Baker and Jones Pt. 02 Ch. 05

Chapter Five - Cordelia

Cordelia is, as of yet, wholly unsure how exactly this conversation took such a sharp turn for the worse. She had asked what she considered to be a fairly tame and matter-of-fact question, a standard part of investigation, only to be met with the swift wind of hostility and a raised arm which sorely looks like it wishes to strike her.

She'll understand why later, of course, sitting in bed and ruminating into the night. Whatever explanations she could be given now would require time to settle and process in the backgrounds of her mind, slowly churning away a sense of social awareness which she does not possess in the urgency of the present.

So, failing to understand why, perhaps, this question is an unsuitable one, Cordelia asks, "Did you do anything to deserve this?"

Alma Brien O'Darcy's temper snaps like a frozen branch in winter, splintering and thundering into the soil below. Her nostrils flare, her fist hangs in the air. Her boots stop into the rain-drenched ground.

And then she unleashes the most colorful, and admittedly creative, salvo of curses Cordelia has ever heard. Indeed, she learns quite a great deal about local profane aphorisms and insults from this arsenal, many of which she politely holds onto for her own vocabulary later.

She resolves not to recoil at Alma's fury, having learned from pub-brawls that most cursing is simply bravado and the white-hot flash of immediate anger, one which often cools once indulged. She holds her shoulders square as Alma's spit and temper test her composure, trying to hold a neutral expression for as long as necessary.

Alma's husband's tolerance gives before Cordelia's does. He timidly grabs hold of his wife's arm and steers her away, muttering something resembling an apology to Cordelia. It's unclear whether or not he means it.

Annette approaches Cordelia's side, voice quiet with a soft correction in her voice. "Perhaps don't imply that a Kerish woman deserved a Blight," she advises.

Cordelia lets herself frown. "It isn't even Blight, it's poisoning - so it's clearly targeted-,"

Her companion makes an expression that says, I know, dear.

Cordelia shoves her hands into the pockets of her longcoat.

You ought to have asked, "Did you do anything to provoke the Coven?"

She shakes out the tension in her neck, briefly minding the mild headache she acquired on the journey over to the O'Darcy farm. There would be time to dwell on the social failures later, but for now, she wrenches her attention back to the farm before her.

Brown leaves. Desiccated.

Soil largely undisturbed above surface - toxin not tilled in.

No notable odors, save the expected.

Uniform destruction across the surface area.

Topsoil color largely intact.

Not Blight, she decides. She'd already stated this prognosis publicly, with great confidence - it would be horribly embarrassing to then be incorrect, not that she is worried of such failures in her observation. Blighted potatoes remained green and healthy above the surface, their sprouting leaves appearing indistinguishable from an untainted tuber. Nothing abnormal above the surface, something despicable underneath.

Further, the potatoes themselves would take on a slushy texture, disgusting even to the thought. Accounts of the smell further the wretched experience - rank, earthy, and something resembling mildew.

She shoves a gloved hand into the soil at the base of one sprout, hunting away for the seed potato, and once located, she yanks it out unceremoniously for inspection.

Firm, if a bit damp.

No Blight, then.

Clumps of soggy dirt keep hold of the leather even after she lets the tuber fall from her hand. The fresh rains have kept the soil boggy, full of rank puddles which now bring home to an unacceptable number of buzzing insects. The soil in her hand contains the twisted roots of weeds, the slow creeping of a worm, even smaller creatures Cordelia suspects some unfortunate soul has dedicated their life to the study of. And -

She notices it in the soil, deciding her test for the substance without need for lengthy debate.

Annette reads her decision too late to stop it. "What are you-,"

Cordelia shoves a small clump of soil into her mouth, folding it flat against the roof of her mouth with her tongue and allowing her sense of taste to do the work for her. It tastes... well, rather familiar, unearthing a forgotten memory of having performed quite a similar act as a young girl, eating the dirt from Miss Holm's potted plants. She'd like to say that this occurred at a very young age, and is less than pleased to recall she was old enough to be speaking, because she related the experience quite vividly to her mother at the time.

Once satisfied by her test, Cordelia hocks it out of her mouth, letting the salivic mass of phlegm and soil descend back from where it came from.

Annette's brows knit tightly together, only resolving with a sigh of resignation. Her finger floats up to Cordelia's jowl, lightly brushing against it. "You've got some on your cheek."

"As I suspected: salt."

"Salt," her companion repeats back. Her head tips curiously. "That is not a poison."

Cordelia waves a hand over the dying crop before the two of them. "Applied liberally over a field, it may as well be. The brown leaves, dry and cracked - the salt has stolen the moisture from inside the plant, despite the rainfall."

Wickedly clever. If they'd have simply burned the plants, it would have been far less effective, providing singe marks to each one and clearly demonstrating the assault upon them. Salt provides the miracle - dried out plants amidst the wet season.

Magic.

Science, Cordelia snorts to herself, massaging a palm to her temple to ease the headache and smacking her lips to clear the taste of soil from them. Clever.

Annette seems to agree. "So, not a curse then. Clearly explainable."

"But meant to look like one."

Crows feathers have been scattered over the fields, not placed into any discernable pattern nor at any regular intervals that Cordelia can detect. Each corner of the crop has been defamed by some sort of standing totem, hardly larger than a foot - a crossed set of trigs dangling a few bones of small creatures.

Wishbone of a turkey.

Femur of a squirrel.

Bicuspid of a boar.

Correction: incisor.

But the totems aren't connected in any way to the scene at hand. They're theater, Cordelia decides, meant to portray the image of one thing at work, so that an onlooker would ignore the far more obvious evidence at hand. A curse, or so they would willfully accept. Sleight-of-hand, transposed to a larger scale.

A better farmer would easily note the salt.

But a poor farmer, in hard times, easily swept away into fear of a curse... well, that is the sort of target which would already believe in the power of magic, easily swayed into belief.

Cordelia briefly considers raising the point to Matthew O'Darcy, Alma's husband who tends the fields. Better not, she decides. If made to feel inadequate for not noticing such an obvious answer, he'd likely not encourage his wife to withhold her fist upon the next occasion. She has little doubt Alma will attempt again at some point.

So, Cordelia instead remarks to Annette, "Poor fate to lose a crop so early in the season."

Annette agrees. "With luck they still have time to plant another."

"Unlikely," she rejects bluntly. Annette frowns at her, so Cordelia gestures to the soil and explains, "The salt won't leave for some time. This field will be dead for years. There's a reason Rome salted the ground of Carthage - long term destruction." She looks back at the home occupying the far corner of the plot, a shaggy and tattered cottage. "Whoever did this to the O'Darcy's sorely hated them. Or, felt they were gravely wronged by them. In either case, they'll starve next winter."

Her companion is silent as she considers the predicament, shuddering to herself while staring out upon the rows of dying plants. A primary source of their food for the coming year - the surviving wheat fields would only carry them so far.

"Put that way," Annette says gravely, "it almost feels as wretched as murder."

"Much less interesting," Cordelia replies without thinking. Annette makes a face at her, a common expression which denotes that Cordelia has erred in an important way. She's just about to ask for clarification for her error when she sees her for the first time -

The Shadow Woman.

Initially, Cordelia considers the very real possibility that her mind has given in upon itself, diving into a sort of madness that she begrudgingly admits feels inevitable. In fact, her first thought upon witnessing the woman haunting the fields around the O'Darcy farm is an unsurprised and resigned:

Younger than you expected. You'd thought you could manage at least a few more years before this set in.

The insanity, that is. Cordelia has always maintained a passive expectation that her mind is a candle meant to burn bright - but quickly. It feels as though it's an out-of-control locomotive, the sails of a ship buffeted by storm gales, the dam about to overflow. It's sharpness, it's clarity, is not something she's anticipated holding forever.

So, the Shadow Woman initially appears to be the harbinger of such loss of mental acuity.

Her rational mind takes hold a moment later. Her pride, seconds after that.

I'll not succumb to such a fate.

So she studies the apparition, aimlessly standing in the center of the field, blanketed by a suit that appears made of the very night itself - black and incanterous. Her skin is pale, almost luminescent in its grave attire. Her hair is midnight and ash, sliding down her form to fall almost to her thighs, and despite the wind, it remains motionless.

Curious.

Cordelia, without drawing any particular attention, ambles around the edges of the field, appearing to simply study the rows of dying crops without any suspicion of having seen something far less extant. She makes a slow, winding approach, gazing at the Shadow Woman only through her periphery.

Unmoving, even in the breeze.

Dark suit and coat, almost regal in appearance. Almost.

Eyes are shut.

She drops to her knees, pretending to carefully scrutinize the nearest potato sprout.

She's not moved since appearing.

The edges of her form are shifting, unstable.

Cordelia quickly begins testing theories, considering how she would replicate this appearance through conventional smoke and mirror. A wig can be crafted easily, dyed with ink and frozen carefully, then covered with resin to harden it so that it resists a breeze. The clothing, likewise, is easy enough to dye - more likely the product of squid ink than ash. The skin? Chalk might be easiest, but guano will attain a finer finish, perhaps set with a simple spray of-

She's gone.

Cordelia rises quicker than she ought to, standing at attention as the apparition vanishes as quickly as she appeared. She sprints to its former location, hunting for any sort of hidden pit or hole for it to have disappeared into.

"Miss Jones?" Annette calls from behind.

She'll think you've gone insane.

Shut up.

No traps, no hidden passages. The crop is too low for it to have hidden between its sprouts.

Interesting trick.

There's an explainable method, surely. When faced with the impossible, one must first rule out an extraordinary number of possibilities before daring to challenge the known laws of existence. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence - women in a field cannot simply apparate into and out of existence at will. Something has made the appearance of such a feat.

Fascinating.

Cordelia can't wait to discover how it was done.

Annette strides over to her. "Everything alright? I've hardly ever seen you run like that."

She's just about to reply, when the Shadow Woman catches her attention once more on the edge of the woods, far beyond the O'Darcy farm. She stands as still as the nearest pines, just as ethereal as before.

"There's trails departing towards the woods," Cordelia lies, pointing towards the Shadow Woman. Annette draws her focus in that direction and makes no remark about the ghastly figure.

Instead: "I don't see any trails."

"Surely you do. Look just there, what do you see?"

"Trees."

"Anything in the shadows?"

"More trees."

Cordelia raises a finger to her chin, briefly considering whether or not Annette is deliberately playing daft. She steps behind Annette, placing a hand on either side of her head, bringing her own face right next to hers to direct it to the exact location of the Shadow Woman.

"See there?" She says quietly.

"I see a forest before me, and to my side, a strange woman holding me like I am a telescope to be transfixed upon stars," Annette murmurs.

Curious.

Annette is observant. To not see the figure is most interesting.

A joke?

Something greater?

Perhaps Annette needs glasses.

Cordelia steps in front of Annette. Holds up a hand. "How many fingers have I raised just now?"

"My vision is fine, Cordelia," Annette swats her hand away. She rolls her eyes. "Do you wish to follow this invisible trail? I've worn my boots in preparation for something of this sort."

So Cordelia, with a growing fascinating bubbling at the base of her spine, marches purposely for the Shadow Woman, who disappears once more, just as before. There's no smoke, no great movement, she simply vanishes as quickly as blinking, one moment there and the next, gone.

Only to reappear a few hundred yards further into the woods.

Dangerous.

Exciting.

Cordelia follows.

Beuir Woods lay nestled into the hills surrounding Fieldston, full of new growth pine trees and scattered ash and oak. Moss and underbrush fight for control of the lower branches, hardly kept to any sort of functional order. She eventually locates a narrow game trail and hikes along it, growing accustomed to the Shadow Woman slowly leading them deeper and deeper into the forest.

Leading towards where, exactly?

It's strange for something so unsettling to the ordinary senses to so quickly become normalized for the detective - that she ought to view Shadow Woman as something terrifying, yet she does not. A simpler mind would quickly assume she's a specter. But faith in the explainability of phenomena, and an assumption of deeper significance in her appearance buttresses any hesitations Cordelia may possess. She follows her without much effort.

Annette, meanwhile, regales Cordelia with the many tales from her newfound friends.

"A druid?"

"That is how she tells the story, at least," Annette shrugs behind her, marching just a few steps back. She must be glad to have elected to wear trousers today - useful for a jaunt through the woods. "What a terrible fate," she jests, "to be kissed by a nearly naked woman in the woods."

"Imagine the rash from the leaves," Cordelia shudders at the thought.

Annette wants to kiss you in the woods, in the nude.

"I'm sure there's a soothing balm to be applied," Annette assuades from the corner of her mouth.

Annette really wants to-

-the Letter, you monster.

Cordelia feels her chest tighten, and she quickly throws the thoughts out of the foregrounds of her mind. She considers instead the novel joy of knowing Annette has so quickly ingratiated herself with the locals. Useful, for a variety of purposes.

She seemed quite happy with her newfound friends until you selfishly interrupted.

A quieter, more smug part of Cordelia replies, She quite enjoyed the interruption.

Selfish.

"Cordelia?"

The Detective shakes out of her thoughts. "Hm?"

"You've stopped walking, and have been quiet for the last few minutes."

Minutes?

Cordelia looks ahead of her, seeing that the game trail has been disrupted by the presence of a large pond, borne into existence by the recent rain. Shadow Woman is nowhere in sight.

"And what is that face you are making?" Annette presses on, placing a comforting palm on her shoulder and turning Cordelia to face her. "You've been making a face through the entire walk. Is something the matter?"

The Letter-

Cordelia feels her headache throb passively in her temple. "It's nothing."

Annette frowns. "I can tell that's a lie. It's never nothing."

"Damn your social perception," she mutters, looking out into the woods away from Annette, as though hiding from her prying eyes.

You ought to simply tell her. What is the worst that could happen?

A great deal. She will sorely resent you.

Annette is forgiving, and kind-

Shadow Woman reappears in the faraway distance, illuminated by a stray column of light shining through the canopy despite the overcast day. She slowly shakes her head.

"I promise I won't be cross, no matter what it is," her companion tells her.

She can't keep that promise, not once she finally understands.

You've already made your decision about its contents, haven't you?

Cordelia takes to pacing before the pond, ambling back and forth and listening to the unpleasant squelching sound of her boots in the mud. In her breast pocket, looming with an ever-growing tug of gravity, resides the simple parchment and ink that would explain it all - but, in so doing, doom her. Ignorance of the threat will protect Annette. It must.

Annette would want to know.

Cordelia contests. It would do her no good.

She would want to -

Rising above the treetops, towards the north, a solitary plume of smoke arises. It's deep gray smoke, released in a single, contained ascent - a chimney, perhaps.

"Let's go uncover what that is, shall we?" The detective trods off, angling her way around the edge of the rank pond water. She has to hoist her legs high to shuffle through the underbrush, venturing off trail. She's on her way before Annette can protest, moving with purpose through the vines and brambles that would attempt to halt her progress.              

Beuir Woods give way to a small glen, tucked away with a small field before the green grass tumbles into rolling hills that disappear into the distance. A creek cuts through a pair of mounds, quietly meeting a shambled cottage on its banks, the cattails from the slow race threatening to overtake its nearest wall. To the west, a strange, pock-marked hill slopes upwards to the height of the forest, and on its far side, the column of smoke rises.

Annette stumbles out from the underbrush to reach Cordelia's side. She releases a displeased noise. "Is it such a crime to possess a campfire in your eyes?"

"Out this far into the countryside?"

She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. "This is just like on the train."

"Exactly," Cordelia nods excitedly, stepping over the tattered wooden fence that demarks the property of the cottage. Just beside the house, an old man chops firewood.

"No, no that's not what I-,"

But Cordelia is already off, crossing the boggy marsh that buffets the home, passing the occasional bed of crops hidden in its soggy grass.

"Good afternoon!" She calls out to him.

The man startles, dropping his axe clumsily onto the ground and leaping to the nearest wooden wall to scoop up a rusty rifle. Without a word of greeting, he aims it up at Cordelia, his trembling hands causing the barrel to shake furiously.