Baker and Jones Pt. 02 - Prologue

Prologue

"Welcome to the sequel of Baker and Jones - The Winchester Conspiracy! I have a deep love for this series, and this sequel is shaping up to be a complicated and exciting work. It'll be a slightly different format than the first book, featuring both Annette and Cordelia's perspectives, as well as a few other fascinating little things along the way.

I look forward to watching it come together, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

To start: a synopsis:

Detective Cordelia Jones accepts a case that brings her and her partner, Annette Baker, across the sea to Kereland - an island known for its rich folklore and cantankerous people. Her mission: expose the coven of witches terrorizing the emerging city of Fieldston.

Never one for a straightforward mystery, Cordelia's newest case brings her face-to-face with a terrifying fear - that the magic of this coven might not be all smoke and mirrors. Meanwhile, Annette grapples with returning to her birthlands, struggling to make sense of her place amidst Kereland's sluggish recovery from a devastating famine.

The detective duo find themselves pushed to the brink, scrambling to make sense of the power of the coven, the history of this land, and the challenges of navigating their secret relationship with one another..."

- Ms. Appropriately

On the Rolling Hills of the Famine King

There were Seven men in Seven rooms who gave up the Kerish.

First was King Edward on throne,

who called the islands his home.

Second was Minister Mathews on stage,

who carved out the borders on page.

Third was Treasurer Ravethelen in book,

who turned all the profit and took,

Fourth was Lord Catesbyrne in castle,

who wed eviction to death and hassle.

Fifth was Abbot Heathroe on pulpit,

who the sale of the Kerish soul was culprit.

Sixth was God Almighty in Heaven,

who blighted the crop for all Seven.

And worst,

worst of all measure,

Seventh, the men who came after,

who claimed it never was.

Prologue

"Mother, Hill Castle called for a detective."

Breathe.

A soft flick of the fingers to light the fire, tended for and prepared by hands who could perform the act without command. A gentle kick against the logs to jostle them into place. A tin kettle set upon it as an offering and as a habit. A few muttered whispers of gratitude under her heavy lips.

The young one is impatient. Worried.

"Mother. A detective."

"Come off it, Suz," the older one groans.

She digs through the pouch upon her belt, rummaging her fingers through the wafting aromas and deciding. It's a cool day. But not too cold. There's a tickle in the back of her throat. Her bones don't quite creak from the effort today, but they did yesterday. Chamomile.

"She's supposed to be brilliant," the young one insists. "They're shipping her here across the way from Emril."

"A woman?"

"That's what I said."

"Oh, don't get all-,"

She clears her throat, nudging her head towards the stumps on either side of the fire. Neither the older nor the younger seem keen on the idea, but deference wins the day. She thrusts a cup into the palms of either. A first pour of the tea into the ground to thank the Goddess, then a hearty cup for the three of them.

And she breathes. Waiting until she feels settled enough to speak.

"Tell me about this detective."

The young one shuffles forth in her seat. "Cunninghill sent for her, specifically. Reputation says she's unusual, but can see things no one else can. She just ended collar service in Bellchester."

"Fat lot it did across the way," the older huffs, with a disdainful flick against the metal band around her neck.

A slow sip of tea, drawn down her throat despite a shaking hand. Ever since last winter, her hands shake. It's become constant. It's difficult to grow used to.

"What is her objective?"

"The Castle wants her to snuff us out."

The older snorts proudly. "She'd die trying."

And so she shushes her, sternly. For a moment, she considers smacking a hand across the side of her face; considers letting her feel the bite of nails across her cheek, harsh and bitter. The older one is testy, hot-headed. Possibly even dangerous.

Breathe.

She may be the older of the two, but she doesn't remember the Hunger. She marches through a world of ruins, a butchered carcass of a land, and knows only the wounded pride of such a mournful fate. But she doesn't remember what brought it about, doesn't know the unending anguish of burying children, parents, strangers; never knew what it was to grow food that you couldn't eat under fear of death, or that this was a worse fate than the release of death.

She can't remember the Emrilian high-born, chomping at the bit for each parcel, each acre to lord over. She can't remember the pennies tossed into the street in the name of charity, thrown only to watch starving children maul one another for sport. She can't know what it turned people into.

Breathe.

"Mother, we need to do something about her," the younger implores. Like the older, she knows only the scars and not the shearing pain of being carved open. Unlike the older, she knows to be afraid of it. "The detective and her servant will be here within the week."

The older is already answering. "Easy. Pistols under cover of dark. She'll be gone long before she can learn anyth-,"

Crack!

And now her hand hurts, and some of her tea has spilled upon the ground below. She forces the air out of her lungs and glowers at the older. Stupid woman.

"And invite further attention? Retribution?" She snips. "Beg forgiveness and hold your tongue." A leering inhale, tempered only by devotion to something higher. "To know of death is for the Goddess. Not you, child."

For just a moment, the older's temper bristles beneath the surface. She is going to bring ruin with that anger someday, and it will bring nothing good for any of them. But today, she relents and inclines her head, whispers a brief word of apology and kisses the ground.

Now, to the younger. "A servant?"

"Yes, Mother. The detective is bringing her collar with her."

"Watch the servant," she commands, something stirring within her. There's an electrifying prickle of an idea forming at the base of her spine. A whisper of the blessed witch in her heart."Learn what you can and tell me everything. This may be a very good thing for us."

"How, Mother? She is going to expose us, destroy the glas."

Another shaking palm drawn into her pouch. Fragrant herbs. A loathsome hued oil. A small mortar and pestle. And a practiced, ceremonial, and weighted circling of the hands.

Breathe.

A spell.

And soon, she can see. Her voice is no longer her own. Her palms no longer tremble. She is no longer herself. In no time at all, she's stepped away from this plane.

"Little one. We now have all that we need. I have all I need." She looks deep into the fire, aching for the freedom it'll bring them. "What is this detective's name?"

"Cordelia Jones."