Chapter Three - Annette

Living with Detective Cordelia Jones is not the easiest thing, and Annette is sure to attest to this fact. Loving her provides additional complications, at least in regards to the level of eccentricity one experiences, but one can be sure it’s a wholly unique lifestyle. In the roughly three-quarters of a year she’s known Cordelia she’s come to know her quite well; and with three of those months involving waking up beside her… well, some mornings she can just tell it is one of those days. 

“What do you mean they moved?” Annette scowls at her, taking a bite of her breakfast. She opted simply for oatmeal this morning, with a little cinnamon and honey. Cordelia, on the other hand, insisted on toast with jam and eggs, her usual. 

“They were in a different location than when I saw them last,” her detective answers simply, as though it is obvious. 

It isn’t unusual for Annette to rouse from bed to find herself alone amongst the sheets. She’s a heavier sleeper than Cordelia and doesn’t often shuffle awake at her leaving, and Cordelia is a fabulously poor sleeper. Some mornings, the indentation of the detective’s form is still clear, holding on to a residual warmth - and on those mornings, Annette will often cuddle up into it and enjoy the feeling. Most occasions, however, the spot has long since gone cold. 

It is slightly less common for Cordelia to be spouting nonsense so early. 

“I’m aware of the literal meaning,” Annette replies after another bite, chewing it slowly to summon forth her patience. “You’ve never been to Kereland, when could you possibly have seen the woods outside of Fieldston last?” 

“From the train.” 

“From the train,” she hangs the words into the air, hoping Cordelia will deduce how ridiculous it sounds. “From the train… in the dark.” A steadying breath. “And then, when you saw another forest later, you concluded the entire woods had moved.” 

“It did.” 

“It’s a different woods!” 

Cordelia snorts, incredulous. “Preposterous.” 

Annette chuckles nervously to herself, glancing down at her oatmeal and gazing over its contents. She locates a particularly honey-filled quadrant and brings her spoon to excavate it. “I can no longer tell if you’re joking, but I chose to believe you’re not presently serious.” She glances at the clock. “At any rate, Mrs. Drayburh should be here shortly. You ought to spend your time eating instead of hypothesizing the teleportation of wildlands.” 

Mercifully, Cordelia seems content to let the point rest. Or rather, as is more likely, would wait to gather more evidence before presenting such a theory to Annette again. 

Annette watches her and feels her body settle slightly. Even just the sight of Cordelia is comforting, taking in her motions and her expressions - the nearly constantly raised eyebrow, perpetually prepared to ask a question of the world around her; her thick and smooth skin which is so warm to the touch; the beautiful raven-black locks of hair that fall in loose curls around her head, tucked carefully behind her ears so they can’t tickle her face. 

Cordelia seems less settled. She takes a bite of her toast and makes a sour expression. “The bread tastes different than it ought to.” 

“Give it a day, you’ll adjust,” Annette replies, undeterred from the responsibility of making sure she eats. 

The detective makes a pouting expression and suffers through another bite, evidently resolving herself to finish as much as her stubborn constitution will allow. Annette is sure she’s having a raging debate in her mind of the differences in flavor profile for yeast in places outside Bellchester, curiously and scrupulously challenging her own assumptions of what bread ought to taste like. 

Or, at least Annette hopes so. 

Patty Drayburh arrives at the door while they’re still at the table, and Cordelia has forced herself through eating at least half of the breakfast Annette has made for her. Progress. 

“How did you find your lodgings, Miss Jones?” She asks, holding her heavy hands at her diaphragm. Annette briefly shudders at the mistake of asking Cordelia a question that requires opinion while she’s in this sort of mood. 

True to form, her detective replies, “Functional. Though the upstairs bathroom has quite a draft-,” Annette gives her a look and Cordelia quickly adjusts course. “Quite lovely, indeed. Ahem, I enjoy a draft.” 

Whether or not Mrs. Drayburh believes her is lost behind the Emrishwoman’s frigid scowl. 

Well, we’re not here to make any friends. Off to a great start. 

The carriage ride across the hills to the Cunninghill home is quiet, adorned only by the shuddering of the lacquered wood and the clomping of horses’ hooves. Cordelia keeps her head affixed to the window, gazing out across town and surely building a mental map of it even from a distance. 

The Cunninghill estate, unaffectionately nicknamed Hill Castle by the local Kerish, sits at the crest of a large mound overlooking the city below. Its front gate opens to a winding path down into Fieldston, whilst most of its land descends down the backside of the hill and off into the surrounding country. 

The Drayburhs deposit them at the front door, bidding a disinterested farewell and muttering something about spending their morning reading and cleaning at home, available should their services be required any further. Annette doesn’t expect to come calling on them anytime soon. 

Hill Castle, despite looking down on the town with an imposing view, is a relatively unremarkable estate - not nearly matching either the size or grandeur of some of the nobility in Bellchester. It looks positively modest compared to Lamishton, the Winchester Estate where Annette - 

She shoves the thought aside with a tightness in her chest. 

The servant girl who greets them at the door is Kerish, perhaps only a year or two younger than Annette. Around her throat is a stiff leather collar. 

When she sees Annette, the servant’s eyes flick down to her neck instantly, soberly glancing over her matching band. From there, she returns her gaze back up, a hint of sympathy tucked away behind a demure, servile neutrality. 

“Good morning,” she inclines her head, voice ringing out in the famed Kerish accent, soft and light and forming words in a pleasingly distinct dialect. It’s folkish and casual, and Annette likes it instantly. As she rises, her focus is entirely on Cordelia, careful to ensure she receives the proper attention due to the owner of a collar. “How might I be of service?” 

Annette looks at Cordelia, who has just as carefully read the microexpressions of disdain for their dynamic, and sees that she’s once again been served a reminder of the difference of their social status. She knows Cordelia hates it - knows that it makes her feel controlling and tyrannical and a host of wretched emotions that will surely set her spiraling. 

So she steps forth, hands respectfully tucked behind her back. “Detective Jones and Miss Baker, here at the request of Mr. Cunninghill.” 

The servant’s polite demeanor cracks just enough for her to cock her head, glance over the tall, dark-haired woman before her and ask, “Detective?” 

A woman? Annette is sure that is the surprise that’s just played through her mind. It was a challenging enough idea in the urban Bellchester - surely it was even less conceivable in the countryside. 

“Bluebells or Campions?” Cordelia asks in response, dropping her hands into her pockets and allowing her brows to drop seriously. 

“I… I’m not sure I follow your meaning, Miss.” 

“Both are in season,” her detective charges on, “and I’ve noticed dirt under your fingernails. You seem a rather tidy sort of person, with a well-manicured appearance, Miss…” 

“O’Hinnley,” the servant offers. “Susie O’ Hinnley.” 

“O’Hinnley,” Cordelia completes. “I’d not expect you to neglect care for your nails as part of your thorough hygiene, thus, gardening must have been part of your morning duties. You’ve changed clothes since then from the mess the dirt caused, but you’ve yet to polish your nails.” She takes a satisfied breath, strutting along with satisfaction at her powers of deduction. Annette finds it endearing. “Both flowers are in season, and thus, I’m curious if you were tending to Bluebells or Campions.” 

Susie holds out her hands for her own inspection, then glances back up at Cordelia, wearing an expression between amusement and awe. “Campion, Miss. Very observant you are.” She steps to the side and extends an arm beyond the threshold, gesturing within. “Mr. Cunninghill is just this way.” 

The interior of the estate is more impressive than the exterior, full of imported furniture from the colonies - heavy dark oak, colorful tapestries, and ornate rugs. Susie leads them beyond the foyer and past the greeting room, depositing the two of them in the dining room of the home. A lone woman sits at a table with space enough for twenty others to sit. She’s not at the head chair, electing instead to sit deferentially at the right hand, and with such a massive table she seems rather small. 

“Ma’am, the detective that Mr. Cunningill requested, and her servant,” Susie announces. She bows, and with a flick of a hand the woman dismisses her. 

“Thank you, Susie,” is all she says, her voice frail. Her arms are narrow and boney, her hair wiry and just beginning to gray. Annette had never found proper use of the word waif until she’d met Mrs. Cunninghill, but that is how she appeared - reserved, sickly, neglected, and hollow. Turning to the two new guests, she croaks out, “Mr. Cunninghill should be down in a moment.” 

Silence hangs in the air, oppressive. 

Annette finds herself unable to bear it and attempts, “You have a very lovely home, Ma’am.” 

The woman simply nods in affirmation, shakily taking a sip of her tea. Cordelia considers her carefully, leaving Annette curious to know what conclusions she must be drawing about the source of her frailty. Illness? Grief? 

The wait continues and Cordelia grows bored quickly. Without much care for decorum, she begins ambling around the room, inspecting the various pieces of trophies from abroad. Regardless of perceived value she has no issue picking items up, turning them about in her hands, and making a curious noise in her throat as she replaces them carefully. 

Annette feels mildly embarrassed as Cordelia snoops through their items, though Mrs. Cunninghill doesn’t seem to even register the actions. She remains fixed upon her tea and the silence of the space. Annette can’t help but pity her, though she isn’t quite sure why. 

Boots thumping down the staircase alerts them to the lord of the house's arrival. They sound out metrically, purposefully, and soon Mr. Cunninghill fills the room with a newfound energy and life. 

He’s a tall man, encroaching well over six feet, and his form sits comfortably between slender and muscular. He wears his form proudly and easily, seeming more at home in his body than Annette knew a person to be. He’s Emrish, with the characteristic brown hair coiffed into a fashionable cut, with a set jawline and dashing smile. 

Despite not being inclined in any way towards the appeal of men, Annette begrudgingly concedes that he would be well regarded as a highly attractive specimen. 

“Detective Jones, a pleasure to meet you in the flesh. I’ve heard the most remarkable things about your work,” he greets warmly, even going so far as to stridently cross the room and shake her hand. His voice is a smooth tenor, with the cadence of a man who likely could sing, and sing rather well. “Algers Cunninghill, in the flesh.” 

His brilliant blue-green eyes find Annette. “And you’ve procured one of the locals for assistance, wonderful.” 

Annette loses the battle not to frown. “I’m not-,”

This time it is Cordelia’s turn to politely diffuse the outburst. “I’ve brought her with me from Bellchester, actually. She’s a valued partner in my work.” 

Algers pats a sporting palm on Cordelia’s shoulder, much in the way a man might greet a comrade, and pronounces, “Well, with luck she’s not inherited any of those pesky Kerish idiosyncrasies, then. Nature or nurture, eh?” 

Annette frowns deeper. 

“Neither,” Cordela says, a little sourly. 

“Pardon?” 

She decides not to press the issue. “How might I be of assistance, Mr. Cunninghill? I’m eager to learn more than your letter detailed.” 

“Lord,” he corrects, clearing his throat and never giving up his perpetual grin. “Lord Cunninghill, not that I’m particularly attached to such things. Simply important for a detective to be precise, don’t you agree?” Cunninghill glances over at his wife, who returns a weak smile, and returns his attention to Cordelia. “Now, a turn about the garden while we talk, perhaps?” 

Cordelia nods, and so Annette follows the two of them out from the dining room and towards the hallway, only for the Lord of the house to suddenly turn and face her. “Nothing further required from you, Miss,” he dismisses, eyes holding fast on her collar rather than her eyes. “Perhaps you could join Susie in her duties for the time being?” 

“She is my assistant,” Cordelia insists. A pause holds over them, and Algers blinks innocently, causing the detective to sigh and add, “She takes notes for me. I’ll need her to join.” 

Algers doesn’t abandon his chipper attitude as he observes, “She hasn’t got a notebook,” pointing an accusing finger down at her empty hands.

“I’ve an excellent memory, my Lord,” Annette attempts. “I take the notes down onto paper at a later time.” 

Cunninghill doesn’t seem to like it, but for the moment he acquiesces to including Annette in their trip outdoors. Despite the gloomy day, ripe for rain at any possible moment, Algers strides out comfortably in his trousers and button-down shirt, leaving the sleeves rolled up to his elbows much in the way of an athlete. 

The gardens extend only a little past the house, filled with a variety of flowers from breeds Annette would never be able to name. Cordelia watches them thoughtfully, likely categorizing them into various groups based on species simply for the sporting fun of it. 

Beyond the gardens, the property opens out into acres and acres of vibrant, mossy green hills, rolling into mounds like waves in the ocean. A wooden fence stretches farther than Annette can see, enclosing the space for the hundreds upon hundreds of sheep grazing throughout the area. She notices a pair of sheepdogs nipping the heels of the shaggy creatures, guided by a singular shepard ambling slowly behind them. 

“Do you have an affinity for sheep, Detective Jones?” Algers asks, resting his palms onto his hips and exhaling out over his property, resolutely content in its idyllic expanse. 

“It seems you do.” 

“They’re wonderful livestock. This breed? Wensleydales. The wool upon them is unmatched in either volume or quality,” he announces proudly. Annette had never known a Lord to care much for something like the upkeep of his land, but she notices him begin inspecting some of the cords tying the fence posts together and ensuring they were still holding from the seasons. He then kicks a boot up onto one of the cross beams and rests his palms casually over the top post, leaning on it comfortably.

Annette watches over the land along with the two of them, remaining a few steps behind Algers to avoid receiving any more of his attention. The land around Fieldston stretches out into rolling pasturelands as far as she can see, expanding across the whole of the northern view. South of the home is Fieldston, with its dozen streets and populace somewhere in the range of two or three thousand. To the east are more pastures and farmland and the railroad pointing to the coastline facing Emril. To the west are unremarkable, meager woods within a half-hours walk of the town, and a strange, boggy-looking set of mounds beyond them. 

“Any any rate,” Algers continues, shifting his focus from the livestock to Cordelia, “I’m sure you’re eager to hear the details of the case-,”

“Would you say those woods are in their usual position?” Cordelia asks, pointing to the west. 

He pauses, tilting his head in confusion. “I… erm… I suppose so, yes.” 

“Same as the day before?” 

Cunninghill now looks over to Annette, who can only offer him a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders and an expression that reveals her to be just as confused as he is. He considers Cordelia for a moment, possibly trying to ascertain her meaning, but he eventually returns to his usual grin and answers, “Yes, Detective Jones. Same as the day before, and the one before that.” 

He waits for a moment to ensure Cordelia is satisfied with the answer. Seeing no further reply, he continues. “Now - the case. As you may have noticed, Fieldston is a place bursting with promise; pasturelands more beautiful than any poet could profess to. We’ve been cultivating it into some of the most envied countryside in all of Kereland. But we’ve met a…” A pause. “Well, there’s an unfortunate obstacle to our progress.” 

“The Coven,” Cordelia supplies. 

“Witches. Devil-women. They’re comprised of the locals, and…” At this his eyes latch onto Annette once more, scanning over her red hair, her freckles, and resting finally upon her leather collar. His back straightens and he drops his boot back to the ground, stepping away from the fence to face Cordelia. He sighs. “Detective Jones, I should like what I say to be for your ears only.” 

“My assistant is indispensable-,”

“I’m afraid I must insist.” 

Cordelia looks ready to hold her ground, refusing to budge even an inch for the man. Annette, on the other hand, is less inclined towards provoking his particular ire while living in a home he owns, and relents. She bows her head to Cordelia, gives her a look that says it's alright, and departs to leave them to talk, resolved that she’ll hear it all from her detective later today anyway.

 

– – – 

 

As far as Annette is concerned, peeling potatoes feels a bit too on the nose. She’s been in Kereland for just over a full day, and somehow she’s already been delegated to the task of potatoes. To be sure, she’s also peeling carrots and dicing the occasional onion for the service of the kitchen - but the potatoes feel personal. 

Susie O’ Hinnley has plopped down on the stool beside her, wielding her peeler with an expert care, clearing rehearsed in the artform. The woman spiralizes each spud, taking great pride in disrobing it in a singular, springly peel. Annette is far less gracious with it, lopping off chunks as needed. She struggles briefly, not used to performing the task in the volume of crop needed to feed an entire estate for dinner, but soon she’s found a functional rhythm. 

So she sits in the pantry, trying to feel the importance of having returned to the country where she was born and orphaned so many years ago, and wonders if this is all she ought to expect from it. 

“Are there many handsome sailors in Bellchester?” 

Annette perks up, looking over at Susie with a mild surprise. The servant hasn’t even looked up from her work, evidently deciding it would be more enjoyable with conversation. “A few, I suppose.” 

“But it’s on the water,” Susie insists. “I’d expect there’d be heaps of ‘em.” 

Annette shrugs and tosses another lump of peel into the growing pile at her feet. “Not quite on the coast. Just a large river with access.” 

“I’ve never met a sailor, but I’m told they’re mighty fine to look at,” says the woman beside her. She glances up, brandishing a perfect, peeled spring with pride. “I’m going to marry one someday,” she declares. 

Ah. Boy talk. 

There’s worse things to discuss, as far as Annette is concerned, though only a few. She’d taken to avoiding the subject altogether given her situation - better not provoke the inevitable inquiries into her own romantic life. 

But it’s that, or sitting in silence. 

“He’d be gone half the year,” Annette counters. 

“I'll marry another one who’s gone the other half.” Susie’s face cracks into a mischievous grin. Annette decides she likes Susie. 

The servant woman, when not relegated to her second-class status, has a rambunctious energy to her, despite her otherwise innocent-seeming demeanor. She abandons her poise and her complaisance, sitting onto her stool with legs spread wide, back hunched over, and her curly red hair tied up into a ragged bow. She yanks up the sleeves of her dress and talks with a boisterous enthusiasm, develing even deeper and deeper into the accent of the region. 

She lifts her head up to Annette with a knavish glee. “Say, what’s the hardest part of an Emrish farmer’s wife and cow giving birth on the same day?” 

“What?” 

Susie leans forth. “Tellin’ which is which.” 

She hollers, kicking back in her stool delightedly as Annette puffs out a laugh that grows louder and louder the longer Susie’s cackles sound out. A small part of her resists the urge to be mildly irked, especially considering she’s entangled with an Emrishwoman herself. 

But another part of Annette feels something special. Susie doesn’t see her as Emrish, despite the lack of a Kerish accent. Neither does she see Kerish as synonymous with scoundrel or vagabond the way many in Bellchester did. No, instead she offers Annette the camaraderie of identity, something she’s scarcely felt before. 

Kerish meaning Kerish. Nothing more, nothing less. Not rogue, not trickster, not lazy, self-entitled, dirty, or fetish. Just… Kerish. 

So Annette gives herself into laughter and allows it to tend to that stinging feeling inside that she’d apparently grown used to. 

“I’ve got another,” Susie resets, heaving out her last heavy breath and steadying herself for the next joke. “What’s the first thing an Emrish man says after rescuing his tenant from a house fire?” 

“Hm?” 

She jabs a finger over her shoulder and puts on a mockery of an Emrish accent, formal and ridiculous. “The rent wasn’t in the fire, was it?” Then she cackles triumphantly once more, adding, “And he’s just as likely to throw em’ back into the fire once he learns they’ve not got it!” 

They giggle together as they work through the pile of vegetables to prepare, chatting and joking and enjoying making the chore less tedious than it otherwise would have been. Annette would still rather be assisting her detective in the case, eager to finally hear more about this coven at hand, but supposes that there are worse ways to spend time than chatting with Susie. 

“Have you got a man waiting at home, Annie?” Susie asks, now standing beside her at the cutting board with a pile of diced onions under her knife. She bumps her hips into Annette’s. “Handsome sailor, perhaps?”

A quick deflection. “With only Emrishmen to choose from?” 

 Susie snorts approvingly. “That’s a fair point.” She leans in close to deviously whisper, “I’d rather kiss the barnacles on the boat.” Another rousing laugh before she calms back into her work. “So, you’ve never been to Kereland?” 

“Not since I was very little.” 

“Hopefully it’s not too dreary for you.” 

Annette sets her knife down. “Dreary?” 

“Since the Hunger,” Susie replies as matter of fact. She shrugs and doesn’t look up from her work, a little shadow descending across her face. “Ma’ says we’ve not nearly the same liveliness after all that. I like it here, though I guess I never knew life before.” 

Annette had heard of the Kerish Famine her whole life. Most people insisted that it must’ve been the reason she was brought over to Emril as just a little girl, though it never really made sense to Annette why that would be. The Famine ended at least a decade before she was born, so it can’t have been the reason. 

But then again, its scar on Kereland is evident, even from the initial exposure Annette has had. Seabrook, Fieldston, even the surrounding country all seem… emptier than they ought to be. Abandoned houses dot the countryside, even some in town proper. The streets feel far less active than Bellchester, and not just because Fieldston was leagues smaller. 

Unsure of how to respond, Annette simply acknowledges, “There’s a lot of empty houses here.” She briefly thinks of her time living on the streets in Bellchester, considering how much easier it would be if there had just been a few abandoned houses to squat in. 

“Not for lack of people,” Susie returns. “The homes have all been snapped up by the landies, but no one can afford to rent ‘em.” The woman sounds a little defeated as she adds, “They’ll all be pasture lands soon enough.” 

Annette begins to sound out a reply, though isn’t quite sure what to say, when a knock on the door halts her. Cordelia pokes her head into the room and beams at her, bubbling with excitement. 

“Miss Baker? We’ve got our first lead.” 

Happy to see her, and enthusiastic to get on the case, Annette rises quickly and bids Susie farewell, thanking her for the conversation. 

“See you around, Annie Baker,” Susie smiles, though it fades just a little as she exhales and returns to her chores. 

 

– – – 

 

Annette’s first look around town proper isn’t an impressive one. Fieldston is more active now that the early afternoon has arrived, sporting a few dozen people mulling about its main avenue, lined with a variety of brick-and-mortar storefronts and scattered townhouses. It has something approaching a proper downtown, though its main road - aptly and unimaginatively named Main Street - is the only stone path, with lumping cobblestones cemented together. 

It’s strange to be in a place where most people shuffling about look like her. In Bellchester, if another Kerish woman and her happened to bump into one another in a market, most vendors would assume they were related somehow. Here, it’s the Emrish who form the minority - though it seems to be an established, profitable minority if wardrobe is to be believed. 

Cordelia struts along with purpose, letting the tails of her overcoat flick and snap in the fluttering wind. Her hair seems to bother her less, hopefully suggesting she’s feeling more settled within herself. 

And it’s revitalizing, matching the detective’s stride. Beside Cordelia, Annette feels capable of nearly anything, feels as though she’s a person of esteem and significance to the world. That, more than anything, is what Cordelia gives her - a sense of meaning, of drive. 

The sex is quite good, too.

Annette need not settle for survival, not when adventure could lie within her grasp. 

She’d grown up a reader, adored all the lessons taught to her by the Sisters, though she’d hated that most of the material she was offered involved the scriptures. As soon as she was old enough to work odd jobs for spare coins, or pilfer a few from an unsuspecting target, Annette was buying books. 

Books about adventure. Books about the world. Books about brave heroes and daring conquests. Better still was the day she learned of the far less popular works, scandalously brandishing women as adventurers themselves. The Ballad of Lady Heartshall, Captain Calaviere, The March of St. Masie in Winter, these lifelines sustained a brooding young child trying her best to become a woman. 

In one ear, Sister Pullwater scrutinized her every manner, every word. 

In the other, Lady Heartshall was preparing to slay the vile Duke Tybalt.  

Somewhere between the two formed Annette. 

Cordelia may as well have been a character pulled from the pages of a novel - a stern and strong woman, unafraid of the chastisement of men or society, dedicated to mystery as something of an artform. And Cordelia had looked upon Annette, frantic and struggling to survive, and saw within her nothing but potential. 

An equal. Someone who could keep up with her. 

Partners. 

So it had been an easy choice for Annette to strap her collar back around her neck and cross over to Kereland - it was even her idea. Her detective had once taught her that to be what people expected, to be what they wanted to see you as, could be a power in of itself - lulling them into a false sense of complacency around her. No one need expect anything of Annette, not when Cordelia knew her true tenacity. 

Annette’s fond reflection is interrupted by a commotion in the center square. It’s hardly much of a plaza at all, just a cobblestone floor and open space for market stalls. 

A woman with wild hair and frenzied eyes shouts at the top of her lungs, clearing a wide circle around her. Most peddlers and farmers only pay her a half-moment’s mind before shrugging and returning to their days, despite the hysteria that follows her. 

“-and I was flying!” She screeches, gyrating her hips and throwing her hands into the air for effect. “Lashing through the night’s canvas like Satan had plucked me from the Earth himself.” She drops down into a squat, forming claws of her hands. “And I saw screaming beasts of the night, gnawing and gnashing their teeth, ready to devou-,”

A man in an Abbot’s smock kindly approaches, arms outstretched to try pacifying her. “Miss Clowers, do you need somewhere to sleep tonight? A warm meal, perhaps?” 

She leaps at him, stopping just before his face and chomping her teeth in the empty space between them. “I need protection from the night-creatures, beasts with hundreds of eyes, claws sharper than-,” 

“The Abbey is more than capable of keeping them out,” he placates. “Why don’t you come with me?” 

For the moment, her fury abates, and the mad-woman allows him to wrap and arm around her shoulders and lead her to the church at the near end of the square. 

Annette cants her head back to Cordelia and whispers, “Not your lead, I hope?” 

Her detective raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I intend to double back and speak with that one. Flying? Night beasts? Seems rather witchly to me.” 

“You don’t believe anything truly occult is occurring, do you?” 

Cordelia makes an amused noise in her throat. “If it appears to be magic, there’s likely something explainable plus deception.” She puffs out her chest as she marches on and proudly declares, “I’m a woman of science.” 

At that, she makes a sharp turn onto an avenue that juts off to the west. It leaves behind the cobbled stones of mainstreet and gives away to a packed dirt path full of pockets and puddles of water. 

“Now, care to finally bring me up to-,”

Crash!

“Out! Out!” 

A man in a bespoke suit tumbles out of a door and rolls across the ground, one of his boots landing flat into a sloshing pothole. Annette’s eyes quickly dart towards the origin of his fall and spots a burly, uncharitable-looking woman in a heavy baker’s apron. She shakes out her forearms and tucks them across her chest, standing menacingly in the doorframe. 

The Emrishman in the dirt and mud stammers over himself, aghast. “I have money! I’m trying to spend it-,”

“Filthy Emrish money,” the woman accuses, accent thick and full of vitriol. “I’ll have none of it.” 

He scrambles up to his feet, giving a half-hearted attempt to clean off his suit before abandoning the effort as fruitless. His lip curls condescendingly. “You’re acting positively uncivilized-”

Crack!

“And I’ll be more so unless ya’ tuck your tail between your legs and scurry off.” 

He recoils back as the woman’s palm hangs in the air, letting the force of her smack ring out. For a long moment it seems like the man won’t be able to remain on his feet - his fear wins out, however, and with a muttered curse under his breath he charges away, fleeing down the block. 

Annette smiles up at Cordelia as the woman lumbers back into her shop. “A woman after your own heart. Your lead?” 

“Indeed,” she affirms, undeterred in her march into the shop. Annette follows her, entering the bakery and delighting in the warm embrace of fresh-baked bread. Cordelia leans up against the wall, somehow commanding and unassuming in the same motion. “That was quite the strike against that poor man.” 

The baker faces away from them, pulling off a sheet of loaves from a rack and carefully stacking them onto a small display shelf. She rolls her shoulders after depositing them, sizing up Cordelia with a sneer in her eyes. “I’ve not the desire to chase out two Emrishmen from my shop this morn’. Out.” 

Cordelia doesn’t move. “Not fond of my countrymen?” 

“No.” 

“What’s not to love?” The detective tilts her head sardonically. “We’re such a happy, hospitable people.” 

The baker almost cracks a smile. “That’s a piss-poor joke if ya’ ask me.” She grunts. “Out anyway.” 

Annette decides to leverage her Kerish look to her benefit, gently approaching the counter. “Might I buy a soda loaf?” She asks, eyeing the rich, oat-covered wheat. 

The baker scowls and tips her head at Cordelia. “You gonna’ share it with her?” 

“Throw in some butter and I’ll have it all to myself.” 

After a moment’s pause, she decides to accept Annette’s terms. 

“Annette Baker,” she greets as the woman grabs her items. 

“Alma Brien O’ Darcy,” she grunts. 

Once the loaf has been wrapped - then unwrapped so Annette may slowly start ripping off sections to lather with butter and eat - Cordelia takes her cue to step forth and make another effort of diplomatic interrogation. 

“Might I ask you a few questions?” 

Alma furrows her brow. “Pay double, and only if she’s the one talkin’ with me,” she agrees, pointing at Annette. 

So Cordelia acquiesces to muttering her questions for Annette to repeat out, acting as a go-between for the two brusque women.

“I’ve heard you grow your own crops-,”

“My man does,” Alma corrects abruptly. 

Annette nods, listening to Cordelia’s next ask. “I’ve been told that your potatoes were recently blighted. Could you tell me more?” 

The baker sours further, if that’s even possible. “Not blighted. Cursed.” 

Cordelia’s reliance on herself compels her to attempt, “How do you know-,” 

A look from Alma silences her. Her detective glances over at Annette, who continues on in her stead. “What do you mean, cursed?” 

“One day, happy tatoe’s, growing healthy and green above the soil. The next, nothing but brown leaves and misery.” 

Cordelia snorts. “Not blight, then. Poison.” 

Alma jabs a finger in her direction, throwing another palm down to smack the counter in front of her. “I’ll not have one of your ilk tellin’ me what it is or is not. The witches cursed me.” 

Annette steps directly in front of Cordelia, eager not to provoke the woman further - and begrudgingly, in the hopes that it’ll also prevent her detective from feeling permission to continue on. “How do you know it was the witches?” She bows her head a little, trying to seem polite and interested. 

“Crow feathers in the field. Strange markings round the edges.” Alma huffs and shoves her arms back across her chest. “My man heard voices in the night” 

Cordelia slips out from behind Annette, undeterred by the hostility. “If he heard something, why not investigate?” 

Alma decides this time to ignore her. Annette repeats the question. 

The baker snorts. “Not sure what you lot do in your castles and cities and what have you, but here in the country you don’t go chasing’ after voices in the night. That’s a quick way to fall into the clutches of an Torc Screadach.”

“What is-,” Cordelia behinds, then waves her hands urgently at Annette to prompt her to ask the question for her. 

“What is that?” 

“The Screeching Boar, in your tongue. Wild beasty. Bit of a freak-show, he is.” 

“A local monster is-,”
Behind Annette the wood-and-glass door crashes open, shuddering from the sudden attack upon it. Its assailant is the mad-woman from the center square, hunched over and muttering under her breath. 

“Hane… Hane…” 

Alma groans. “Oh, fer crying out loud, Maud.” 

The Abbot stumbles into the shop behind her, throwing up an apologetic hand as he enters. “Sorry, she’s not usually-,” 

Maud continues her approach, eerily marching forward. Her head shakes, jittering oddly, and she keeps clenching and unclenching her dry, dirt-caked hands. She looks as though she’s about to leap up onto the counter itself, then rapidly averts course and grabs Annette by the shoulders. 

Her fingers latch on, her eyes wild and wide as they peer deeply into Annette. “Hane… Hane…” 

Annette and Cordelia lock eyes and it’s obvious that her detective is seconds away from pulling the woman off of her and ensuring no one would dare bother Annette again. But even as Maud’s fingers latch on tighter, Annette can only think of how frail she looks - how like so many of the beggars on the street’s in Bellchester that’d been, for a time, her only community. She slowly shakes her head for Cordelia to back down. 

Maud’s vibrant, icy blue irises look as though they can see beyond this world, scouring dimensions far brighter and more terrifying than her own. Her breath smells rank and earthy. 

And then the pupils focus on Annette, as though seeing her for the first time. When she speaks again, her voice is low, strained, haunted. “Daughter of the green, you are. Hanelliaen wails for you.” Her fingers clench suddenly once more, pulling her in tighter. “She’s coming. Hanelliaen is coming…” 

Behind her, Cordelia cocks her head. “Hanelliaen?” 

The four Kerish in the room fall deathly silent. Maud’s head creaks back to leer at the detective and she makes a hissing noise. Her hands release Annette so that she can begin ambling towards Cordelia. 

“You’ve uttered her name,” she says almost gleefully, with a wicked and ghastly smile spreading across her lips. “She’s coming… Now she knows your name, Cordelia. She knows your name…” 

The detective is almost disinterested. “My reputation precedes me.” 

“She’ll take back her lands from your rotten palms,” Maud cackles, heaving with each breath out. She tries to grab one of Cordelia’s hands but it’s swatted away. “She’ll burn the world and bring back the forests. And now she knows your name…” 

A wretched, weak, and almost childish humming noise sings in Maud’s chest as she dances around the room, lifting her arms to the sky and shaking her body convulsively. And then, she collapses. 

The Abbot is quick to catch her, carefully cushioning her neck to prevent her head from striking the wood floors. 

“Common occurrence?” Cordelia asks the room.

“You oughtn't have said her name,” the baker murmurs. 

 “Hanelliaen?” 

“Oh fer fuck’s…” Alma’s patience exhausts. A stern finger directs Cordelia to the door. “Get out.” 

At this, Cordelia wisely decides not to argue, much to Annette’s relief. She bows her head, perhaps mockingly polite, and dips out of the shop to call after the Abbot and offer to help carry Maud. Annette, unsure of what to do with herself, takes another bite of bread and butter, enjoying the tangy comfort of the soda bread. 

Alma heaves out a heavy sigh, looking kindly at Annette. “Welcome to Fieldston, lass.” 

“What was that name?” 

The baker shudders. “An old god. Not one to mess with.” 

Annette purses her lips. “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

Something about Maud’s tone, her alien voice, unsettles Annette. She doesn’t believe in a god, not anymore, and neither does she affirm the existence of reality of the occult… but the terrifying certainly in the mad-woman’s words latches hold of that small part within her, the childish belief in anything scary. Much in the same way that one might contest the existence of ghosts during the day, but quite suddenly and dramatically believe in them upon hearing a strange noise in a darkened house in the night. 

Alma nods her head towards the door, gesturing at Cordelia with a displeased noise in her throat. “Watch over that one, eh? Make sure she stays respectful of it all.” A low breath. “And, welcome back to the green, kin.” 

Annette nods appreciatively, enjoying the feeling of belonging to something. “She’ll want to take a look at your field, if you’d let us.” 

A pause. “Fine.” 

Deciding not to push her luck any further, Annette nods her head and mutters a polite goodbye, strolling outside to see what other chaos Cordelia is likely to be in the middle of causing. 

To her relief, nothing at the moment. Maud has fallen unconscious in the Abbot’s arms, who now carries her away gently back to the Abbey. Cordelia remains squatting, careful not to get any mud on her trousers.

“We’re making such lively friends,” Annette observes, wrapping her bread back up. 

Cordelia remains focused. “I don’t trust that Abbot.” 

“He’s an Abbot. That seems healthy as a rule, though I anticipate you’ve reason.” 

“Feeling.” 

“Ah,” Annette pushes out a breath, continuing to watch the man go. She gives it a few moments until he turns the street and exits her view. “Well, shall we see Alma’s fields?” 

The detective rests an elbow on either knee, fixed to her position. Her eyes are glassy, lost in thought. “Abbot. Moving woods. Poisoned fields,” she mutters to herself. 

“One of those seems a relevant lead,” Annette affirms. “I worry it’s at the end of your list.” 

Cordelia’s head peeks back to Annette. “Hm?” 

Annette rolls her eyes. “I see - it’s one of those ones.” She gently places a hand on Cordelia’s shoulder and squeezes it, though not before looking to ensure they were relatively alone in the street. “I’ll tend to securing us supplies for our borrowed home while you pester the poor Abbot.” 

And, with Annette’s permission, Cordelia marches off without another word. She’s lost away into her own world, mind likely racing through dozens and dozens of odd theories and compiling every tiny clue it could possibly store. She finds it endearing how focused her woman can get, how single-minded and obsessive. It’s one of the things that makes her so brilliant. 

But, at the same time… 

Annette watches the fabled detective leave like one of the heroes in her books strutting off to battle, a woman courageous and powerful, off to save the day, and wishes she had been asked to go along with her.