Baker and Jones Pt. 02 Ch. 04

She bows her head, concluding her story to all of their enjoyment, and plops back down on her barrel to kick on leg up underneath her.

Mercy speaks next, dunking a pair of trousers into the bin and shrugging at Annette. "I don't think it's true."

"Of course it is!" Fanny frowns.

"You weren't alive then," Susie points out.

"My gran was, and she swears by it."

And Annette sits beside them all, watching these friends bicker and banter and delight in the simple, relaxed company of one another. She stares at each of their friendly gestures, side-long looks of joy, little jokes between the three of them. And she adores it.

A strange part of her feels as though she's always been here, sitting alongside them all without a care in the world beyond simple chores, salacious love stories, and effortless companionship. So much of her life in Bellchester was owed to Cordelia, revolved around her - and while that is beautiful and fulfilling in its own way, she can't deny some of the joy of feeling as though she has something to herself again. Almost like it was with the Mallets for a time, before it all went to shit.

She comes back to herself to notice all of them staring politely at her, waiting for her to notice.

"You've gone quiet," Mercy nudges.

Annette smiles and sets her tea aside. "It's not what I expected."

Fanny looks worried for her art. "The story?"

"Kereland," she replies, shaking her head. "Back ho- back in Bellchester, I heard so many stories and tales of what the people are like, and what I'm supposed to be like. They're quite wrong, it seems."

Susie looks pleased to hear it, eyes glittering up at Annette with pride for her home and her friends. "And what's your judgment, now that you've gotten a taste?"

"I like it."

- - -

Evening descends upon Fieldston, and Old Billie Lane, to find that Cordelia is still out and about, surely occupying herself with something fascinating and ridiculous. If asked about such a scenario in the hypothetical, Annette would have replied that she would find it frustrating to have Cordelia gone for so long, off on the case without her. She's quite surprised, and relieved, to find that this evening it doesn't disturb her.

Her newfound friends have joined her for dinner, each getting leave from their respective homes to come calling upon Old Billie Lane. Susie's nightly duties were finished early, freeing her. Mercy's husband fell asleep early upon the sofa, and was not likely to wake anytime soon. Fanny still lives within her mother's home, who seemed relieved to have the news of her being out and about for the evening.

So, with her detective out investigating, surely to return with some fascinating news to share, Annette sets upon herself the task of simply enjoying the relative normalcy these women offer her - comfortable friendship and pleasant company.

Mercy, now a few glasses of wine into the evening, wears the blush of intoxication upon her rosy face - not quite drunk, but certainly not sober. She brightens up as the drink takes hold of her, leaning forward at the dinner table of finished plates and bemoans, "Oh, never marry older. Never." She swallows another sip. "Kevin's not nearly the lively man he once was - has hardly any of his vigor left, not when I might require it. And I love 'im of course, but his little friend," she sticks out a finger and lets it hang limp.

The women around her snicker knowingly, and Annette is amazed to feel as included within them as she does. The bonding of shared frustrations of men is not a habit she's had much opportunity to indulge in, and while she may not be personally invested within it, she can't deny the fun in ridiculing men with others.

"And he just can't quite ever understand me," Mercy tacks on. "And sometimes... Well, it just doesn't work. Don't marry older, girls."

Annette leans forward, only a single glass in herself. "How much older is he, anyway?"

Mercy looks grim. "Seven impossible years."

Seven.

She takes a tight breath.

Cordelia is eleven years older.

She listens to the conversation with a different investment now, hoping inside that Mercy's diagnosis of such problems only applies between men and women. Surely it's not the same issue for lesbians - Cordelia understands Annette in a way no one ever has.

"That's not nearly a problem yet," Fanny chimes in, even further gone than Mercy. She belches, not quite caring to cover it up at all. "I was once with a man ten years older!"

Mercy shudders. "He would've had a full beard already when you were still years away from your first bleed." She makes a disgusted noise.

Susie notices the face Annette must've been making through it all, gesturing a swirling finger at her and asking, "What's all that, Annie? Got a tale of an older man?"

"No-," she begins, then quickly tacks to the side for a distraction. Better to misdirect than be a closed book to pry into. She clears her throat and scandalously whispers, "Well, it never went anywhere but... I was once prepositioned by a priest eight years my senior."

Fanny shrieks out excitedly. "A priest! No."

Susie looks impressed. "Pretty enough to tempt a chaste man into breaking his vows... Did he pledge to leave the robed life behind for you?"

"Church of Emril," Annette shakes her head. "He could marry."

Mercy makes an unexpected noise. "You're Protestant?"

"Raised in a Protestant orphanage," she replies, surprised by the hush which has descended over the table. Suddenly they've all gone quite muted. "Not... not really involved anymore," she adds, a little timid.

Fanny coughs loudly, then says, "Might want to keep that one to yourself anyway. Kerish Protestants are... they don't make many friends."

Catholics, Annette realizes. The Church of Emril split away ages ago, but that doesn't mean anywhere else would've joined them. It was a vanity decision of a king, not a popularly motivated idea. The only Emrilians would be Emrish living in Kereland, spreading their way of life.

Better keep quiet on it, she agrees, trying to remember the Catholic position on the twice-born. Affirming, as far as she can remember, though she isn't sure if it's more or less than the Church of Emril.

"I could always spontaneously convert," Annette jokes to break the tension. "Catholic, as soon as suspicion arises."

Susie nods, rolling her eyes a little, "That'll do it-,"

She's interrupted by the sound of boots thundering on the front porch. All their heads swivel to the door, watching the latch jangle and turn, pushing open to reveal a rain-drenched Cordelia Jones.

Annette rises quickly, her first response to rush happily to her stifled when recalling her company. She makes a polite bow and shoves her enthusiasm back into a more servile manner. "Miss Jones. There's more dinner if you-,"

"I need to speak with you," Cordelia replies in a low voice, eyes flickering across the room and taking in the scene. If she has an opinion on the assembled group, it doesn't show.

"We've presently got company-,"

"Urgently," Cordelia insists, something tucked away behind her gaze.

An awkward pause fills the room.

Her newfound friends slowly take the hint, rising from the table and collecting their things, moving much like people who are aware a fight is about to occur and would rather not be present for it.

Fanny breaks the silence, "We'll just... erm..."

They quickly make to leave, shuffling around the two of them. Susie tosses her a friendly smile, with the knowing solidarity of collars underneath owners. "I'll see you around, Annie."

The other two mutter their farewells and respectfully acknowledge Cordelia, then slip out of the door.

Once they leave, Annette quickly discards her innocent deference, shedding the personality of a collar like removing a burdensome coat. She straightens her back and glimmers up at Cordelia, excited to hear what she must have discovered while away this evening.

"Is this about the case? Is the Abbot a witch after all?"

Cordelia ignores her, instead stepping close to Annette and wrapping an arm around her spine to pull her into her mouth.

Something inside of Annette gives immediately, taken by surprise into Cordelia's touch. A stunned gasp sounds out through her sharp inhale, only to quiet as she sighs into the revelation that is her detective's beautiful lips. They pull against Annette's upper lip, sucking the soft skin between her own and making her shudder with delight.

She pulls away after a moment, gazing up at the wild look in Cordelia's shining emerald eyes. "Something the matter? Not that I'm complai-,"

Annette finds her back shoved up against a wall, sending a small portrait tumbling to the ground. Cordelia's voice is tense, tight, ringing out directly outside of Annette's ear and sending shivers down her spine.

"Can't focus," is all the detective says.

And so she makes Annette the remedy of her scattered mind, balling the folds of her skirt and shirt into her fists and heaving her closer into a deep kiss, using the wall to keep her helpless to escape - not that Annette would want to.

Cordelia's form is stiff against her, all muscle and slender brilliance - her shoulders and biceps tight as they battle her white-collar shirt and rock into Annette's torso. She moves hastily, never letting her fingers or palms or legs rest in any place for long, shifting and making Annette shift with her as her breath grows ragged between them.

Annette feels any sense of resistance, of pride, slide off of her like water down her back. It takes no effort at all to succumb to the necessity of Cordelia's need, and in fact, it would take an enormous willpower not to.

For the first few fighty moments, Cordelia allows Annette the freedom of movement to throw open the buttons of her shirt, wrenching it out from underneath her suspenders and pants. She brings her lips to the detective's neck, biting and kissing and doing all of the things she knows will drive Cordelia mad with lust - confirmed by the pleading growl that hums in her throat.

She pulls back, mischievously glancing up at her woman. "Would you prefer to talk it out-,"

Cordelia replies by pulling her fingers through Annette's short hair and forcing her down to the floor, kneeling. And then Cordelia's thighs are in her face, pressing in with a clear sense of direction and priority which she is all too happy to indulge.

Annette fumbles with the clasp of Cordelia's trousers and pulls open the front flaps as much as required, bringing her mouth into the wet spot forming on her detective's underwear. Cordelia's fingers tighten against her scalp.

She slides her tongue up and down, stopping at the top each lap long enough to suck on her clit for only a moment before returning, keeping Cordelia locked in a desperate state of anticipation.

Cordelia's hands release her head only long enough to shove her underwear down further, wordlessly commanding Annette to cease teasing her. Annette does not comply, choosing instead to bring her mouth to Cordeila's inner thighs to play with her further, nibbling on the smooth skin, running her tongue along the purple stretch marks at their top.

The detective's hand returns to her hair and forces her in closer to deal with the true task - which Annette is all too happy to oblige. She laps at Cordelia's wet lips, loving the familiar taste of her woman, devoted to this bliss and nothing else. She loves the slight stench of her odor, hard won from being out and about all day without a bath, and delights in the familiarity of Cordelia's scent.

Cordelia, for her part, throws her free hand onto the wall behind Annette, arm stretched out to maintain her balance. Annette does everything in her power to make that task difficult, increasing the speed and certainty of her tongue's movements. Soon, Cordelia shuffles around to rest her back on the wall, no longer trusting just her arm to keep her upright.

And Annette takes the panting, gasping breaths exiting Cordelia's throat as her reward, singing into her ears with a feeling of euphoric satisfaction. She loves the knowledge of how urgently Cordelia wants her, how easily Annette is able to make her feel this way. When they'd first gotten together, Cordelia's body could, at times, put up something of a fight to give into her climax. Now, with a few month's practice, Annette has learned the particular tricks required to bring her woman to the edge.

So she does, only to immediately slow her movements and deny her.

Cordelia makes an exasperated plea, whispering nonsense under her breath and cursing. She fists Annette's hair tighter, pushing her face back into the task and guiding the speed for her, no longer content to let the woman provoke the cruciality of her feeling. For a moment, Annette considers contesting the control, considers toying with her even more - but a sense of mercy for the pained look in Cordelia's eyes wins the day. She returns to Cordelia's lips with no further hesitation.

Her detective cries out into the room, shoving Annette in as deep as her skin will allow, arching her back against the hardwood wall behind her and trembling. She grasps frantically as the feeling consumes her, and Annette decides to give her no reprieve, continuing to lap at her wet lips until Cordelia pulls her away.

She glitters with delight at the look on her woman's face.

Cordelia slides slowly down the wall, eventually meeting Annette on the floor and fighting to steady her breath. Beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, combining with the streaks of rainwater trickling down from her wet hair. Annette sits forward into her chest, allowing Cordelia to wrap her arms around her and squeeze tightly.

"That was... thank you," Cordelia says, blowing out a heavy breath. "I... thank you."

"It's hardly a chore," Annette giggles, placing a kiss on her cheek. "You need not thank me."

Cordelia waves a hand. "Regardless." And then she closes her eyes and rests her head back, basking in the afterglow.

Annette watches her for a moment, watching the frantic and scrambling persona which had entered the home with her slowly dissipate, giving way to a Cordelia who seems cool, relaxed, and at peace. A warm feeling bubbles in her chest.

Her eyes enjoy the stiff edge of Cordelia's jawline, the firm and ever-present strength in her brow, the frailty of her lashes. She caresses a palm against her cheek, letting her thumb slowly glide along the cheekbones which Annette wants to kiss more than anything - so she does.

"So, were you driven mad with lust for me or for the case?"

Cordelia puffs air out of her nose. "Can't it be both?" She grins, which slowly fades into a comfortable expression, reveling in the newfound clarity of her mind. After a few moments, she recounts, "The Abbot isn't a witch. He's providing food as charity, sometimes letting the homeless sleep in his pews." She shrugs, lifting Annette with her rising chest. "Catholics, apparently."

"Criminal behavior, through and through," Annette pokes her jaw, placing another kiss on her forehead. "What an excellent use of your time to investigate him."

"I still suspect something untoward."

Annette shrugs. "He's a priest. Of course you should."

"Abbot," Cordelia corrects, then concedes. "The point stands."

Annette nods into her chest, satisfied at the feeling of closeness between them. Even across a sea, here she lay with a woman she loves. Loves. Sometimes it still feels impossible to believe that this is the life she gets to live. She takes a long and assured breath.

"Tomorrow," Annette says sometime later, "might we remain on track and investigate the O'Darcy's farm?"

"I should think so, yes," Cordelia agrees. She peels her eyelids open and nods at the dining table, still set from dinner. "You've made friends. So quickly."

"They're quite lovely, and tell incredible stories." And, to nudge the detective towards community, "You'd like them."

Cordelia pretends not to hear the second half. "Good, good, smart to gain the trust of the locals. We can use that." She runs a hand through Annette's hair, petting it softly. "Keep on with that, see if you can uncover anything of value." A pause. "Infiltration seems to be your special, as it were."

Annette purses her lips. She'd not been thinking about the case when spending time with the three of them. Their association was simply for the pleasure of company, not for some ulterior motive - she'd actually felt as though some of her guard could slowly be drawn down.

And yet, her detective remains affixed on the case at hand.

Annette sighs. "So it seems."

The Eighteenth Reply - Nine Years Prior

To Sonia, whom I have great seasonal compassion for,

Winter has joined Bellchester in full force, and as I stare at the powdery white blanket which has covered all, I am thinking a great deal about how much more suffocating it must be in frigid Tuscovy. I hope you spend the whole season comfortably by a hearth, drinking fragrant tea and waiting out the dreary weather; and with the knowledge that had I the means, I would be overjoyed to share a cup with you and chat away the months. As pleasant as your written company is, I am just as sure you would make excellent conversation in person - provided your oral lessons in Emrish have been as successful as your written ones.

I must say that while I do appreciate your suggestion of how to ease some of my loneliness, I cannot, in my present state, truly consider it. I suppose I have no particular qualm with the concept of a servant - here in Bellchester we refer to them as "collars'' in reference to the leather bands they don around their necks - nor do I struggle financially to such a degree that I could not afford the burden of care. However, I find a history with servants in my life which compels me to avoid taking one into my own home.

It is not a particularly unsavory history, not a fear of crime or hostility or any of those terrible stories you hear circulated upon occasion, but rather that I possessed a very close friend who was a servant in my family before I set out on my own. She and I were close as can be, inseparable as if we were dear sisters, and I trusted her in a way I have never trusted anyone before - and likewise, so did she. Until, that is, my own ambition set me onto a path which cast her aside without much thought - an unfortunate sacrifice I was willing to make at that time. I harmed her greatly, and in her pain, she likewise stung me back in such a way I am sure I will always feel the scars from it. All of this is simply to say, I do not, at this time, desire to court such possibilities again.

I am learning to accept that to be Cordelia Jones is to be, as a matter of fact, lonely - save the brief holidays I receive from this state of being, such as receiving a letter from you. My reputation as a detective, private but in the hire of notable persons, has finally begun to settle in earnest, providing me with a stable and fascinating supply of scandal and intrigue. On occasion, I feel I contain secrets powerful enough to topple a scattered handful of prominent names within Bellchester. How could I possibly have time for anything else?

With great esteem,

Detective Cordelia Jones