective glances over at Annette, who continues on in her stead. "What do you mean, cursed?"

"One day, happy tatoe's, growing healthy and green above the soil. The next, nothing but brown leaves and misery."

Cordelia snorts. "Not blight, then. Poison."

Alma jabs a finger in her direction, throwing another palm down to smack the counter in front of her. "I'll not have one of your ilk tellin' me what it is or is not. The witches cursed me."

Annette steps directly in front of Cordelia, eager not to provoke the woman further - and begrudgingly, in the hopes that it'll also prevent her detective from feeling permission to continue on. "How do you know it was the witches?" She bows her head a little, trying to seem polite and interested.

"Crow feathers in the field. Strange markings round the edges." Alma huffs and shoves her arms back across her chest. "My man heard voices in the night"

Cordelia slips out from behind Annette, undeterred by the hostility. "If he heard something, why not investigate?"

Alma decides this time to ignore her. Annette repeats the question.

The baker snorts. "Not sure what you lot do in your castles and cities and what have you, but here in the country you don't go chasing' after voices in the night. That's a quick way to fall into the clutches of an Torc Screadach."

"What is-," Cordelia behinds, then waves her hands urgently at Annette to prompt her to ask the question for her.

"What is that?"

"The Screeching Boar, in your tongue. Wild beasty. Bit of a freak-show, he is."

"A local monster is-,"

Behind Annette the wood-and-glass door crashes open, shuddering from the sudden attack upon it. Its assailant is the mad-woman from the center square, hunched over and muttering under her breath.

"Hane... Hane..."

Alma groans. "Oh, fer crying out loud, Maud."

The Abbot stumbles into the shop behind her, throwing up an apologetic hand as he enters. "Sorry, she's not usually-,"

Maud continues her approach, eerily marching forward. Her head shakes, jittering oddly, and she keeps clenching and unclenching her dry, dirt-caked hands. She looks as though she's about to leap up onto the counter itself, then rapidly averts course and grabs Annette by the shoulders.

Her fingers latch on, her eyes wild and wide as they peer deeply into Annette. "Hane... Hane..."

Annette and Cordelia lock eyes and it's obvious that her detective is seconds away from pulling the woman off of her and ensuring no one would dare bother Annette again. But even as Maud's fingers latch on tighter, Annette can only think of how frail she looks - how like so many of the beggars on the street's in Bellchester that'd been, for a time, her only community. She slowly shakes her head for Cordelia to back down.

Maud's vibrant, icy blue irises look as though they can see beyond this world, scouring dimensions far brighter and more terrifying than her own. Her breath smells rank and earthy.

And then the pupils focus on Annette, as though seeing her for the first time. When she speaks again, her voice is low, strained, haunted. "Daughter of the green, you are. Hanelliaen wails for you." Her fingers clench suddenly once more, pulling her in tighter. "She's coming. Hanelliaen is coming..."

Behind her, Cordelia cocks her head. "Hanelliaen?"

The four Kerish in the room fall deathly silent. Maud's head creaks back to leer at the detective and she makes a hissing noise. Her hands release Annette so that she can begin ambling towards Cordelia.

"You've uttered her name," she says almost gleefully, with a wicked and ghastly smile spreading across her lips. "She's coming... Now she knows your name, Cordelia. She knows your name..."

The detective is almost disinterested. "My reputation precedes me."

"She'll take back her lands from your rotten palms," Maud cackles, heaving with each breath out. She tries to grab one of Cordelia's hands but it's swatted away. "She'll burn the world and bring back the forests. And now she knows your name..."

A wretched, weak, and almost childish humming noise sings in Maud's chest as she dances around the room, lifting her arms to the sky and shaking her body convulsively. And then, she collapses.

The Abbot is quick to catch her, carefully cushioning her neck to prevent her head from striking the wood floors.

"Common occurrence?" Cordelia asks the room.

"You oughtn't have said her name," the baker murmurs.

"Hanelliaen?"

"Oh fer fuck's..." Alma's patience exhausts. A stern finger directs Cordelia to the door. "Get out."

At this, Cordelia wisely decides not to argue, much to Annette's relief. She bows her head, perhaps mockingly polite, and dips out of the shop to call after the Abbot and offer to help carry Maud. Annette, unsure of what to do with herself, takes another bite of bread and butter, enjoying the tangy comfort of the soda bread.

Alma heaves out a heavy sigh, looking kindly at Annette. "Welcome to Fieldston, lass."

"What was that name?"

The baker shudders. "An old god. Not one to mess with."

Annette purses her lips. "I'll keep it in mind."

Something about Maud's tone, her alien voice, unsettles Annette. She doesn't believe in a god, not anymore, and neither does she affirm the existence of reality of the occult... but the terrifying certainly in the mad-woman's words latches hold of that small part within her, the childish belief in anything scary. Much in the same way that one might contest the existence of ghosts during the day, but quite suddenly and dramatically believe in them upon hearing a strange noise in a darkened house in the night.

Alma nods her head towards the door, gesturing at Cordelia with a displeased noise in her throat. "Watch over that one, eh? Make sure she stays respectful of it all." A low breath. "And, welcome back to the green, kin."