Chapter Eighteen 

 

Whether the snow that fell that morning represented their salvation or their condemnation, Annette was never sure. She knew only that it was portentous. Heavy flakes of ice flittered down from the graying skies above, and while the earliest dusting left a white blush across the ground, the later flurries quickly turned into a dank and dirty slush. It was not quite cold enough for snow, and yet no one had told the sky this fact, so it carried on snowing for the entire morning as though hoping that with enough effort it could halt history from being made. Annette never knew if history was made on this day or not, yet as she climbs the few stairs up onto the makeshift gallows platform, it is difficult not to feel the weight of it nonetheless. 

There was a crowd, though less of them than there might have been had it been more pleasant to stand underneath the sky’s gift, or curse. Were the Mallets safer if less of Bellchester could brave the cold? Could the danger be expanded should there be insufficient cover for their work? She shudders at the implication that citizens and passersby could enter into her mind as no more than cannon fodder for their crimes. Cordelia meets her eyes from a carefully selected spot nearby the platform, and pats her coat to remind Annette she was prepared to defend them both. 

Up on the platform, gazing out into the crowd with her coat tight against her chest, Annette finds herself thinking of Sister Pullwater. She’d want to see Annette for tea sometime soon, likely to scold and advise and otherwise provide unsolicited feedback on Annette’s decisions. She’s slightly surprised to discover she was looking forward to the encounter. They’d go to a cafe, or perhaps to the Sister’s office, and Annette would drink peppermint as she so often loved. Pullwater, relying on harshly constructed habit, formed out of concern and misjudgement and something like love, would begin with a barrage of comments about anything she found unsatisfying in Annette’s direction that particular day.

 Annette would grin and endure it easier than when she was younger and ask, “Are you quite finished?” 

“Of course I am not,” Pullwater would huff, “though I see you now wish to speak. So speak.” 

“Generous,” Annette would quip back, taking a deliberately noisy sip. “Sister, it is wondrous to greet you, so poised as I am as a woman in love. You were right in some unexpected way, dear Sister.” 

“I often am.”

“Right you are,” Annette could nod or shrug, either of which would communicate some level of bemused disrespect that bordered on fondness. “I find myself completed by love. You may be surprised to find myself completed in such a way by a woman, and I will revel in the endless surprise I am sure that creates for you. Alas, I am happy.”

“Oh, Annette,” she would sigh, disappointed in such a way that an old mother who was not truly her mother must be. And yet, perhaps she would see the glimmer in Annette, witness a hidden twinkle in her eyes or a new laugh line across her face, and come to the correct conclusions about their origins. Perhaps, one day, Pullwater even could be moved to say, “Very well, tell me her name. Not so that I may condemn her, or even to intercess on her behalf, but simply that I might recognize her when you speak.” 

“You have met her. Cordelia,” Annette would reply with a lightness in her exhale. 

“I see. And would she be a woman you know I could respect, assuming I was not aware of such facts about her as this particular sin?”

“Assuredly not, dear Sister.” 

“Annette,” Pullwater would grumble again. She’d take Annette’s hand across the desk or the cafe table and she would hear her sigh deeply and heavily. Annette would then hope she would ask, “Does she at least treat you the way a good husband could be expected to? I understand she is no husband, but does she satisfy such standards?” 

“She does,” she would tell her. “I have never known another person, man or woman, to hold me in such high regard as she does.” 

There would be a pregnant pause, one in which neither Annette nor Sister Pullwater could be criticized for remaining in. She would sip on her tea more, and Pullwater would be too lost in thought to say anything more. It would be unlikely that they could stand to speak on such matters at any greater length or detail at this time. It would be even more unlikely for Sister Pullwater to tell her:

“Annette…” She would pause for a moment, debating if she truly contained the prerequisite softness in her heart to continue. “I know that you must know this… I… well, surely you would not be visiting me still if you did not believe this… Lord above, I am unsure of how to say that which I need to say.”

“Say it anyway,” Annette would comfort her. 

“I… I believe I am, in some unexpected way, relieved you have found such a life for yourself.” 

Sister Pullwater would likely not be able to say anything more in this moment. She could perhaps remind Annette that she is like a daughter to her. She could attempt to communicate deeper warmth through expression and body language. She might even stumble through another few words of vague appreciation. Pullwater would not likely be able to bring herself to tell Annette, “I am proud of the woman you are, and have always been.” And yet, Annette knows in that moment, she could feel Pullwater’s meaning, true and clear. Annette would see it in every visit with Judith, that the patterns were different this time around; the teaching no less strict, but the subject matter altered in some indiscernible way that would be improved from her own childhood. Pullwater would never apologize to Annette for anything, not be convinced she needed to, but she would guide Judith as though one had been made. 

The thought fills Annette with an unexpected peace as she stands upon the gallows, staring out over the city as a woman who could very easily never walk back down those stairs alive. The city gathers before her, and she before it, and for a profound moment Annette no longer feels the burdens of history, of intrigue, or even of guilt. Something would end today, even if that was her life. There was something comforting in this fact as well.

Failinis begins the proceedings like a man deeply aware of his own place in history, speaking with the weighted tones that surely all men who believe themselves to be great men must speak in. The square, which had previously been bustling with a nervous hum of whispers and snow, slowly halts its noise. His voice bounces across the courtyard, over the tops of perhaps a thousand people, and it carries farther and clearer than perhaps it would be if it had not snowed today. The flurries themselves have eased to a calm and unhurried descent, and the rooftops surrounding their outdoor courtroom are covered in a milky brightness. 

“Citizens of Bellchester, esteemed members of our great city,” Failinis begins, puffing out his chest underneath his surprisingly light overcoat. The cold hardly seems to be bothering him. “The Mallets intend to conduct these proceedings in a way that is respectable, both by the moral laws of the world and by the moral laws of our society.”

This was Annette’s moment to speak now. She clears her throat and steps forward, hands still buried deeply in her pockets. “When the defendant is brought before you, he is not to be viewed as a criminal immediately, however you may feel about him. This is a trial. We will explore and argue his guilt before you, and will recommend judgment to you, our jury.” 

Her hands jitter apprehensively at the thought that so many people could witness her all at once, could see and hear and judge her as she stands for their approval. She doesn’t ask for it, and knows that between her dress, her hair, and her political affiliation, it would be difficult to receive. Her eyes seek out Cordelia once more and are gently assured by the confident nod the detective tosses back at her. 

“We ask that you carefully consider the evidence, the morality, and the necessity of any judgment you render, dear Bellchester,” she continues. “Our cause is one which aligns with moral order, and our proceedings will follow such order as well, lest they call us vagabonds with no respect for law. However, we will not operate solely with the laws of our city or state in mind. We ask that you carefully consider moral law in your discernment.”

She steps back, allowing Failinis to once more take control of the proceedings. She hardly listens as he expounds upon his perspective of moral law, returning to a speech that was assuredly familiar to him. His great skill was that it was completely unrehearsed, and sounded better than many could do with a practiced speech. Failinis spoke entirely from the moment, drawing upon the speeches he had made before, as though this one was but one in a connected series of public announcements. Annette’s heart pounds in her chest and the warmth spreading in her cheeks bristles against the cool air blanketing them. 

When Failinis finally calls Mister Wemberly to appear, he does so while announcing that he will represent the prosecution versus the collar baron. Failinis would construct the moral argument and account for Wemberly’s actions, then present it to the city for their recommendation, much like a typical trial. And when Wemberly arrives, an expression on his face as though stepping into a blinding light after residing within a cave the past fortnight, Annette swallows her breath to make her move. 

“And I shall represent Mister Wemberly’s defense,” she declares. 

While the crowd has little reaction to such news, Failinis shoots a disgruntled glare at her. She meets his with a neutral and innocent look, and passes by him close enough to whisper, “I am assisting to keep the peace, as you requested.” 

He huffs in response, though a flash of displeasure crosses through his eyes. Whether it occurs out of a disdain for the idea of Wemberly receiving a defense from a Mallet’s member, or from the notion that Annette was going against his carefully crafted plan, it’s difficult to tell. Annette is repulsed by the idea as well, and it took a great deal of strategizing with Cordelia to finally settle upon this course of action. 

Failinis leans in close to her, passing off the gesture as nothing but a quick word, and complains, “This is not what I had in mind when I-,”

“It lends our trial legitimacy,” she rebuts just as rapidly, stepping away to prevent him from belaboring the point any further. “I invite the prosecution to present their opening arguments against Mister Wemberly, so that we might begin in earnest.” 

Another brief staring contest, but Failinis eventually nods and agrees to her terms. He seems to reassure himself that his case was easily strong enough, stepping back to the center of the stage and tucking his hands behind his back. Meanwhile, Annette shifts her mind back to focus, calling it to thread a careful line between equally passionate emotions: first, that Wemberly deserves no defense, especially not from someone such as her; and second, that Failinis, Darrius, could not be allowed to proceed uncontested. The scope of his plans still lay outside of Annette’s mind and were answered only by a speculative and patchwork theory assembled by Cordelia, which Annette had chosen to trust implicitly. There was no other option. 

Which was the greater potential for evil? Allowing or even supporting Wemberly’s escape, and in so doing, promoting a return to business as usual for Bellchester? Or, ignoring the compelling evidence that Darrius Winchester had, with the potential aid of no less than the wealthiest baron, constructed a false revolution for some mysterious purpose? Cordelia had theories, as always, and so did Annette, but at the end of the day there was nothing but intuition to rely on, and a shared reverence for the sacred Feeling. It consumes her on stage, and she draws upon it once more to guide her proceedings. 

“To summarize the guilt I shall place at Mister Wemberly’s feet,” Failinis begins, pacing at the helm of the stage like a general before his army on the field of battle, “one must first establish this point: to be held in bondage is unnatural for the soul of mankind. Man was not made for captivity, and as such, the experience of such captivity is an experience of violence.

 “Further,” he pauses, fist on his lips to collect his thoughts and to enable the crowd to rest in his words, “it must be understood that because this captivity is unnatural, it must likewise be unnatural to bend another into such a state. This is to say that it is an act against nature to hold another man in bondage, and because bondage is experienced as violent and unnatural, to capture and control another person is to enact violence.” 

Annette steals a glance with Mister Wemberly, who for the moment, appears to be grappling with his mortality. Staring at the gallows that have been constructed, he seems to settle into the realization that the noose there was crafted for him. It was not simply rope curled into a delicate knot; it was a skillful peace of craftsmanship filled with the expectation of his neck. He seems, for the first time, actually afraid. Annette’s sense of pity stirs frustratingly in her gut. 

“It is this very crime of violence I accuse Mister Wemberly of,” Failinis continues, “the violence of promulgating the captivity of fellow humans.” He clears his throat and treads along to the opposite side of the platform, not directing his speech towards the left side of the audience. “Building upon this, we must likewise establish that not only is it criminal to enact such violence, it must be even more so to profit from it. Hear me, Bellchester, which is worse? Murdering one’s brother because a feeling of rage at being slighted has overtaken you, or murdering one’s brother simply to steal his inheritance for your profit? If it were me, I could find some reason to justify the former, that perhaps the slighting was so great the action is understandable. I could not, however, excuse the corruption of greed leading one to enact violence. There is no dignity, nobility, or honor in such a deed.” 

Annette tucks her hands into her pockets as though just remembering that they were cold. She partially regrets not taking the gloves Cordelia had offered her as they left 167 Mill Street that morning. Cordelia, for her part, is frowning as she listens to Failinis. It’s an expression that Annette has grown to recognize as a sign of her deep in thought, particularly when she didn’t have the answers she so desperately wanted. Her eyes scan the crowd almost frantically, though Annette can’t tell what she might be searching for. 

Meanwhile, Annette rehearses in her head what she would need to say to combat Failinis. She’d never fully decided how she would go about her defense, torn between two equally unsatisfying options. She could try and honestly defend Wemberly, as repulsive as the thought might be. It’s what the collar baron would be hoping for, what he would be expecting for her to do based upon their prior agreement. Annette hardly cares about betraying his trust to gain information, but perhaps she might benefit from not burning that bridge just yet. The other option would be to deliberately construct a poor defense, going through the motions just to be an active member of the events, and try and use that time to piece together whatever Failinis might be attempting. She’d be a passive observer of the events, but she would be there. And she wouldn’t entirely lose the faith of the Mallet’s leader just yet. 

“The culpability of Mister Wemberly in these crimes is not a question of discussion for this trial,” Failinis declares, his head swiveling back to glower at the baron for a hostile breath. “Every collar in this city knows and recognizes the guilt that he holds in his deeds. Their contracts sport his signature. Their collars have his fingerprints. Their keys are copied and held in his offices. It would be truly insane to suggest he was not at the center of these actions.

“As such, Bellchester, I ask you to litigate instead the morality of his behavior. He’s broken no laws of our government, which is to say that he has not violated the flawed ideology of power and its entrenchments.” Failinis nods resolutely, lifting his hand as he speaks to emphasize his point. “The laws he has broken are the sacred laws of humanity, of dignity. I ask that you, our jury, consider the legitimacy of governance as it stands before you. Do you wish to live in a world in which a man such as Mister Wemberly can continue acting in such a way without consequence? Indeed, he’s celebrated by our government for his deeds. If you, like me, believe the world ought to look differently than it does today, Mister Wemberly must be held to account. Not by the laws of our state, but by the laws of our nature.” 

Failinis shares a glance with Annette, which she understands to be his courtesy of letting her know it would be her turn to speak soon. She appreciates the gesture, though it does reignite the shivering in her bones. Her stomach churns uncomfortably as she races to gather her thoughts. She tries to share a look with Cordelia, but the detective is still scanning the crowd like danger could erupt at any moment. 

“It is my recommendation that we see this trial as an opportunity, dear Bellchester,” the Mallet’s leader drops his tone lower, more somber. The crowd pulls forward quietly, enraptured by his every word. “I joined this movement for this very reason, to seize an opportunity for change. The Mallets may not have always been the popular movement of our society, but we nonetheless voice its needs. We are willing to do what must be done to shape our world. So we ask you, our jury, to join us in this mission today, to use your power to assist us in rebuilding a world that is free from the scourges of captivity. We’ve already ended the slavery our empire feasted upon; let us now end the servitude that replaced it.

“I will now allow my colleague to present her arguments, and I ask that you hear her earnestly and faithfully. She has been a partner in all that the Mallet’s have done, and often I find that she is the true voice of all that we are.”

He remains quiet for another long breath, looking as though he might have more to say, but he doesn’t. Failinis simply turns back to the crowd, almost smiling, and declares, “You must consider Mister Wemberly guilty. The prosecution rests.” Failinis steps back, places a reassuring hand on Annette’s shoulder, squeezes it, and whispers, “Don’t betray us again.”

The pressure of his hand on her arm suddenly increases in force, a clear reminder that he was not just an articulate speaker. Annette contorts her face to keep it neutral, attempting to deny him the satisfaction of seeing her nerves. She settles into the understanding of his threat: Annette was already burned in his eyes. There would be no return to the trust she held in his eyes before. By standing up to defend Mister Wemberly and complicating the trial, she was now a target. 

And now, the eyes of Bellchester assembled before her fixate upon her, and Annette’s mouth runs dry. She takes a timid step forward, searching for her wit and her words that have always served her before… and finds herself unable to bring anything to speech. She opens and closes her mouth, wordless, and tries again with no success. Another attempt fails. 

Her hands, still buried in her pockets, begin jittering nervously as the silence pulls forth from the crowd. They’re eagerly awaiting her and somehow she has nothing to say. She’d come to rely on the automatic nature of her cleverness, never really needing to think for very long before speaking, but suddenly she finds it is not enough. She talked her way into the largest stage of her life, standing at the precipice of what was surely a pivotal moment in whatever was to come, and now she finds herself unable to meet the moment. 

“Defense?” Failinis mutters behind her. 

She swallows another attempt to speak and nods anxiously. Annette takes another step forward, as though the movement would jostle something, but feels just as frozen as before. It’s as though the snow itself has steeped into her bones and frosted through her, leaving her an immovable husk. 

“Say something,” Wemberly calls out, breaking the silence. “Defend me!” His voice bounces through the silent yard, echoing off of the far row of homes. 

Annette turns slowly to gaze upon him, his wrists shackled together, his knees pressed into the hastily constructed wood. He looks so much less polished and distinguished than she was used to. She’d come to know him as a man who kept his composure at all times, even stubbornly so; and yet, here he was begging for her help. His eyes scream out his fear and his repulsion, and Annette meets his hungry stare wordlessly. 

“W-what we talked about? Remember?” He sputters, nodding like a gambler assuring a loan shark he was good for the money. “Defend me.” 

Annette tips her head to indicate she would, but pulls her face away. She turns back to the audience, refusing to even glance at the Mallet’s leader to her right. To her relief, Cordelia seems to recognize her struggle. The detective flicks her wrist in a subtle motion to call Annette forward, and it takes the girl another nervous breath before deciding to shuffle to the edge of the stage. She kneels down at the side, feeling frantic and suddenly unsure of herself. 

“I can’t do this!” she hisses down at the detective, her voice hushed and erratic. 

“We both know that’s not-,”

“My mind’s just gone blank,” Annette interrupts. “There’s nothing. I have nothing to say.” 

“Just stick to the things we strategized.” Cordelia shrugs, but then her eyebrows lower and she seems to read deeper into Annette’s panic. “Forget that. You have an idea.” 

“No, I have no idea-,”

“You do, clever woman,” the detective smirks. “You’re just afraid of it.” 

“Clearly you have an idea. Just tell me what to say!”

“Red?” Failinis calls out behind her, taking a few steps forward.

Annette jolts in place, quickly tossing a rushed, “Just a moment!” to him before turning back to Cordelia and pleading for her help. 

The detective seems unphased and undeterred, and if the pressure of an awaiting crowd weighs on her at all, she’s unbothered by it. She leans in closer to the edge of the platform and simply says, “Where are the police?”

“Can we deal with this problem first!?”

“Listen to me,” she shakes her head. “Take a breath. Do it. You’re not doing it - take a breath, Annette.” She waits for Annette to comply, ignoring the unamused scowl on the girl’s face. “Ask the question: where are the police?” 

“I need you to help me right now.” 

“I am,” she insists. “The biggest, most public move the Mallet’s have ever attempted, and there’s no police? You’re threatening to execute a baron, and there’s no response?” 

“Sure, it’s strange. I don’t see how it-,”

“I can see it in your eyes that you know what you want to do with all of this information,” Cordelia tucks her hands behind her back. “I don’t think you need my help, I think you’re asking for my permission to obey the plan in your head and abandon ours. You don’t need it, by the way, but it’s yours.” 

Annette glares at her, searching for the knowing tingle at the base of her neck that might suggest an instinctual understanding of the situation, but she finds nothing. She lets out a low groan, shaking her head frustratedly. “I don’t feel it.” 

“All is not lost,” Cordelia places a hand on Annette’s arm, careful that it looks reassuring and not romantic. “The stage is yours, and you are more than capable of filling it. Work through it the way you would with me; just do it before the crowd.” 

“Are you sure you can’t-,”

“This has been, and always will be, your case, Miss Baker,” she smiles, proud and loyal, “and I am, and have been, your sidekick this whole endeavor. I wholeheartedly trust you to complete this as you see fit because I know what you are capable of. Show them the woman I so ardently believe is capable of pulling this off.” 

With that, Cordelia steps away, putting pressure on Annette to return to the center stage. Annette walks back reluctantly, and she paces back and forth as all eyes in the square affix to her once more. She takes a long breath, and then another, trying to piece together the disparate array of thoughts she has within her mind. It takes great courage for her to turn back to face the audience, feeling Wemberly and Failinis watching her back, and she begins to speak. 

“I joined the Mallets by accident,” she begins, pressing through the awkwardness that sits in her throat. “My first affiliation with them was not one in which I expected to lead me into joining their side, but I found myself swept into the importance of the work. There I was, a runaway collar, and finally simply another person within a larger group who believed me to be worth more than my service.

“Collar service saved my life,” she continues, surprised by her own willingness to lay her heart out bare for all to see. “It’s a wretched truth, but I was starving on the streets before I entered a collar house. I was then lucky enough to find myself serving in the home of a woman who shortly thereafter became a dear friend of mine. I consider myself to be the preeminent example of success for such a system, and as such, I hope this conveys then the shortcomings of the system entirely. Even its best case scenario feels a desire to escape, a desire for freedom.” 

She takes a shaky breath, pulling her hands from her pockets and intertwining her fingers in front of her stomach to steady herself. Where are the police? The thought bounces again in her head as she scrambles to assemble the importance of that fact. Annette steals another glance at Cordelia, who gently nods in encouragement. 

“As a representative of the defense for Mister Wemberly…” Annette pauses, wrestling with her chosen direction. She settles on an idea slowly forming, neither a true defense of Wemberly or a feigned one, but an unforeseeable third option. It would be a risky idea, and might indeed backfire horribly, but she resigns herself to the inertia of the decision. “As a representative of his defense, I will not be litigating the morality of his actions, nor will I even be attempting to defend them as acceptable. Instead, I shall challenge the legitimacy of the prosecution.” 

Behind her, Failinis lets out a bemused snort, and Mister Wemberly guffaws incredulously. Annette ignores them both, moving closer again to the edge of the stage so that she is easily beheld by the whole of the crowd. A timid, ineffectual glimmer of an idea brambles forth from deep inside just as Cordelia claimed, and Annette resigns herself to obey it. What was this case if not a test of her instinct? 

“My colleague representing the prosecution has made the assertion that Mister Wemberly is guilty of the crime of violence for the pursuit of greed,” Annette holds her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she fights to state clearly her next words. “It is this very crime, violence for the pursuit of greed, that I would now like to accuse Mister Failinis of.” 

A hush of whispers shoot out across the crowd at the accusation, and Annette hears the wooden floorboards of the platform creak as Failinis shifts his weight, likely frustrated and amused by her chosen defense. She waits for the crowd to settle enough to speak again, and while they never return to the quiet state they held before, Annette decides to continue. 

“It is no secret that the Mallets have assassinated multiple barons of industry within Bellchester,” she asserts, hoping the rest of the city had caught up to the understanding these murders were their doing. “My first introduction to this crime lay in the death of Mister Bembrook, who I was investigating for an unrelated affair. That investigation was cut short by his untimely death, which my partner and I eventually traced back to the Mallets.

“Bear with me, please,”she assures them, worried her speech might seem too irrelevant. “Now, we initially believed Mister Bembrook might have died as a result of a squabble with a nobleman, Lord Brimwell, over a land claim. We had a letter in Lord Brimwell’s hand that provided enough clear motives to suggest this, and an interview with him that corroborated such passions within him. However, with my unexpected entry into the Mallet’s, I concluded that it was they who were actually responsible for his death. 

“Yet… the story of Lord Brimwell and Mister Bembrook has never quite left me. I held onto an understanding this might be relevant of some sort, and it was not until very recently that I believe I have an appreciation of why this may be. To connect this point, and my overall accusation against the prosecution, I must unfortunately commit a sin against the Mallets before you now… Failinis is a cover name. His true name is Lord Darrius Winchester.” 

Annette hardly hears the scattered gasps and exclamations from the crowd before a hand suddenly clasps around her arm and wrenches her back. She stumbles as she’s pulled, nearly clattering down to the ground, and if it had not been for her boxing practice with Cordelia she’s sure she would not have maintained her balance. Failinis tosses her back so that he may take center stage once more, and as she steadies herself she hears him call out, “I must raise an objection! This is an entirely false accusation that may be easily remedied. My true name is in fact Samuel, and I’ll not provide my surname for fear of retribution. I’ll not stand fo-,”
“She’s right, isn’t she?” A voice interrupts from the side of the stage. 

Annette whips her head to follow the sound, surprised to find Patrick ascending the stairs to join them. He struts forth with his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed into a firm line. He shakes his head and glares at the Mallet’s leader. 

“That’s why you killed Jarl, isn’t it?” Patrick asserts. “He discovered it, too.” 

“Is this truly the avenue to abandon the cause?” Failinis jabs back. 

“Continue your argument, Red,” Patrick nods to her. Failinis moves to prevent her, but Patrick pulls a pistol from his pocket and aims it at him. “This is supposed to be a trial, isn’t it? If she’s wrong, you can refute her afterwards. But for now, I want to hear what she has to say.” 

Annette shares a relieved glance at him, though he doesn’t meet it entirely. He still seems apprehensive of it all, taking a risk he may never have expected himself willing to do until this moment. Not altogether different from what Annette was doing as well. She nods and smirks weakly, “Thank you, bailiff,” and then turns back to calm the crowd enough for her to speak once more. 

Where are the police? 

“His name is Darrius Winchester, of the Winchester family,” Annette affirms once more. “The leader of the Mallets is a member of the nobility, striking up a charge against the barons. It seems difficult to believe, unless we once again reexamine the battle between Lord Brimwell and Mister Bembrook. According to Brimwell, Bembrook wished to use his newfound money to force his way into the status of nobility without birthright; and such an act is a great sin in the eyes of men like Brimwell. There is a struggle between these two groups, held far above the everyday world of Bellchester. Barons versus Gentry.

“I have had the unexpected privilege of finding my way into these spaces and witnessing these dynamics at hand. It is a battle of old money versus new, birthright versus industry, and it is one that rages far above the world of the working man. That is, until a particular nobleman developed a novel strategy for subverting his industrial opponents: to mobilize the working man against them, all the while controlling them as they rise up.”

Cordelia watches Annette with a beaming expression of pride as she lays out her argument, and Annette feels settled in the appreciation that at least the detective would stand beside her. She refuses to turn back to meet Failinis’ gaze, and she’s sure it is sour and as vicious as a dog in a fighting ring. Where are the police? 

“The preeminent evidence for such corruption within the Mallets lay in the workings of Failinis’ former lieutenant, a man who I knew only as Jarl. Before his untimely demise, which we expect occurred at the hands of the…” 

It is then that Annette sees the pistol pointed at her, tucked securely into the sleeve of a long and flowing brown cloak. It stalks her from a place in the center-front of the crowd, carefully positioned in such a way that Cordelia would never be able to see it. Indeed, it would be difficult to notice by anyone not standing in the very position Annette was: the direct center of the stage. The forefront of the battle. And as her breath lurches in her throat, as her hands drop to her sides, as she suddenly and intimately grasps the danger she is in, the pistol fires.