Chapter Two

 

“You’re Kerish,” Cordelia declares suddenly, peeking up over her book and setting down her tea. Annette is still surprised she’s downstairs for dinner tonight; everyday for the last week she’s eaten in her study. 

“If that’s what you’ve deduced, Miss Jones.” 

“So you won’t confirm it?” Cordelia’s brow furrows. 

“Everyone has always told me I am,” Annette shrugs, picking at the potatoes and gravy before her. The mash is a little too salty, but she hopes Cordelia doesn’t mind. Annette is still getting used to having a plentiful supply and it’s difficult not to overindulge. 

“Sister Pullwater affirmed it constantly,” Annette continues. “She said my ‘cantankerous and indolent person’ must be attributed to such a background. The other kids just said it because of the red hair and freckles. I’ve never been to Kereland as far as I know.” 

“Hmph,” Cordelia grunts, taking a long sip of her tea. Annette is amazed that the boiling heat hardly seems to bother her at all. 

“What has informed your assertion, Miss Jones?” Annette smiles politely, amused at Cordelia’s preoccupation with guessing her background. The past few days she’s ambushed Annette with a variety of questions, each seemingly independent of the rest and none with any warning. 

“Your name,” Cordelia says simply. 

“Annette Baker is not a Kerish name.” 

“That’s what I mean,” she sets the teacup down onto its saucer, letting it clink loudly into place. “You’re Kerish, but you don’t have a Kerish name. So Annette Baker must be a name given to you.” 

“Sister Maxwell gave it to me,’” she confirms. “She said it was more befitting of a young lady than what I had before.” Annette takes another bite, sizing up the detective in front of her. “I fail to understand your logic, Miss Jones. If Annette Baker can’t be my real name because it’s not Kerish, you’re already assuming I’m Kerish. The name isn't evidence to prove that claim.” 

“Very good, Miss Baker,” Cordelia flashes a rare grin. “What is your birth name?” 

“Not Annette,” she replies vaguely. 

“Indeed.” 

“So you’re testing me again? Like with the railroad spike and the surprise arithmetic and the constant investigation.” 

“What is two thousand and four hundred divided by three?” 

Annette sighs. “Eight hundred.” 

“Annette suits you, Miss Baker.” 

“Sister Maxwell always said so. How did you know I’m Kerish? I don’t even have the accent.” 

“Of course you don’t, you were raised by nuns in Bellchester.” Cordelia takes another long sip of her tea, smug and satisfied. “That will be all, Miss Baker.” 

“All for right now or all for this evening?” 

“You require so much context for my words,” Cordelia muses, taking a few bites of her dinner and savoring the flavor. “It’s never: ‘Yes, Miss, no elaboration necessary.’”

“Perhaps you could be more clear going forward.” 

Cordelia places her fork down carefully, lifting her elbows onto the table and touching her fingertips together into a bridge. She furrows her brows and lets her eyes pierce into Annette for a few long moments. 

“Most owners would resent you for talking back in such a way,” she says, her voice painfully absent of any clarifying tone. “I’ve never heard of a collar who feels comfortable enough in her position to question directions.” 

Annette shifts uncomfortably in her seat, refusing to meet Cordelia’s gaze, instead staring down at her plate. “I am simply trying to understand the format of your words.” 

“Collars aren’t required to perceive format. ‘Yes, Miss,’ ‘No, Miss:’ that’s all you need to reply when given orders.” 

Annette is quiet, but looks up at her after a moment. “I suspect ‘No, Miss’ is an insufficient answer to the question of two thousand and four hundred divided by three.” 

Cordelia sits back in her chair, smirking proudly. “This is exactly what I mean, Miss Baker. You are unlike so many of the collars I’ve met. They all seem terrified of me. You’re not terrified?” 

“Confused is more accurate.” 

Cordelia lets out a peal of laughter. “Perhaps you should be more terrified. Why aren’t you?” 

“Are you finished with your dinner, Miss Jones?” Annette deflects, looking at the mostly empty dish in front of her. She stands, picking up her own plate and extending a hand to Cordelia’s, but the owner remains in place, refusing to gesture for Annette to remove it. 

“Have you considered that perhaps I do resent your behavior, Miss Baker?” Her head tilts to the side, sizing up Annette. “That even now I might be considering terminating your contract and removing you from my home? I could so easily snap up some other collar who wouldn’t talk back to me.” 

Annette feels like she is supposed to be alarmed by the threat, but for some reason she isn’t. As with so many moments with Cordelia, the words feel empty of true malice, as though she’s simply playing and prodding and trying to study Annette’s responses. They are a little troubling, and more than a few nights Annette has tossed and turned in bed, replaying conversations and trying to understand Cordelia’s intent; yet, even in this moment she feels secure. 

“I do not believe you resent it, Miss Jones,” she replies with as neutral of a voice as she can muster. 

“You don’t?” 

“I… I would go so far as to wager you appreciate my candor.” 

“A bold claim, Miss Baker.” 

“Are you finished with your dinner?”

“Indeed,” she answers, though refuses to assist Annette in any way. Annette leans forward, grabbing the plate and depositing it in the kitchen behind her. She is just about to return, only to be blocked by Cordelia in the doorway. 

“Aren’t the collarhouses supposed to teach you proper conduct?” The owner asks, preventing Annette from leaving the room. “Penny was so uptight and formal in all of her movements and speech.” 

“Are you dissatisfied with my manners?”

“I’m not sure,” Cordelia’s face splits in a bemused smile. “I was told that if a collar behaved as you do, I was to sharply discipline them. I was even given a small pamphlet of techniques for punishment when I purchased Penny’s contract.” 

“I’m sure Harold would resent the noise,” Annette jokes. 

“It can’t just be because you're Kerish and that somehow makes you quarrelsome by blood,” Cordelia thinks out loud. “There’s something defiant about you that I don’t understand. You should fear me, but you don’t.” 

“Would Miss Jones prefer me afraid?” 

“Did the nuns somehow teach you this?” She lays her back against the doorframe, bringing a fingertip to her chin and ignoring Annette. “Perhaps Sister Pullwater is more revolutionary than she might seem at first glance.” 

Annette stands in place, bending her elbows to rest the backs of her hands on her lower spine. She suspects Cordelia could continue with this for quite some time and it’s best not to interrupt.

“Unlikely,” she concludes, sizing up Annette with her inquisitive glare. “Another possibility is that you truly despise this station you have arrived in and can only cope through small acts of disobedience. Perhaps.” 

She pauses for a moment, then adds, “And while I might wish to hypothesize that your behaviors are simply the result of ignorance, your proud eyes deny it immediately.” 

Annette grabs a wide bowl as she listens, opening a bag of small seeds and pouring them into it. She opens the window above the sink and sets it down on the cozy windowsill outside, ready for Harold’s consumption in the morning. 

“Am I still dismissed for the evening, Miss Jones?” Annette replies at last. 

“In a moment, Miss Baker,” Cordelia steps forward, crossing her arms over her chest. “I want you to kneel.” 

“Kneel, Miss?” 

She snaps, pointing at her feet. “Kneel.” 

“Are you quite sure that’s necess-,”

Cordelia snaps again impatiently. “I have given you an order, Miss Baker.” 

Annette releases her breath and shakes her head in disbelief. She drops her shoulders, walking towards Cordelia and lowering herself down onto her knees. The hardwood floor is rough and solid against her legs. Cordelia drops a hand to Annette’s jaw, tilting her head upwards to meet her gaze with eyes glistening. 

“I welcome your attitude, Miss Baker,” her voice is low and direct. “You might even say I find it endearing.” 

“T-thank you, Miss.” 

“If you were my sister, I would love you dearly.” 

“Miss?” 

“Remain here, Miss Baker,” she declares. “In this exact position. I will return in a short while.” 

“Where are yo-,” 

“In this exact position, understood?” 

Annette sighs, hardly caring to conceal her feelings. “Yes, Miss,” she says quietly, refusing to meet Cordelia’s eyes and trying to shove away the myriad of feelings inside of herself. 

“Very good,” she clicks her tongue and exits the room. Annette can hear her retrieve her coat from its place on the rack and the door opening and closing. The lock ticks shut quietly behind her. 

 

*****

 

Annette remains dedicated to the task for only a quarter hour. The hardwood quickly grows uncomfortable on her knees and shins so she unfolds them out from under her. She crosses her legs, sitting down casually onto the floor and resolving to quickly return to her position once she could hear the front door lock jingle. 

After a half hour, she abandons her place in the center of the kitchen floor, electing to lean her back against the lower cupboards and recline. Where could she possibly have gone? And what is the benefit of forcing me to remain here? 

When the church belltower a few blocks away finally chimes the nine o’clock hour Annette relents even further, retrieving a stray book from a nearby shelf and pulling a pillow down onto the floor with her to cushion her bottom. Cordelia couldn’t possibly expect her to actually remain kneeling the entire hour, could she?

She’d selected a random book, plainly entitled, “Forms and Conceptions of Consciousness: A study in three parts.” It’s a thick, leather bound tome tucked away with one of Cordelia’s scattered piles of cases. It seems to be a part of a more recent investigation, though Annette isn’t sure why it’s relevant. 

She flicks through the pages absently, letting her eyes wander over various passages and study the intricate diagrams. The author, Sir Lord Hemslem Kent, must’ve been well-respected for his research. The tone is authoritative and complex, postulating on a range of topics from altered states of consciousness to religious descriptions of the soul to roundabout musings regarding the occult. Annette can’t fathom why it would be related at all to any of Cordelia’s cases, so she places it back onto the shelf and returns to waiting. 

A quarter hour later and her curiosity and boredom overcome her. She pulls out the rest of the case materials with it, piling them up in a large stack to her left. Annette considers each item individually, eventually laying it flat in front of her and returning to the next piece. As various themes begin to emerge, she slowly begins organizing the files, laying them out and placing perceived connections next to each other. It’ll be a great deal to clean up before Cordelia returns and she resolves to move rapidly once she hears any noise outside. 

Sir Lord Hemslem Kent died, according to a letter written from a woman Annette eventually concludes is his niece, Lady Wilva Kent. She writes that the doctors claim he suffered a heart attack, though she is convinced they are incorrect. She maintains that his demeanor changed rapidly in the days before his passing, turning harsh and vile, and insists that he must have been possessed. Wilva asserts that his demise was caused by the spirit growing tired of the fight her uncle must’ve wagered against it, leaving his body to succumb to death as it left him. 

Next, Annette inspects a strange, narrow jar of bones. They appear to belong to a small rodent, perhaps a gopher or large rat, though the skull is notably missing from the collection. A few rose petals drift in between the bones. 

She also notices a ledger of his finances, which appear to be in good order, as well as a number of undeposited bank notes. There’s no record of the notes on his ledger, and it appears he must’ve passed before registering them. Their subject is left blank. 

Cordelia wrote a variety of stray notes on scraps of paper, which Annette keeps together in a small pile. They’re jumbled and seem half-finished. Inspect Morridin. Visit bank on a Wednesday. Request appetizers from Wilva. Banquet rescheduled. Wilva grieving, remind desk. Page forty-six, not forty-eight. 

Annette pokes through Hemslem’s book, reading over pages forty-six and forty-eight. She’s unable to pry any sort of connection between the two. Page forty-six discusses a particular story about an exorcism performed by a nun nearly a hundred years ago and contests her accounting of it. Page forty-eight is a diagram of what Hemslem claims to be the ‘structure of a soul;’ which looks like a septagram superimposed over a human skull with confusing labels at each point. It’s difficult to tell if the model is his own or a reconstruction from someone else. 

As for the rest of Cordelia’s notes, it’s difficult to categorize them as evidence or simply reminders for herself. There’s no detail as to who Morridin is, and Annette struggles to make sense of ‘remind desk.’ The final clues make even less sense to her: a broken pocket watch, a trio of empty glass vials, and another letter from Wilva inviting Cordelia to a memorial banquet for Hemslem. 

Annette stares at the assemblage for a while, furrowing her brow and trying to detect patterns within Cordelia’s logic. Every time she ventures towards an idea, one of Cordelia’s notes troubles the waters for her. She wonders if it makes more sense with the extra context the detective was surely given when she took up the case. 

The second hour is nearly completed when Annette finally hears the door rattle softly. She scrambles, gathering all of the materials into a messy pile and plopping them onto a couch in the dark living room, throwing the pillow on top of them to cover her tracks. She slides down back to her knees in the kitchen just in time for the lock to finally click open, pushing herself into the most proper kneel she could muster. 

After placing her coat back onto the rack, Cordelia strides through the dining room and into the kitchen, throwing her hands in her pockets and grinning at Annette. Her hair has been pulled up into a messy bun and her lipstick is slightly smudged. She looks modestly disheveled and rushed, though there’s a delighted pep in her step. Annette even swears the collar of her shirt is carefully hiding a soft purple bruise. 

“You remained in place, Miss Baker,” Cordelia whistles, smiling contentedly. 

“Yes, Miss Jones.” 

“You look as though you truly haven’t moved a muscle.” 

“Where… where did you go?” 

“To visit a friend,” Cordelia shrugs, satisfaction beaming in her demeanor. “It had been too long since I’d come calling.” 

“Why did you want me to kneel, Miss?” Annette asks quietly, trying not to let her annoyance seep into her voice. 

“To remind you of obedience,” the detective walks around her, clicking her heeled boots on the floor with each step. She’s hardly looking at Annette, choosing to gaze around the room instead. “What did you learn from the experience?” 

Annette scowls, facing down at the floor and feeling a warm frustration bubble in her chest. “That I will never understand you.” 

Cordelia snorts. “I don’t believe that was the intended lesson. Try again, Miss Baker. We can always repeat the exercise.”

“Not necessary, Miss,” Annette’s voice deflates. She scrambles to think of a compelling answer, whatever will excuse her to return to her room as fast as possible. “I learned… that I shouldn’t question your orders. I should be obedient.” 

“Indeed? I’ll believe it when I see it, Miss Baker,” Cordelia is now behind her, pausing her circling walk. “What else?” 

“That I value your ownership of my contract,” she attempts to add more luster to her tone, though it feels disingenuous. “You are very generous to provide for me.”

Cordelia resumes her stride, exiting the room through the conversation area and circling back through the dining room. In her hands, she holds the pillow Annette had sat upon, amusedly spinning it between her palms. 

“Who killed Mr. Hemslem?” She asks, something hidden behind her words. “And why?” 

“I wouldn’t know, Miss Jones,” Annette continues staring at the hardwood, only occasionally allowing her eyes to flick up at the detective. “This is the first I’m hearing of Mr. Hemslem.” 

“Would you rather I believe you exited your posture to clean the shelves again instead? I’d much prefer to examine your curiosity than your hygienics, Miss Baker.” 

Annette is clearly caught, so she relents. She drops her shoulders, forgoing the need to keep a proper kneel together. “I am unsure, Miss… I’m sorry for disobeying your explicit orders. Please be merciful.” 

“Oh, I don’t care about that, Annette.” Cordelia sighs and repeats, “Who killed Mr. Hemslem?” She tosses the pillow at Annette, forcing the servant to react quickly to catch it. “Retrieve the case, if you would be so kind.” 

“Yes, Miss Jones.” Annette rises carefully, collecting the materials and bringing them back to the kitchen. Without thinking, she lays them back down on the kitchen floor, lowering herself and recreating her previous organization. 

“These are the full facts of the case,” Cordelia supplies, lowering herself to the floor as well and surprising Annette. She looks up at the owner, and from a closer view she’s convinced Cordelia is hiding a hickey underneath her shirt collar. 

Annette clears her throat, trying to refocus her curiosity to the case instead of Cordelia’s sudden disappearance and disheveled reappearance. “I cannot fathom your notes, Miss Jones. They don’t make sense.” 

“Who killed Mr. Hemslem?” She replies, deflecting quickly. 

“How am I to know, Miss Jones? I don’t have the required context.” 

“Neither did I,” Cordelia grins. “Suppose this is all the information you possessed. What do you believe happened?” 

Annette sighs and thinks for a long moment. She crosses her legs and leans back onto her hands, locked at the elbows. “He died of a heart attack,” she asserts. “I don’t think it was natural.” 

“So you agree with Lady Wilva’s claim of occult involvement?” 

“Not at all.” 

“And why not?” 

“I don’t believe in the occult.” 

“You were raised by the Sisters, yet you don’t believe in the occult? Nigh impossible, if you ask me.”

“It isn’t real. They just use it to scare people.” 

“If you say so, Miss Baker,” Cordelia purses her lips. 

“I don’t understand how, or necessarily why, but I believe someone instigated Mr. Hemslem’s heart attack,” Annette declares, though she’s hardly confident in her answer. 

“A bold claim. Who could’ve done such a thing?” 

“His niece,” Annette replies quickly, surprising herself. 

“You believe Lady Wilva killed her uncle?” 

“Yes,” she doubles down. 

“Explain your logic.” 

Annette attempts to collect her ideas together into a logical format, though it still feels like a tenuous grasp. “Lady Wilva signs her letters with, ‘As a servant of the Holy God Above.’ She’s religious, very much so. It would be thoroughly expected that she would assert supernatural influence in his death.” 

“And yet you believe this is a smokescreen, Miss Baker?” 

“Yes,” Annette exhales, feeling the jumble of instincts and observations she’d gathered over the last hour push forward. “Mr. Hemslem’s ledger doesn’t report these banknotes,” she grabs the stray papers, “and your own notes direct you to visit the bank to investigate. I believe Lady Wilva was attempting to siphon away his money, but was caught. She killed him to cover her tracks.” 

“She’s a holy woman, Miss Baker. How could she possibly be drawn towards such a vile act?” 

“I don’t know,” Annette concedes. “But you should see what the Priest at St. Bartholomew’s will do and still be considered holy.” 

“Indeed?” Cordelia makes a face as though to store that information for later. “Why would Lady Wilva then hire me to investigate? Why not just attempt to make his death appear natural without any of the fuss?” 

“I…” Annette furrows her brow. “I hadn’t considered that.” 

“You were swept up in the drama of it all.” 

“No…” she points a finger, picking up the small jar of bones and petals, an idea quickly condensing in her mind. “Lady Wilva didn’t have the tools to properly disguise whatever she did to harm him… so she planted evidence of occult involvement, like this… whatever this spooky jar is. Any reasonable detective could’ve figured her out, so she picked the one with the most eclectic background, expecting you to be carried away with the strangeness and be distracted.” 

“It rather sounds like you believe my reputation to indicate that I am a poor detective, Miss Baker,” Cordelia frowns. 

“Ahem,” Annette clears her throat, flushing nervously. “Clearly you discovered her intentions, Miss Jones. Perhaps she underestimated your ability.” 

“A serviceable save, Miss Baker,” Cordelia smirks. She rises from the floor, stretching her arms above her head for a moment. “Go grab your coat.” 

“Miss?” 

“Would you rather return to kneeling?” 

Annette shakes her head. Confused, she quickly dashes up the stairs and retrieves her new coat, throwing it over one of her casual dresses. She rejoins Cordelia in the foyer, where she has acquired her jacket as well. 

“After you, Miss Baker,” she says pleasantly, opening the door and gesturing for Annette to step out onto the porch. 

“Where are w-,” 

“Yes, Miss Jones, exactly as you say,” Cordelia mocks. 

Annette sighs, sticking her hands into her pockets and strolling down the steps onto the dark street below. The air is cool, though comfortable, and a coat is only partially necessary, though Annette appreciates it at least for the steadying weight. Cordelia turns left down Mill street, following it for a few blocks before taking another right onto Delmire avenue, a wide and worn street, carefully manicured and cultivated for the wealthier families who lived here. 

She begins to ask another question of Cordelia, only to quickly interrupt herself and remain silent. Better not to invoke her ire or ridicule any further. Cordelia walks alongside her gingerly, a clear and confident swagger in her step as she hangs her thumbs in her pockets. After a few more blocks, she finally turns and approaches one of the larger and more extravagant townhouses, unmistakable as the home of some member of the nobility. 

Cordelia knocks loudly despite the late hour, gesturing for Annette to reside on the top step with her. Annette complies, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot while she waits. 

“Oh, just ask, Miss Baker,” Cordelia mutters. 

“What are we doing here?” 

“We are testing your hunch.” 

“Why?” 

“Curiosity is its own reward,” the detective muses, “Don’t you agree?” 

“No,” Annette huffs. 

The door swings open, revealing the form of a tired and somewhat grumpy servant, sporting a more elaborate collar over a formal suit. He inclines his head politely, though his words are sharp and direct. 

“It is a late hour,” he declares, “To whom do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” 

“Detective Cordelia Jones,” the investigator nods, then gestures to Annette, “and her collar.” 

“Good evening,” Annette curtsies. 

“It’s Franklin, is it not?” Cordelia asks him. 

“Indeed, Miss Jones.” 

“Franklin, would you please summon your owner to meet us? Tell her Cordelia has pressing news regarding her inquiry and it cannot wait.” 

Franklin pauses, likely dreading the thought of bothering his owner this late, but he complies, waving the two of them inside and directing them to wait in the greeting room. Annette timidly sits down upon a luxurious couch, taking in the extravagance of the home all around her. Whoever lived in this townhouse was surely not someone Annette wanted the attention of. 

Cordelia stands, holding her arms against her back and squaring her chest as she always does, chin squarely cocked and a restrained smirk on her lips. “This is the fun part,” she whispers, leaving Annette entirely confused. 

Franklin returns a few minutes later, announcing, “Lady Wilva and her guest await you in the garden.”

He leads them through the house and down onto the back patio, where a modest garden surrounded by hedges creates a secluded and cozy environment, lit up by comfortable lanterns. An array of lounging couches have been placed together, creating a pleasant conversation area, currently occupied by two people: a woman Annette can only conclude is Lady Wilva Kent… and Lady Samantha Deveroux.

“What is it, Miss Jones?” The woman hisses, trying to hide her displeasure behind formaily but hardly succeeding. 

“I come bearing urgent news regarding Lord Hemslem and the investigation, Lady Wilva,” Cordelia answers, gesturing for the noblewoman to take a seat. “Would you be so kind as to dismiss your collar?” 

Samantha’s face flushes softly at the sight of Annette and her hungry eyes scan over the servant estatically. They flick back and forth between Annette and Cordelia, ravenous at the secret revealed directly before her. Annette blushes as well, lowering her face to the ground and refusing to meet Samantha’s gaze. 

Lady Wilva’s eyes narrow suspiciously. After a few tense moments she waves Franklin away, directing him to return upstairs and leave them be. “Aren’t you going to dismiss yours?” She glares at Annette. 

“Under the circumstances I believe you’ll want her to remain,” Cordelia replies.

“Well, get on with it,” she grumbles. 

“Should I remain as well?” Samantha asks, though Cordelia waves her to remain in place, undeterred in the slightest. 

“Is she trustworthy?” Cordelia asks, looking at Samantha for the first time. 

“She’s a dear friend, anything you say to me can be said before her.”

“Very well,” the detective nods politely, “Lady Wilva, I believe my collar here has uncovered your plot. She has gone so far as to accuse you of murdering the late Lord Hemslem yourself.”

“What!? How dare she!” Lady Wilva stands, thrusting a viscous finger in Annette’s direction and causing her to retreat deeper into the couch cushions. “I am a woman of God, I will not have her slander me so! Please inform me you’ll have her whipped, Miss Jones.” 

Samantha scoffs as well, once again flicking her eyes over Annette. “Scandalous,” she murmurs. 

“Unfortunately,” Cordelia holds out her hands, “Her conclusions have aligned with my own investigation. I also have concluded that you are culpable.” 

“W-what?” LadyWilva stammers. 

“I agree with Miss Baker.” 

“You can’t be serious!” 

“I am entirely serious, Lady Wilva,” Cordelia nods. “But there is no need for panic, I am sure we can come to a simple resolution.” 

The noblewoman slowly sits down, eyes rapidly flicking between Annette and Cordelia. Annette’s heart pounds in her chest, hiding behind Cordelia as best as possible. 

“What do you suggest, Miss Jones?” 

“It is easy enough to make a collar disappear,” Cordelia proposes. 

“What!?” Annette stands quickly, backing away from the two of them. 

“Sit down, Miss Baker,” Cordelia threatens, her eyes staring daggers at Annette and her voice undertaking a hostility she hadn’t known the detective was capable of. Cordelia snaps her fingers harshly, pointing for Annette to return to the seat she had taken when she arrived. After a tense staring contest, Annette slowly lowers herself down, feeling her face grow pale and sweat forming in her palms. She risks a glance over to Samantha, silently requesting her help, only to see the noblewoman shake her head slowly. 

“Miss Baker is the only other soul aware of this accusation, Lady Wilva,” Cordelia continues. “I would happily remove her from the equation, at only the rate of double my usual services.” 

“There’s n-no need,” Annette sputters, “I’ll remain quiet. I won’t tell anyone!”

“She knows too much, Lady Wilva, and she is highly disobedient, as I am sure you can tell,” Cordelia directs. “She wouldn’t be missed.” 

Lady Wilva is quiet, ignoring Annette’s frightful pleas. She ponders her options for a long moment, eventually sighing and saying, “Very well, Madam Detective.” 

“Excellent,” Cordelia smiles. “I am entirely happy to maintain your secrets, I can see us having a highly lucrative relationship.”

“We simply need to dispose of the collar?” 

“No, please!” Annette stands again. “I promise I’ll remain quiet!” 

“Hush, Miss Baker,” Cordelia scoffs. “Have you the same means as with Lord Hemslem?” She asks the noblewoman. “It wouldn’t be difficult to make it seem as though they both befell the same demise to a spirit. Perhaps involved in the same occult conspiracy.” 

“I… I have more poison,” she croaks in response. 

“That will suffice, Lady Wilva,” Cordelia smirks excitedly. “Now, if you’ll simply extend your hands, I would like to place you under arrest for the murder of your uncle.” 

“What!?” 

“It seems you just made a confession of guilt before three eyewitnesses,” the detective gins, eyes glimmering with victory. “As well as conspired to commit yet another murder.” 

“I’ve done no such thing!” 

“You just did,” Cordelia turns to Annette. “Don’t you agree, Annette?” 

Annette coughs, trying to recover from the whiplash of the moment. “I-indeed she did, Miss Jones.” 

“Lady Deveroux will vouch for me!” Lady Wilva cries out, pointing at Samantha and stomping her foot. “No one will believe your baseless accusations!” 

Samantha sips a drink politely, observing the scene before her. Annette can’t fathom the calculus that must be moving through her head, slowly shifting her gaze from Lady Wilva, to Cordelia, to Annette, and back again. 

She locks eyes with Cordelia for a long moment, then quietly says, “Who am I to impede the rule of law, Lady Wilva?” 

“Oh, I love it when it all comes together!” Cordelia brags, grabbing Lady Wilva’s hands and pulling a small pair of cuffs from her pockets to bind them. “A bold strategy, Lady Wilva, but as it seems, not nearly clever enough to fool even my collar. Annette, go fetch Franklin and request that he call the police.” 

 

– – – 

 

Walking back to their home at 167th Mill Street, Annette can hardly believe her evening. After the police had arrived and taken Lady Wilva away into custody, she’d gone on the record with Cordelia to attest to the confession along with Samantha. She’d never seen Cordelia so satisfied, grinning like a madman through the entire process. For her part, Annette had simply stood in the back of the room and tried to recover from the ordeal, unable to wrap her mind around the whole situation, while carefully avoiding any familiarity with Samantha, who was continually trying to gain her attention with little subtlety.

“Brilliant work,” Cordelia chimes proudly, strolling at a less leisurely pace than before. There’s an eager bounce in her step, as though any moment she could break out into a full sprint. 

Annette is unsure of how to reply, walking quietly while struggling to keep pace with the detective. Had she really just used her as a ploy to prompt a confession? How far was she willing to let that go? 

“You’re quiet,” Cordelia observes. “You’re never quiet. Why are you quiet?” 

“Still processing, Miss.” 

“What for? We just solved a case together! You were brilliant.” 

“Miss Jones… were you really willing to sacrifice me so easily?” 

Cordelia halts her walk, furrowing her brow and glaring at Annette. “It was never going to go that far. I could tell she’d fold quickly. Honestly I’m considering allowing you to take a look at a handful of other cases with me.”

“You plotted to have me killed.” 

“You weren’t in any real danger, Annette.” Cordelia shoves her hands in her pockets again, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “These noble assholes… they fold so easily under the slightest pressure, like they want to confess and finally break out of their perfect little lives. Look at how easily her friend abandoned her in her moment of need!”

“She would have killed me.” Annette tries to push away the possibility that Samantha would just as easily leave her in danger. 

“No, she wouldn’t have.” 

“She already killed her uncle, why would she care about killing an unnamed collar? It wouldn’t have phased her at all.” 

“Like I said, I was there to prevent that from happening,” Cordelia sighs. “Are you going to keep complaining about this? We just solved a case, we should celebrate!” 

“Did we? It was almost like you were making it up on the spot.” 

“I had a plan.” 

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because your reaction sold it,” Cordelia replies defensively. “Your shock and fear and pleas for your life made her believe it. We should practice that reaction, it’s very versatile.”  

“So you’re just fine with doing that to me?” Annette runs her hands through her hair, trying to make sense of it all. “Did Penny have to put up with death threats, too?” 

“No.” Cordelia crosses her arms over her chest. 

“So just me!?” Annette can feel her face grow warm with anger. “Why on Earth would that be oka-,” 

“Enough!” Cordelia snaps, silencing Annette. “I won’t be talked to like this by a collar. It seems it was a mistake to believe you had an actual backbone.” 

Cordelia walks away briskly, once again making her way home. Annette wants to remain silent, to simply accept the reality of the situation and move on, but she quickly feels her bitterness and pettiness fester inside. 

“You didn’t solve it at all, did you?” She accuses as Cordelia arrives at the front steps of her home. 

“Preposterous,” Cordelia chuckles. 

“You didn’t! I solved it and you couldn’t handle that I figured out something you could not,” Annette continues, feeling a bristling heat in her chest, “so you wanted to punish me for it by scaring me.” 

“I believe we’ve already established you don’t fear me, Miss Baker.” 

“So I’m right!” Annette jabs a finger at her. “You didn’t solve it.” 

“Enough, Annette.” 

“I want you to admit it. You were fooled by a pompous, noble asshole.”  

“Enough.” 

“Just say the words, I solved a case that you couldn’t,” she gloats. “It took me an hour to figure out something you were stumped by for a week.” 

Cordelia whips back, suddenly grabbing Annette’s wrist and twisting it sharply. Annette gasps with the pain, feeling her body forced down to her knees as Cordelia’s nails dig into her arm and force her descent. In her eyes there’s an anger Annette hadn’t expected, fresh and jealous, and for a terrifying moment it’s impossible to predict what she might be capable of. 

“I… I will not be talked to like this by a collar,” Cordelia hisses, her voice low and harsh. Her grip tightens, accenting her point. “I will not tolerate your triviality. Do you understand, Miss Baker?” 

Annette’s face contorts with the pain as Cordelia continues to twist her arm, bending it to an increasingly unnatural position and forcing Annette’s entire torso to rotate to accommodate it. 

“Yes, Miss Jones,” she heaves. 

“Never again, Miss Baker,” Cordelia threatens, releasing her finally. She climbs the fews steps to the door, unlocking it and looking back at Annette with a disappointed fury in her eyes. 

“It seems you’re afraid of me now,” Cordelia sighs. She closes the door, leaving Annette’s trembling body kneeling on the hard brick walkway.