Baker and Jones Pt. 02 Ch. 06

Abandoned, save a single stump of wood set in the trailed path that leads into the refuge before them; bearing forth, as though a herald giving missives to a king, a single envelope.

Cordelia swipes it quickly and scours it over, then watches the town closely. She's quiet as she passes the note inside behind her for Annette to read, holding it high without so much as turning her head towards her companion.

For you should fear neither rain nor flame,

Neither spear nor arrow,

Nor pestilence nor plague -

But only the vengeance of the dirt

And the Goddess who knows your name.

Fear the very Earth, Cordelia Jones.

A shiver ascends through Annette's spine, tightening her chest and making her feel suddenly quite warm and also quite cold. She reads it a second time, her palm shaking softly.

Cordelia turns the rest of the envelope upside-down onto the tree stump before her, spilling out a handful of soil, stones, and tiny bones.

A peal of thunder rumbles out as the first drops of rain begin for the day, threatening to drench the land as it has the prior few days.

And when the detective turns around, she's smirking, much to Annette's surprise, and has the gall to chirp, "Not the most unsettling fan mail I've received."

- - -

The ruined village, which they learn is named "Dorsey" from a weather-beaten, tattered road sign, compels no further evidence for them. It lay abandoned, seemingly untouched for years. In the homes where the thatched roofs have not caved in, a rank, musty smell is all that greets them, save for one home which boasts a colony of rats.

The morning melts into afternoon as they scour it, searching for hidden rooms, secret stashes, anything that might betray some sort of clandestine purpose: nothing. It is frustratingly, aggravatingly bare.

Cordelia continues to dismiss Annette's pleas for her to seek medical attention, insisting that none of her symptoms have returned since they exited the mausoleum of forest under the hill. She even seems chipper for the first part of their hunt. Though, a few hours of fruitless effort sours her mood.

Most of the walk back to Fieldston finds them in exhausted, grumbling silence. The rain, which begins as an earnest and soft mist, eventually becomes a bombardment of droplets. Every inch of Annette's clothing is damp and frigid. Her boots squeak with each water-logged step. She becomes convinced that this is all her life will ever be ever again - drenched.

The short days of early spring means that night falls far before they've reached their temporary, borrowed home of Old Billie Lane. By the time they reach the city proper, the extra twenty-five minute walk to their home seems as though miles and miles are longer than before. The secluded hills which block their view of Fieldston may as well be their own mountain range, separating them from town like a continental divine.

Cordeila's initially excited mood gives way to a deeply harsh temperament. She handles the downpour even worse than Annetet does, despite the fact that her trench coat appears far more resistant to the gale than Annette's is. Her dark hair clings to her neck and face like a pitiful dog, and her brows hang so low they threaten to block out her eyes entirely.

Annette forces herself to lead the march home by its final leg, distraught at the lack of new information about the Coven for all their efforts. Cordelia in one moment of temper declares that she may as well lay down in the dirt and let a mudslide take her, and Annette takes to holding her palm and dragging her forward to prevent such a fate.

All her tension and nerves and anxiety finally abate when they arrive at the pot-holed, dirt road which swirls up to the country estate, delighted the trial might finally be over. She's just about to inform Cordelia of their imminent return when she gets her first glimpse at the house through the dark, raining night.

And her heart drops tiredly.

She clears her throat, and, in the softest, gentlest voice she can muster through her exhaustion, croaks out, "Miss Jones? Apologies, but I am in the confoundable position of informing you that a tree has sprouted quite suddenly out of our home."

The One Hundreth and Tenth Reply - Six Months Prior

Dearest Sonia, who I should like to trust more than myself; who I never wish to bring disappointment; who I hope will never cease to understand me better than I understand myself; who I admire greatly,

I find that I am afraid. I tell you this not to impart any sort of empathetic suffering upon you, nor to bring about urgent concern for my well being; but rather so that I might take refuge in the citadel which is your great and earnest friendship, much in the same way in which a child might beknight a lantern to hold back the imagined monsters of the post-midnight witching hours.

I have allowed myself to become unstitched as though a gown under alteration with a tailor; have allowed myself to be brought to the precipice of myself and bade to leap into the unknown cavern which holds the mysteries of the heart. I have, in a rather unsuitable way, allowed my form and my spirit to do that which I swore to it I would never force it to suffer again - to do that which I consider beyond incredulity, beyond allowance, beyond deserving.

You see, I have been rather quiet in my letters to you regarding the state of affairs in my home since the departure of one Miss Pennywise, my first collar. I would be remiss to say that your suggestion of me obtaining extra service in the home was not ultimately beneficial. However, I have been quiet because I have not known how to speak to you of the fact that I have replaced Miss Pennywise with a new collar.

This is not the great tribulation of which I speak to you of - not directly, at any rate. The decision to take on a second collar to replace the first was a much easier decision.

No, my grand sin which I will relate to you now is far less surmountable. It is one in which I hope you can discover within yourself the capacity not to judge me for. For you see, in the least expected way possible, and fervently in spite of herself, Cordelia Jones has fallen in love.

Allow me to speak to you now of Annette Baker.