Chapter Four - Annette

 

“Of course, my daughter. Will I see you for tea next week?” 

“Indeed,” Annette confirms. “Though, it is possible there may be a disruption in the following week. Miss Jones may be accepting a case in Kereland in the near future.” 

“Indeed?” Sister Pullwater grows quiet.

“Something the matter?” 

“Inform me if you do take the case,” she requests, her face stern and focused. “I may have some things to discuss with you.”

 

– – – 

Annette had walked into Sister Pullwater’s office on many occasions, plenty of them for less-than-positive reasons. As a child at the orphanage, particularly a child prone to pushing the lines of what she could get away with, Annette had received more than her fair share of punishment from the Sister. 

But, recalling their final meeting before Annette sailed off to Kereland with Cordelia is an unusual array of feelings for her to parse through. On the one hand, she was nervous as she always was around Pullwater, particularly in that setting where she, as a girl, had so often been corrected for her errors. On the other, things with Pullwater had reached an uneasy-but-pleasing truce, and the Sister was insistent that the news she carried was good. 

And it was sitting at that desk, just a pair of weeks ago, that Sister Pullwater had told Annette that she had a cousin. 

An actual, living cousin. 

In the time since, Annette is still sorting through the contradictory and confusing assortment of emotions that have emerged with her. 

At first? At first she felt nothing; a sort of empty, hollow, incomprehensible nothing. How long had she wished nothing more than for a family of her own? How many nights had she slept in that orphanage dreaming of what they would look like, what they would act like, what they sounded like? She’d come up with names for them, even. Her mother - she decided her mother’s name was Candice, for it sounded sweet and kind. Her father was Paul: a strong name, but a gentle sort of strength.

The tears from the news came later. She remembers curling up into a ball on Cordelia’s roof, sobbing into her arms and wishing it hadn’t been true that she was an orphan. She’d never known why, never been told the reason why her life had to be set upon such a lonely, awful poverty of love. Sister Pullwater never had the answers to it, but in her kinder moments Annette remembers the nun wrapping her up into the billowing sleeves of her habit and letting Annette stain them with tears and snot. 

Then there was the anger, brittle and acrid. The sight of families on promenade down the street would set her off, ranting to Cordelia about the injustice of it all. She’d just come to peace about the fact she had no family, and was feeling settled in the comforts of the family she’d been crafting herself as an adult. 

The news of her cousin wrenched it all open once more. 

Pullwater says the letter arrived a couple months prior, and that she wasn’t sure what to do about it. For a time, she feared it would only cause Annette more pain to know there was family for her out there this whole time, unknown to them all. But, when Annette told her that she was going to Kereland with Cordelia, the nun knew she was owed the truth. 

Cillian MacFerron. 1287 8th Street, Allenway. 

The letter itself doesn’t say much, just that he remembered having a cousin sent away to Emril after losing parents, and was trying to locate them. Apparently he’d sent the letter to quite a few orphanages, only knowing the general region of Emril to search and the birth name of the cousin. 

Annette wasn’t using that name anymore, and Cillian would undoubtedly not know that his cousin was twice-born, either. She briefly marvels at the surprise that’ll ensue for them all. 

Cordelia had been delighted to hear this and deliberately planned their trip to go see him. They were to work on the case in Fieldston for as long as needed, then head up north to Allenway afterwards and meet him before heading back to Bellchester. 

And now, as Annette peruses through cuts of cured meats in this butcher shop on an island that was supposed to be her home, she can’t help but think about hunger. 

Of course, there was The Hunger, the famine which had devastated Kereland with the failure of the potato crop forty years prior. 

But then there is the hunger within herself - a sort of desperate yearning for life which compels her like she could never have believed. Cordelia, in all of her confusing and delightful strangeness, had unknowingly plucked Annette out from the frustrating stagnation of survival and given her the push towards living, towards the seizing of life for one’s self with a necessary greed for it. 

And Annette feels greedy for it. And hungry. 

It’s an unsettling, gnawing pain that comes from being twice-born, she suspects. The knowledge that it is her femininity that both liberates and shackles her. Womanhood sustains her, gives the stability of self and joy in being that makes life survivable in the first place; and yet, it is womanhood that deprives her of life in public. The constant scowls at her short-cut hair, the disdain she is treated with when she opts for trousers instead of skirts, the existence between fetish and desire. 

Without it, she will die. With it, she is in chains. 

She would never have been happy growing into masculinity. She knows this as a fact more clearly than even the knowledge that the sky is blue. It’s axiomatic. It’s self-evident. But it exists, on occasion, as a taunting villain in the back of her mind:

All the freedom you could have ever wanted, yet, you would never have lived peacefully enough within yourself to enjoy it. 

A prison either way. 

And once more, Cordelia arrives like a paragon in Annette’s mind. A woman unshackleable. Unconquerable. A woman so committed to her freedom she will fistfight any man who dares strip her of it - and she will win. 

How could Annette not love her, envy her, and desire her more than anything she’s ever witnessed? 

She feels another little prickle at Cordelia running off to investigate on her lonesome. Annette knows that there’s different roles in the investigation - the same had been true in taking down the Winchester Conspiracy and the scattered array of minor cases in between. They can’t both be the detective. And Cordelia’s gifts come with something of a curse - she will often forget to eat, forget to bathe, forget to do any of the basic tasks of life. For a woman so brilliant, she’s surprisingly inept at managing her own needs. 

Annette is stabilizing. Cordelia needs her. 

She touches a hand to the collar around her neck as she makes another selection, watching the burly butcher pull it off the rack and wrap it up. He’s a weary man, a breath past middle age, and kindly introduced himself as Elias MacArthur, stating that he was glad to see a new face in town. 

The collar, like womanhood, has likewise come to be a source of tense debate within herself. It was, as terrible as it is to admit, her salvation. Becoming a servant saved her from the streets, and by the insane fortune of Cordelia picking her contract, it gave her a life better than she thought she deserved. Very few who entered collar service could say that. 

When she’d run away, removing it to join the Mallets months ago, it almost felt like giving up that life with Cordelia. She’d needed to do it, to set out on her own, but she can’t deny the feeling of relief that came from Cordelia putting it back on her. She tugs her fingers along the signet band bearing Cordelia’s family crest as well, tucked upon the ring finger of her right hand so that no one would confuse it for betrothal. But Annette knows it’s something more. 

When the collar was removed again, Annette felt an equal with Cordelia. Partners in life and in business - it felt like the culmination of everything she wanted to be. The three months afterwards were bliss - domestic and exciting and freeing. 

But on the news of going to Kereland… Annette found herself scared. Maybe the person she had become only existed in the relative safety of Bellchester - familiar and homely. Maybe across the sea, it would be safer to not be thought of as Cordelia’s equal. One woman at odds with the patriarchy of their society was difficult enough for most to swallow. Two? Two would certainly arouse suspicion. 

She’d offered to Cordelia to do it, just as she’d offered to let her go off and investigate the Abbot so that Annette might shore up their supplies. It isn’t fair of her to also feel a bit resentful for her lot. 

It isn’t. 

But as she makes her final selection, staying behind to tend to her detective’s physical needs rather than the excitement of the case, Annette feels a quiet resentment fester like a cyst. She shoves it away quickly and decides that it isn’t a fair feeling. She offered. She can hardly blame Cordelia for accepting the offer. She was making herself unassuming to any watching eyes of the case, someone who could be invisible and uncover things - while Cordelia presents their bold, outward investigation. 

Partners, still. She takes a breath and shoves the worries aside, best as she can.

Someone taps her on her shoulder, pulling her out of the reflective fog which has consumed her. 

“Annie!” Susie’s voice sounds out, arm wrapping around into a friendly side-hug. She steps back as Annette shakes out of her rumination, holding her own shopping bag in arm. Then, her face grows serious and she utters, leaning her face in curiously, “Oh, this is quite awkward, we’ve left home wearing the same necklace.” 

She pokes a finger against the leather band on Annette’s neck, causing her to smirk and reply, “You’ll have to go home and change - I was here first.” 

“We’ll just have to accept the awkwardness and press on,” Susie decides. She marches up to the counter and makes a few selections for herself, greeting Elias warmly as Annette also finishes up her purchase. “Fortunate I’ve run into you,” she says, “I was going to invite you to tea later, ‘till I remembered I still need to do the washing up, so I was going to invite you to drink tea while I wash.” 

Annette feels her now heavier bag tug against her arm. “I really ought to get these back.” 

“I can carry ‘em with you and lessen the burden,” Susie offers, gesturing to her comparatively fewer bags. 

Annette considers the offer. She had been planning on getting these home and trying to track down Cordelia, wherever she is. But, she thinks of the inclusion she felt with Susie, the welcoming into being Kerish. Part of the point of this trip was also so Annette could get a better sense of her past and heritage, why not get to know people here? 

So, she accepts Susie’s offer and allows the woman to take one of her bags, leading them both out onto Main Street and making polite conversation. Until, that is, Susie quickly ducks off the cobbled road and races to a house just off to the side. “A quick stop!” She calls behind her. 

Susie leaps up the few steps to the doorway of a townhouse, knocking aggressively on the door. “Mercy Fitzpatrick-Clark! Come on out, else I’ll swipe your husband out from under you!” And, mischievously to Annette, “I could do it, no doubt ‘bout it,'' she boasts, winking. 

Mercy throws the door open and grins, leaning her hips against the doorframe and rolling her eyes. “A good afternoon to ya’, you ambitious homewrecker.” 

“You still owe me help with the washing up,” Susie asserts. “I’ve come to collect.” 

“Fine,” Mercy exhales. She turns back into the house and calls out, “Kevin, my love, I’ll be off helping Susie!” An unintelligible noise sounds back from inside in affirmation, so Mercy swipes her coat and hops out onto the steps, noticing Annette for the first time. “A cousin I’ve not met?” 

“Newcomer to town,” Susie answers for Annette, then leans in towards Mercy and excitedly adds, “Here on business.” 

Mercy raises an eyebrow. “What sort of business?” 

Annette only briefly considers a lie. “Keeping a detective from ruffling too many feathers.” 

The new woman, a decade older than Susie, shrugs and accepts the information. She reaches down to grab one of the bags, only for her younger friend to swipe her hand away. 

“Shoo!” Susie diverts, clutching carefully onto the bag to prevent Mercy from helping. “Different task for you, Miss. Go invite Fanny Hornbeck to sup with us.” 

Mercy laughs and nods, ambling off down the far side of the street. 

Annette glances over at Susie. “Fanny?” 

 

– – – 

 

It feels, perhaps, cruel to say that Fanny Hornbeck lived up to the name. It’s not as though she deserved it, the unfortunate innuendo as her referent, but rather that she was making the most of it. A great many people would curse their parents, scorn god and all things holy, and live their life in shame if forced to accept such as her name. Fanny easily took on the first two tasks. As for the third? A life of shame was not within her capability. 

“So I’ve gone and told him,” entertains the curly-haired woman with the unfortunate name, “Pa will never accept your offer ‘less you can drink ‘em to sleep and bring a pig pretty enough he’d kiss it!” 

She kicks back on the barrel she’s sitting upon, chortling. Fanny is somewhere in age between Susie and Mercy, a trio of years older than Annette, and seems to be the surliest and crudest of the bunch. Where Mercy is mild-mannered, amiable, and kind, and Susie is teasing, friendly, and between them in speaking volume, Fanny is boisterous, playfully devious, and commands the attention of all. 

“Now, Cael knows he can’t outdrink my Pa,” Fanny continues, leaning in towards the three of them around her - Mercy and Susie kneeling over a large wash-bin and diving their hands into the soapy water, Annette sitting comfortably with a cup of peppermint tea. “So, my suitor pours the glasses and slips something naughty into my Pa’s, hoping it’d even the score. Only, Cael mixed up the drinks!” 

She cackles delightedly. “Pa’s leaping with laughter after Cael can’t even hold a single glass of scotch, and somewhere in the young lad’s knackered head he mixed up the directions - so he kissed the pig!” 

The rest of them join in laughter, and Annette snorts some of her tea into her nose on accident, poorly timing her next drink. Mercy and Susie have clearly heard the story before, and both turn back to ensure Annette is properly amused. 

“Anyway,” Fanny finishes up, “poor lad sobered up and heard what he did. He was so embarrassed he ran for the hills and I never saw him again.” A mischievous pause. “Shame, he was quite the lay.” 

It’s pleasant, tucked away on the outside edge of the Cunninghill estate in the servant’s quarters and spending time with these women - women who look like her, who don’t obsess over the mild-mannered standards of Emril. They wear themselves fully, outwardly - not meticulously scrutinizing each and every word, not shying away from getting mud on their skirts. It’s difficult to tell if this is more from their rural life or if it is simply the way of Kerish women. 

A part of Annette hopes it’s the latter. 

“Now, tell the one about Miss Mary Lou and the druid,” Susie directs, grinding a white collared shirt against her washboard. A sloshing sound fills the outdoor air. 

Mercy tilts her head. “Bit crass, that one.” 

Susie waves her away. “Annie can take it, can’t you, Annie?” She sends a rascally smile up towards Annette, daring her to meet the challenge of the story, and it takes very little effort within herself to want to meet it. 

So, with a sly grin and a tightness in her chest, Annette takes a sip and whispers, “Can’t be worse than the time I killed a man.” 

They all fall silent, considering her carefully.

Fanny is the first to decide it must be a jest and breaks out into a rambunctious cackle, which is soon joined by the rest, so she begins the story undisturbed. “Miss Mary Lou was an Emrishwoman who came here with a husband, two babies, and twice as many collars. Her man used to own Old Billie Lane, before it all happened…” 

Annette perks up, curious to hear the cause of her borrowed home’s vacancy. 

“So get on with it, Fanny,” Mercy complains at the woman’s artificial pause.

Fanny leans in, resting her elbows on her knees. “All her perfect little life, but Miss Mary Lou wasn’t happy at all. No… no, she kept sneaking out at night, disappearing for long bits of time. One day, her husband had enough. 

“Every night, Miss Mary Lou makes him his favorite tea to calm him down to sleep, classic good wife behavior. But that night, he doesn’t ask for tea, rejects it when she brings it to him, says he’s been having bad dreams and wants to stay up. Mary Lou is nervous, puttering about until he falls asleep on the sofa and she sneaks out like always. Only, her man was just pretending to sleep…” 

Fanny pauses long enough to sip on her own tea before going on - though Annette suspects it's also for making them wait. “Her man was in the military, an officer, and he knew how to follow someone without being spotted. He trails her in the night as she makes a beeline for the woods. It’s dark in there, real grim, and she manages to give him the slip. Until, that is, he hears singing…” 

“Singing?” Annette furrows her brow. 

“Singing.” Fanny confirms. “Eerie, but beautiful. He follows the sound towards a clearing in the woods, where he finds his darling wife is the one making such a noise. But she’s not only singing, she’s dancing and turning about, ass bare in the moonlight.” The woman stands and does an unusual dance, arms thrown over her head and twisting oddly, and jokingly lifts her skirt to reveal her knees . She remains standing as the movements end, turning to Annette. “And then, her man sees her: a druid.” 

“What’s a druid?” 

Susie pips up. “Magic wild woman.” 

Mercy looks giddy. “A faerie.” 

“Not true!” Susie contests, splashing her with the bubbling, soapy water. 

But the older woman is undeterred, her innocent demeanor set aside to mysteriously and delightedly utter, “From the world of spirits.” 

Susie rolls her eyes and looks at Annette as though to apologize for her ridiculous friends, though Annette is hardly unamused. “A druid is just a normal woman gone a bit weird for trees and critters,” she claims.

“Anyway,” Fanny takes command of the conversation once more, “the druid, she was chanting something ancient and from the world beyond, dressed up in nothing but some pasted-on leaves, performing a sort of ritual with her staff.” She waves her arms around for effect, then drops into a squat in front of Annette. “And then, the husband watched as the druid… she sucked Mary Lou’s soul out of her!” 

Annette snorts incredulously, albeit entertained. “Sucked out her soul?” 

Susie answers for her, scandalously whispering, “Kissed her right on the mouth, tongue and teeth and all.” 

Annette plays around with the image of being kissed by a half-naked woman in the moonlit woods, enjoying the idea far more than she might otherwise have expected. She briefly wonders if she could convince Cordelia to indulge her. She hopes none of them notice the light flush in her cheeks, hidden behind a long and overdrawn sip of tea. 

“The husband lept into action,” Fanny continues, “but Miss Mary Lou was bewitched, possessed! She screeched out into the night and disappeared into the woods with the druid - gone into the spirit world. Old Billie searched and searched, cut down that whole part of the woods just to find her, and nothing. 

“Few years later, he went totally mad and died. The kids were sent away to live with other family, and a long while later they sold off the house as soon as they were old enough to know what money was.” 

She bows her head, concluding her story to all of their enjoyment, and plops back down on her barrel to kick on leg up underneath her. 

Mercy speaks next, dunking a pair of trousers into the bin and shrugging at Annette. “I don’t think it’s true.” 

“Of course it is!” Fanny frowns. 

“You weren’t alive then,” Susie points out.

“My gran was, and she swears by it.” 

And Annette sits beside them all, watching these friends bicker and banter and delight in the simple, relaxed company of one another. She stares at each of their friendly gestures, side-long looks of joy, little jokes between the three of them. And she adores it. 

A strange part of her feels as though she’s always been here, sitting alongside them all without a care in the world beyond simple chores, salacious love stories, and effortless companionship. So much of her life in Bellchester was owed to Cordelia, revolved around her - and while that is beautiful and fulfilling in its own way, she can’t deny some of the joy of feeling as though she has something to herself again. Almost like it was with the Mallets for a time, before it all went to shit. 

She comes back to herself to notice all of them staring politely at her, waiting for her to notice. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” Mercy nudges. 

Annette smiles and sets her tea aside. “It’s not what I expected.” 

Fanny looks worried for her art. “The story?” 

“Kereland,” she replies, shaking her head. “Back ho- back in Bellchester, I heard so many stories and tales of what the people are like, and what I’m supposed to be like. They’re quite wrong, it seems.” 

Susie looks pleased to hear it, eyes glittering up at Annette with pride for her home and her friends. “And what’s your judgment, now that you’ve gotten a taste?” 

“I like it.” 

 

– – – 

 

Evening descends upon Fieldston, and Old Billie Lane, to find that Cordelia is still out and about, surely occupying herself with something fascinating and ridiculous. If asked about such a scenario in the hypothetical, Annette would have replied that she would find it frustrating to have Cordelia gone for so long, off on the case without her. She’s quite surprised, and relieved, to find that this evening it doesn’t disturb her. 

Her newfound friends have joined her for dinner, each getting leave from their respective homes to come calling upon Old Billie Lane. Susie’s nightly duties were finished early, freeing her. Mercy’s husband fell asleep early upon the sofa, and was not likely to wake anytime soon. Fanny still lives within her mother’s home, who seemed relieved to have the news of her being out and about for the evening. 

So, with her detective out investigating, surely to return with some fascinating news to share, Annette sets upon herself the task of simply enjoying the relative normalcy these women offer her - comfortable friendship and pleasant company. 

Mercy, now a few glasses of wine into the evening, wears the blush of intoxication upon her rosy face - not quite drunk, but certainly not sober. She brightens up as the drink takes hold of her, leaning forward at the dinner table of finished plates and bemoans, “Oh, never marry older. Never.” She swallows another sip. “Kevin’s not nearly the lively man he once was - has hardly any of his vigor left, not when I might require it. And I love ‘im of course, but his little friend,” she sticks out a finger and lets it hang limp.

The women around her snicker knowingly, and Annette is amazed to feel as included within them as she does. The bonding of shared frustrations of men is not a habit she’s had much opportunity to indulge in, and while she may not be personally invested within it, she can’t deny the fun in ridiculing men with others. 

“And he just can’t quite ever understand me,” Mercy tacks on. “And sometimes… Well, it just doesn’t work. Don’t marry older, girls.” 

Annette leans forward, only a single glass in herself. “How much older is he, anyway?” 

Mercy looks grim. “Seven impossible years.” 

Seven. 

She takes a tight breath. 

Cordelia is eleven years older.

She listens to the conversation with a different investment now, hoping inside that Mercy’s diagnosis of such problems only applies between men and women. Surely it’s not the same issue for lesbians - Cordelia understands Annette in a way no one ever has. 

“That’s not nearly a problem yet,” Fanny chimes in, even further gone than Mercy. She belches, not quite caring to cover it up at all. “I was once with a man ten years older!” 

Mercy shudders. “He would’ve had a full beard already when you were still years away from your first bleed.” She makes a disgusted noise. 

Susie notices the face Annette must’ve been making through it all, gesturing a swirling finger at her and asking, “What’s all that, Annie? Got a tale of an older man?” 

“No-,” she begins, then quickly tacks to the side for a distraction. Better to misdirect than be a closed book to pry into. She clears her throat and scandalously whispers, “Well, it never went anywhere but… I was once prepositioned by a priest eight years my senior.” 

Fanny shrieks out excitedly. “A priest! No.” 

Susie looks impressed. “Pretty enough to tempt a chaste man into breaking his vows… Did he pledge to leave the robed life behind for you?” 

“Church of Emril,” Annette shakes her head. “He could marry.” 

Mercy makes an unexpected noise. “You’re Protestant?” 

“Raised in a Protestant orphanage,” she replies, surprised by the hush which has descended over the table. Suddenly they’ve all gone quite muted. “Not… not really involved anymore,” she adds, a little timid. 

Fanny coughs loudly, then says, “Might want to keep that one to yourself anyway. Kerish Protestants are… they don’t make many friends.” 

Catholics, Annette realizes. The Church of Emril split away ages ago, but that doesn’t mean anywhere else would’ve joined them. It was a vanity decision of a king, not a popularly motivated idea. The only Emrilians would be Emrish living in Kereland, spreading their way of life. 

Better keep quiet on it, she agrees, trying to remember the Catholic position on the twice-born. Affirming, as far as she can remember, though she isn’t sure if it’s more or less than the Church of Emril. 

“I could always spontaneously convert,” Annette jokes to break the tension. “Catholic, as soon as suspicion arises.” 

Susie nods, rolling her eyes a little, “That’ll do it-,”

She’s interrupted by the sound of boots thundering on the front porch. All their heads swivel to the door, watching the latch jangle and turn, pushing open to reveal a rain-drenched Cordelia Jones. 

Annette rises quickly, her first response to rush happily to her stifled when recalling her company. She makes a polite bow and shoves her enthusiasm back into a more servile manner. “Miss Jones. There’s more dinner if you-,”

“I need to speak with you,” Cordelia replies in a low voice, eyes flickering across the room and taking in the scene. If she has an opinion on the assembled group, it doesn’t show. 

“We’ve presently got company-,”

“Urgently,” Cordelia insists, something tucked away behind her gaze. 

An awkward pause fills the room. 

Her newfound friends slowly take the hint, rising from the table and collecting their things, moving much like people who are aware a fight is about to occur and would rather not be present for it. 

Fanny breaks the silence, “We’ll just… erm…” 

They quickly make to leave, shuffling around the two of them. Susie tosses her a friendly smile, with the knowing solidarity of collars underneath owners. “I’ll see you around, Annie.” 

The other two mutter their farewells and respectfully acknowledge Cordelia, then slip out of the door. 

Once they leave, Annette quickly discards her innocent deference, shedding the personality of a collar like removing a burdensome coat. She straightens her back and glimmers up at Cordelia, excited to hear what she must have discovered while away this evening. 

“Is this about the case? Is the Abbot a witch after all?” 

Cordelia ignores her, instead stepping close to Annette and wrapping an arm around her spine to pull her into her mouth. 

Something inside of Annette gives immediately, taken by surprise into Cordelia’s touch. A stunned gasp sounds out through her sharp inhale, only to quiet as she sighs into the revelation that is her detective’s beautiful lips. They pull against Annette’s upper lip, sucking the soft skin between her own and making her shudder with delight. 

She pulls away after a moment, gazing up at the wild look in Cordelia’s shining emerald eyes. “Something the matter? Not that I’m complai-,”

Annette finds her back shoved up against a wall, sending a small portrait tumbling to the ground. Cordelia’s voice is tense, tight, ringing out directly outside of Annette’s ear and sending shivers down her spine. 

“Can’t focus,” is all the detective says. 

And so she makes Annette the remedy of her scattered mind, balling the folds of her skirt and shirt into her fists and heaving her closer into a deep kiss, using the wall to keep her helpless to escape - not that Annette would want to. 

Cordelia’s form is stiff against her, all muscle and slender brilliance - her shoulders and biceps tight as they battle her white-collar shirt and rock into Annette’s torso. She moves hastily, never letting her fingers or palms or legs rest in any place for long, shifting and making Annette shift with her as her breath grows ragged between them. 

Annette feels any sense of resistance, of pride, slide off of her like water down her back. It takes no effort at all to succumb to the necessity of Cordelia’s need, and in fact, it would take an enormous willpower not to. 

For the first few fighty moments, Cordelia allows Annette the freedom of movement to throw open the buttons of her shirt, wrenching it out from underneath her suspenders and pants. She brings her lips to the detective’s neck, biting and kissing and doing all of the things she knows will drive Cordelia mad with lust - confirmed by the pleading growl that hums in her throat. 

She pulls back, mischievously glancing up at her woman. “Would you prefer to talk it out-,” 

Cordelia replies by pulling her fingers through Annette’s short hair and forcing her down to the floor, kneeling. And then Cordelia’s thighs are in her face, pressing in with a clear sense of direction and priority which she is all too happy to indulge. 

Annette fumbles with the clasp of Cordelia’s trousers and pulls open the front flaps as much as required, bringing her mouth into the wet spot forming on her detective’s underwear. Cordelia’s fingers tighten against her scalp. 

She slides her tongue up and down, stopping at the top each lap long enough to suck on her clit for only a moment before returning, keeping Cordelia locked in a desperate state of anticipation. 

Cordelia’s hands release her head only long enough to shove her underwear down further, wordlessly commanding Annette to cease teasing her. Annette does not comply, choosing instead to bring her mouth to Cordeila’s inner thighs to play with her further, nibbling on the smooth skin, running her tongue along the purple stretch marks at their top. 

The detective’s hand returns to her hair and forces her in closer to deal with the true task - which Annette is all too happy to oblige. She laps at Cordelia’s wet lips, loving the familiar taste of her woman, devoted to this bliss and nothing else. She loves the slight stench of her odor, hard won from being out and about all day without a bath, and delights in the familiarity of Cordelia’s scent. 

Cordelia, for her part, throws her free hand onto the wall behind Annette, arm stretched out to maintain her balance. Annette does everything in her power to make that task difficult, increasing the speed and certainty of her tongue’s movements. Soon, Cordelia shuffles around to rest her back on the wall, no longer trusting just her arm to keep her upright. 

And Annette takes the panting, gasping breaths exiting Cordelia’s throat as her reward, singing into her ears with a feeling of euphoric satisfaction. She loves the knowledge of how urgently Cordelia wants her, how easily Annette is able to make her feel this way. When they’d first gotten together, Cordelia’s body could, at times, put up something of a fight to give into her climax. Now, with a few month’s practice, Annette has learned the particular tricks required to bring her woman to the edge. 

So she does, only to immediately slow her movements and deny her. 

Cordelia makes an exasperated plea, whispering nonsense under her breath and cursing. She fists Annette’s hair tighter, pushing her face back into the task and guiding the speed for her, no longer content to let the woman provoke the cruciality of her feeling. For a moment, Annette considers contesting the control, considers toying with her even more - but a sense of mercy for the pained look in Cordelia’s eyes wins the day. She returns to Cordelia’s lips with no further hesitation. 

Her detective cries out into the room, shoving Annette in as deep as her skin will allow, arching her back against the hardwood wall behind her and trembling. She grasps frantically as the feeling consumes her, and Annette decides to give her no reprieve, continuing to lap at her wet lips until Cordelia pulls her away. 

She glitters with delight at the look on her woman’s face. 

Cordelia slides slowly down the wall, eventually meeting Annette on the floor and fighting to steady her breath. Beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, combining with the streaks of rainwater trickling down from her wet hair. Annette sits forward into her chest, allowing Cordelia to wrap her arms around her and squeeze tightly. 

“That was… thank you,” Cordelia says, blowing out a heavy breath. “I… thank you.” 

“It’s hardly a chore,” Annette giggles, placing a kiss on her cheek. “You need not thank me.” 

Cordelia waves a hand. “Regardless.” And then she closes her eyes and rests her head back, basking in the afterglow. 

Annette watches her for a moment, watching the frantic and scrambling persona which had entered the home with her slowly dissipate, giving way to a Cordelia who seems cool, relaxed, and at peace. A warm feeling bubbles in her chest. 

Her eyes enjoy the stiff edge of Cordelia’s jawline, the firm and ever-present strength in her brow, the frailty of her lashes. She caresses a palm against her cheek, letting her thumb slowly glide along the cheekbones which Annette wants to kiss more than anything - so she does. 

“So, were you driven mad with lust for me or for the case?” 

Cordelia puffs air out of her nose. “Can’t it be both?” She grins, which slowly fades into a comfortable expression, reveling in the newfound clarity of her mind. After a few moments, she recounts, “The Abbot isn’t a witch. He’s providing food as charity, sometimes letting the homeless sleep in his pews.” She shrugs, lifting Annette with her rising chest. “Catholics, apparently.” 

“Criminal behavior, through and through,” Annette pokes her jaw, placing another kiss on her forehead. “What an excellent use of your time to investigate him.” 

“I still suspect something untoward.” 

Annette shrugs. “He’s a priest. Of course you should.” 

“Abbot,” Cordelia corrects, then concedes. “The point stands.” 

Annette nods into her chest, satisfied at the feeling of closeness between them. Even across a sea, here she lay with a woman she loves. Loves. Sometimes it still feels impossible to believe that this is the life she gets to live. She takes a long and assured breath. 

“Tomorrow,” Annette says sometime later, “might we remain on track and investigate the O’Darcy’s farm?” 

“I should think so, yes,” Cordelia agrees. She peels her eyelids open and nods at the dining table, still set from dinner. “You’ve made friends. So quickly.” 

“They’re quite lovely, and tell incredible stories.” And, to nudge the detective towards community, “You’d like them.” 

Cordelia pretends not to hear the second half. “Good, good, smart to gain the trust of the locals. We can use that.” She runs a hand through Annette’s hair, petting it softly. “Keep on with that, see if you can uncover anything of value.” A pause. “Infiltration seems to be your special, as it were.” 

Annette purses her lips. She’d not been thinking about the case when spending time with the three of them. Their association was simply for the pleasure of company, not for some ulterior motive - she’d actually felt as though some of her guard could slowly be drawn down. 

And yet, her detective remains affixed on the case at hand. 

Annette sighs. “So it seems.”