Chapter Five - Cordelia

Cordelia is, as of yet, wholly unsure how exactly this conversation took such a sharp turn for the worse. She had asked what she considered to be a fairly tame and matter-of-fact question, a standard part of investigation, only to be met with the swift wind of hostility and a raised arm which sorely looks like it wishes to strike her. 

She’ll understand why later, of course, sitting in bed and ruminating into the night. Whatever explanations she could be given now would require time to settle and process in the backgrounds of her mind, slowly churning away a sense of social awareness which she does not possess in the urgency of the present. 

So, failing to understand why, perhaps, this question is an unsuitable one, Cordelia asks, “Did you do anything to deserve this?” 

Alma Brien O’Darcy’s temper snaps like a frozen branch in winter, splintering and thundering into the soil below. Her nostrils flare, her fist hangs in the air. Her boots stop into the rain-drenched ground. 

And then she unleashes the most colorful, and admittedly creative, salvo of curses Cordelia has ever heard. Indeed, she learns quite a great deal about local profane aphorisms and insults from this arsenal, many of which she politely holds onto for her own vocabulary later. 

She resolves not to recoil at Alma’s fury, having learned from pub-brawls that most cursing is simply bravado and the white-hot flash of immediate anger, one which often cools once indulged. She holds her shoulders square as Alma’s spit and temper test her composure, trying to hold a neutral expression for as long as necessary. 

Alma’s husband’s tolerance gives before Cordelia’s does. He timidly grabs hold of his wife’s arm and steers her away, muttering something resembling an apology to Cordelia. It’s unclear whether or not he means it. 

Annette approaches Cordelia's side, voice quiet with a soft correction in her voice. “Perhaps don’t imply that a Kerish woman deserved a Blight,” she advises. 

Cordelia lets herself frown. “It isn’t even Blight, it’s poisoning - so it’s clearly targeted-,”

Her companion makes an expression that says, I know, dear. 

Cordelia shoves her hands into the pockets of her longcoat. 

You ought to have asked, “Did you do anything to provoke the Coven?” 

She shakes out the tension in her neck, briefly minding the mild headache she acquired on the journey over to the O’Darcy farm. There would be time to dwell on the social failures later, but for now, she wrenches her attention back to the farm before her. 

Brown leaves. Desiccated. 

Soil largely undisturbed above surface - toxin not tilled in. 

No notable odors, save the expected. 

Uniform destruction across the surface area. 

Topsoil color largely intact. 

Not Blight, she decides. She’d already stated this prognosis publicly, with great confidence - it would be horribly embarrassing to then be incorrect, not that she is worried of such failures in her observation. Blighted potatoes remained green and healthy above the surface, their sprouting leaves appearing indistinguishable from an untainted tuber. Nothing abnormal above the surface, something despicable underneath. 

Further, the potatoes themselves would take on a slushy texture, disgusting even to the thought. Accounts of the smell further the wretched experience - rank, earthy, and something resembling mildew. 

She shoves a gloved hand into the soil at the base of one sprout, hunting away for the seed potato, and once located, she yanks it out unceremoniously for inspection. 

Firm, if a bit damp.

No Blight, then. 

Clumps of soggy dirt keep hold of the leather even after she lets the tuber fall from her hand. The fresh rains have kept the soil boggy, full of rank puddles which now bring home to an unacceptable number of buzzing insects. The soil in her hand contains the twisted roots of weeds, the slow creeping of a worm, even smaller creatures Cordelia suspects some unfortunate soul has dedicated their life to the study of. And -

She notices it in the soil, deciding her test for the substance without need for lengthy debate. 

Annette reads her decision too late to stop it. “What are you-,”

Cordelia shoves a small clump of soil into her mouth, folding it flat against the roof of her mouth with her tongue and allowing her sense of taste to do the work for her. It tastes… well, rather familiar, unearthing a forgotten memory of having performed quite a similar act as a young girl, eating the dirt from Miss Holm’s potted plants. She’d like to say that this occurred at a very young age, and is less than pleased to recall she was old enough to be speaking, because she related the experience quite vividly to her mother at the time. 

Once satisfied by her test, Cordelia hocks it out of her mouth, letting the salivic mass of phlegm and soil descend back from where it came from. 

Annette’s brows knit tightly together, only resolving with a sigh of resignation. Her finger floats up to Cordelia’s jowl, lightly brushing against it. “You’ve got some on your cheek.” 

“As I suspected: salt.” 

“Salt,” her companion repeats back. Her head tips curiously. “That is not a poison.” 

Cordelia waves a hand over the dying crop before the two of them. “Applied liberally over a field, it may as well be. The brown leaves, dry and cracked - the salt has stolen the moisture from inside the plant, despite the rainfall.”

Wickedly clever. If they’d have simply burned the plants, it would have been far less effective, providing singe marks to each one and clearly demonstrating the assault upon them. Salt provides the miracle - dried out plants amidst the wet season. 

Magic. 

Science, Cordelia snorts to herself, massaging a palm to her temple to ease the headache and smacking her lips to clear the taste of soil from them. Clever. 

Annette seems to agree. “So, not a curse then. Clearly explainable.” 

“But meant to look like one.” 

Crows feathers have been scattered over the fields, not placed into any discernable pattern nor at any regular intervals that Cordelia can detect. Each corner of the crop has been defamed by some sort of standing totem, hardly larger than a foot - a crossed set of trigs dangling a few bones of small creatures. 

Wishbone of a turkey. 

Femur of a squirrel. 

Bicuspid of a boar. 

Correction: incisor. 

But the totems aren’t connected in any way to the scene at hand. They’re theater, Cordelia decides, meant to portray the image of one thing at work, so that an onlooker would ignore the far more obvious evidence at hand. A curse, or so they would willfully accept. Sleight-of-hand, transposed to a larger scale.

A better farmer would easily note the salt.

But a poor farmer, in hard times, easily swept away into fear of a curse… well, that is the sort of target which would already believe in the power of magic, easily swayed into belief. 

Cordelia briefly considers raising the point to Matthew O’Darcy, Alma’s husband who tends the fields. Better not, she decides. If made to feel inadequate for not noticing such an obvious answer, he’d likely not encourage his wife to withhold her fist upon the next occasion. She has little doubt Alma will attempt again at some point. 

So, Cordelia instead remarks to Annette, “Poor fate to lose a crop so early in the season.” 

Annette agrees. “With luck they still have time to plant another.” 

“Unlikely,” she rejects bluntly. Annette frowns at her, so Cordelia gestures to the soil and explains, “The salt won’t leave for some time. This field will be dead for years. There’s a reason Rome salted the ground of Carthage - long term destruction.” She looks back at the home occupying the far corner of the plot, a shaggy and tattered cottage. “Whoever did this to the O’Darcy’s sorely hated them. Or, felt they were gravely wronged by them. In either case, they’ll starve next winter.” 

Her companion is silent as she considers the predicament, shuddering to herself while staring out upon the rows of dying plants. A primary source of their food for the coming year - the surviving wheat fields would only carry them so far. 

“Put that way,” Annette says gravely, “it almost feels as wretched as murder.” 

“Much less interesting,” Cordelia replies without thinking. Annette makes a face at her, a common expression which denotes that Cordelia has erred in an important way. She’s just about to ask for clarification for her error when she sees her for the first time -

The Shadow Woman. 

 Initially, Cordelia considers the very real possibility that her mind has given in upon itself, diving into a sort of madness that she begrudgingly admits feels inevitable. In fact, her first thought upon witnessing the woman haunting the fields around the O’Darcy farm is an unsurprised and resigned: 

 Younger than you expected. You’d thought you could manage at least a few more years before this set in. 

The insanity, that is. Cordelia has always maintained a passive expectation that her mind is a candle meant to burn bright - but quickly. It feels as though it’s an out-of-control locomotive, the sails of a ship buffeted by storm gales, the dam about to overflow. It’s sharpness, it’s clarity, is not something she’s anticipated holding forever. 

So, the Shadow Woman initially appears to be the harbinger of such loss of mental acuity. 

Her rational mind takes hold a moment later. Her pride, seconds after that. 

I’ll not succumb to such a fate. 

So she studies the apparition, aimlessly standing in the center of the field, blanketed by a suit that appears made of the very night itself - black and incanterous. Her skin is pale, almost luminescent in its grave attire. Her hair is midnight and ash, sliding down her form to fall almost to her thighs, and despite the wind, it remains motionless. 

Curious. 

Cordelia, without drawing any particular attention, ambles around the edges of the field, appearing to simply study the rows of dying crops without any suspicion of having seen something far less extant. She makes a slow, winding approach, gazing at the Shadow Woman only through her periphery. 

Unmoving, even in the breeze. 

Dark suit and coat, almost regal in appearance. Almost. 

Eyes are shut. 

She drops to her knees, pretending to carefully scrutinize the nearest potato sprout. 

She’s not moved since appearing. 

The edges of her form are shifting, unstable. 

Cordelia quickly begins testing theories, considering how she would replicate this appearance through conventional smoke and mirror. A wig can be crafted easily, dyed with ink and frozen carefully, then covered with resin to harden it so that it resists a breeze. The clothing, likewise, is easy enough to dye - more likely the product of squid ink than ash. The skin? Chalk might be easiest, but guano will attain a finer finish, perhaps set with a simple spray of-

She’s gone. 

Cordelia rises quicker than she ought to, standing at attention as the apparition vanishes as quickly as she appeared. She sprints to its former location, hunting for any sort of hidden pit or hole for it to have disappeared into. 

“Miss Jones?” Annette calls from behind. 

She’ll think you’ve gone insane. 

Shut up. 

No traps, no hidden passages. The crop is too low for it to have hidden between its sprouts. 

Interesting trick. 

There’s an explainable method, surely. When faced with the impossible, one must first rule out an extraordinary number of possibilities before daring to challenge the known laws of existence. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence - women in a field cannot simply apparate into and out of existence at will. Something has made the appearance of such a feat. 

Fascinating. 

Cordelia can’t wait to discover how it was done. 

Annette strides over to her. “Everything alright? I’ve hardly ever seen you run like that.” 

She’s just about to reply, when the Shadow Woman catches her attention once more on the edge of the woods, far beyond the O’Darcy farm. She stands as still as the nearest pines, just as ethereal as before. 

“There’s trails departing towards the woods,” Cordelia lies, pointing towards the Shadow Woman. Annette draws her focus in that direction and makes no remark about the ghastly figure. 

Instead: “I don’t see any trails.” 

“Surely you do. Look just there, what do you see?” 

“Trees.” 

“Anything in the shadows?” 

“More trees.” 

Cordelia raises a finger to her chin, briefly considering whether or not Annette is deliberately playing daft. She steps behind Annette, placing a hand on either side of her head, bringing her own face right next to hers to direct it to the exact location of the Shadow Woman. 

“See there?” She says quietly. 

“I see a forest before me, and to my side, a strange woman holding me like I am a telescope to be transfixed upon stars,” Annette murmurs. 

Curious. 

Annette is observant. To not see the figure is most interesting. 

A joke? 

Something greater? 

Perhaps Annette needs glasses. 

Cordelia steps in front of Annette. Holds up a hand. “How many fingers have I raised just now?” 

“My vision is fine, Cordelia,” Annette swats her hand away. She rolls her eyes. “Do you wish to follow this invisible trail? I’ve worn my boots in preparation for something of this sort.” 

So Cordelia, with a growing fascinating bubbling at the base of her spine, marches purposely for the Shadow Woman, who disappears once more, just as before. There’s no smoke, no great movement, she simply vanishes as quickly as blinking, one moment there and the next, gone. 

Only to reappear a few hundred yards further into the woods. 

Dangerous. 

Exciting.

Cordelia follows. 

Beuir Woods lay nestled into the hills surrounding Fieldston, full of new growth pine trees and scattered ash and oak. Moss and underbrush fight for control of the lower branches, hardly kept to any sort of functional order. She eventually locates a narrow game trail and hikes along it, growing accustomed to the Shadow Woman slowly leading them deeper and deeper into the forest. 

Leading towards where, exactly? 

It’s strange for something so unsettling to the ordinary senses to so quickly become normalized for the detective - that she ought to view Shadow Woman as something terrifying, yet she does not. A simpler mind would quickly assume she’s a specter. But faith in the explainability of phenomena, and an assumption of deeper significance in her appearance buttresses any hesitations Cordelia may possess. She follows her without much effort. 

Annette, meanwhile, regales Cordelia with the many tales from her newfound friends. 

“A druid?” 

“That is how she tells the story, at least,” Annette shrugs behind her, marching just a few steps back. She must be glad to have elected to wear trousers today - useful for a jaunt through the woods. “What a terrible fate,” she jests, “to be kissed by a nearly naked woman in the woods.” 

“Imagine the rash from the leaves,” Cordelia shudders at the thought. 

Annette wants to kiss you in the woods, in the nude. 

“I’m sure there’s a soothing balm to be applied,” Annette assuades from the corner of her mouth. 

Annette really wants to-

-the Letter, you monster.

Cordelia feels her chest tighten, and she quickly throws the thoughts out of the foregrounds of her mind. She considers instead the novel joy of knowing Annette has so quickly ingratiated herself with the locals. Useful, for a variety of purposes. 

She seemed quite happy with her newfound friends until you selfishly interrupted. 

A quieter, more smug part of Cordelia replies, She quite enjoyed the interruption. 

Selfish. 

“Cordelia?” 

The Detective shakes out of her thoughts. “Hm?” 

“You’ve stopped walking, and have been quiet for the last few minutes.” 

Minutes? 

Cordelia looks ahead of her, seeing that the game trail has been disrupted by the presence of a large pond, borne into existence by the recent rain. Shadow Woman is nowhere in sight. 

“And what is that face you are making?” Annette presses on, placing a comforting palm on her shoulder and turning Cordelia to face her. “You’ve been making a face through the entire walk. Is something the matter?” 

The Letter-

Cordelia feels her headache throb passively in her temple. “It’s nothing.” 

Annette frowns. “I can tell that’s a lie. It’s never nothing.” 

“Damn your social perception,” she mutters, looking out into the woods away from Annette, as though hiding from her prying eyes. 

You ought to simply tell her. What is the worst that could happen? 

A great deal. She will sorely resent you. 

Annette is forgiving, and kind-

Shadow Woman reappears in the faraway distance, illuminated by a stray column of light shining through the canopy despite the overcast day. She slowly shakes her head. 

“I promise I won’t be cross, no matter what it is,” her companion tells her. 

She can’t keep that promise, not once she finally understands. 

You’ve already made your decision about its contents, haven’t you?

Cordelia takes to pacing before the pond, ambling back and forth and listening to the unpleasant squelching sound of her boots in the mud. In her breast pocket, looming with an ever-growing tug of gravity, resides the simple parchment and ink that would explain it all - but, in so doing, doom her. Ignorance of the threat will protect Annette. It must. 

Annette would want to know. 

Cordelia contests. It would do her no good. 

She would want to -

Rising above the treetops, towards the north, a solitary plume of smoke arises. It’s deep gray smoke, released in a single, contained ascent - a chimney, perhaps. 

“Let’s go uncover what that is, shall we?” The detective trods off, angling her way around the edge of the rank pond water. She has to hoist her legs high to shuffle through the underbrush, venturing off trail. She’s on her way before Annette can protest, moving with purpose through the vines and brambles that would attempt to halt her progress.  

Beuir Woods give way to a small glen, tucked away with a small field before the green grass tumbles into rolling hills that disappear into the distance. A creek cuts through a pair of mounds, quietly meeting a shambled cottage on its banks, the cattails from the slow race threatening to overtake its nearest wall. To the west, a strange, pock-marked hill slopes upwards to the height of the forest, and on its far side, the column of smoke rises. 

Annette stumbles out from the underbrush to reach Cordelia’s side. She releases a displeased noise. “Is it such a crime to possess a campfire in your eyes?” 

“Out this far into the countryside?” 

She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “This is just like on the train.” 

“Exactly,” Cordelia nods excitedly, stepping over the tattered wooden fence that demarks the property of the cottage. Just beside the house, an old man chops firewood. 

“No, no that’s not what I-,”

But Cordelia is already off, crossing the boggy marsh that buffets the home, passing the occasional bed of crops hidden in its soggy grass. 

“Good afternoon!” She calls out to him. 

The man startles, dropping his axe clumsily onto the ground and leaping to the nearest wooden wall to scoop up a rusty rifle. Without a word of greeting, he aims it up at Cordelia, his trembling hands causing the barrel to shake furiously. 

“This, this is private land!” He warns, his voice tired and hostile. 

He’d never hit you with that poor tremble. 

“Is that your campfire?” She asks, a pointing hand directing his gaze over the hill. 

Annette is at her side again, cooly pleading, “Cordelia.” 

“You’ve got three seconds to go on back.” 

Cordelia ignores the threat, turning her focus to the area around her instead. His home seems to match him well - falling into disrepair with age. It sags into the earth, the thatched roof muddied and sprouting weeds, the door creaking with the breeze. It’s not likely that he’s regularly making trips up the large, strange hill to the west. 

“Not your fire, then,” Cordelia deduces, pacing to the side as the barrel of the rifle laggingly trails her. “Neighbor’s fire?” The man makes a sour expression, his face folding into a deep scowl. “Not a fan of them?” 

He makes a growling sound. “I said to-,”

“I’d like to take a closer look at it,” she tells him, now turning on her heels to pace back the other direction. She tucks her hands behind her back unassumingly. “I’m a detective, and it may be relevant to a case I am working on.” 

He frowns. “Detective?” 

The barrel of the gun dips slightly. “A quick look,” she promises, “then we’ll be off your property and out of the way.” 

Annette decides to add something more to offer. “We can pay you for the privilege.” 

The man accepts. Annette hands him a stash of folded bills into his palm, stepping back carefully and rolling her eyes to Cordelia when he can’t see. Cordelia notices his glare flick up to Annette’s short hair, but he wisely says nothing. 

Debts settled, Cordelia sets off, only to have her progress halted by the old man cracking, “Beware the glas.” He points his weary rifle towards the hill. “It doesn’t like foreigners,” he chuckles to himself. 

Cordelia knits her brows together. “Temperamental, for a hilltop,” she replies dismissively. 

Annette jogs up a few steps to match Cordelia’s departing pace, making an amused noise at their adventure. She makes a face at the detective, a sternly raised eyebrow and smirking grin, lightly mocking her for what Cordelia assumes is a moment where others would think her to be odd. 

Have I done something strange?

And when she looks back at the cottage, Cordelia’s heart freezes in her chest. The old man’s rifle bares down at the two of them - no, not the two of them, at Annette. His hands no longer shake, his form no longer weary. He lowers his head to it, taking aim. 

Without a word of warning, Cordelia seizes Annette’s arm and yanks it, throwing Annette behind her and putting her own body between the two of them. She stands tall, glaring down at the man and preparing to feel his bullet break her skin. 

It never comes.

Instead, the old man cackles wildly, blowing a kiss at Annette and storing his weapon against the side of the house, where it rests unthreateningly. 

Cordelia keeps her gaze locked upon him, breath coming in heavy aches. Her heartbeat pounds in her temples, reminding her of the constant pain she’d had in them since the morning. She remains frozen, her mind spinning at a hundred miles an hour. 

He would have killed her. 

He could have killed her. 

Annette could have died. 

Annette.

Dead. 

Because of you. 

Gone. 

You monster. 

She’s only here because you brought her. 

You can’t protect her. 

You know what’s after her. 

You know she cannot survive it. 

You cannot protect Annette. 

“Cordelia.” 

She’s only in danger because of you. 

She deserves to know why she’s in danger. 

No - knowledge of it will only frighten her. 

You have to protect her. 

“Cordelia!” Annette’s voice rings in her head, her hands waving in front of the detective’s face. She feels as though the solidity of the world underneath her is now in question, as though the very ground could give out from under her at any moment. 

Annette’s hands grab hold of either arm, squeezing Cordelia with as much effort as she can summon. Cordelia shuts her eyes tightly, stepping backwards and almost falling. 

Is it better or worse to know that it is only Annette who is at risk? 

You’ll survive. 

You’ll survive, and Annette won’t. 

You’ll have to live in a world without Annette. 

You’ll live in a world without Annette, and you will have caused it. 

Cordelia shakes her head, panting and pushing away from her companion. She forces her eyes open, the overcast sky blinding her with its dim light. Everything, for a moment, appears blurry and incomprehensible. She pushes it all away, marching towards the hill before her instead. The smoke still trickles out just beyond it. 

You have to protect Annette. 

She doesn’t deserve to die. 

Protect her. 

You need to be smart enough to solve this. 

There must be a way to stop it. 

Shadow Woman waits for Cordelia at the crest of the hill, and she doesn’t remember registering the dark presence. She doesn’t remember deciding to head directly towards her, never mind the steep incline. She hardly notices herself chipperly tell Annette, “Let’s go this way.” 

“Cordelia,” Annette grabs her by the wrist, arresting her forward charge. She tries to shake it away, but her companion’s grip is stronger. “Something’s wrong. Will you please tell me what is going on?” 

“I’m quite alright,” she mutters back. Then, seeing the displeased glower on Annette’s face, she more chipperly clicks the heels of her boots together and declares, “On the case!” 

Annette is unamused. She squeezes Cordelia’s wrist tighter, holding her in place at the base of the strange, pock-marked hill. 

“Annette?” 

“Talk,” she demands. 

“Must we?” 

“Should you wish to share my bed tonight, yes.” 

“There’s nothing to-,” a deeper scowl from the redhead silences her. Cordelia lifts her head towards Shadow Woman, who has momentarily ceased to be. In her breast pocket, she feels a heavy weight. 

You monster. 

“Very well,” Cordelia sighs, unsure of how to formulate any of her thoughts into something approaching speech. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, nothing forming. 

“You seem distracted lately,” Annette supplies, stringing together her observations, “burdened by something. And the whole time we’ve been in Kereland you’ve been distant with me.” 

Cordelia swallows. 

You don’t deserve her. 

A low, heavy breath.

Try to. 

“I… please understand that I love you most dearly,” Cordelia stammers, finally pulling her wrist free of Annette’s grasp. She tucks both of her hands into her pocket. “I never wish you to come to harm on account of me. Yet, I… erm, find myself quite constantly unsure of the proper way to go about loving a person, particularly one of your excellence.” A nervous breath. “Annette, you…” 

She’s behind Annette. 

The Shadow Woman hides in the middle distance behind Annette, looming over her shoulders, ethereal as ever. Unthreatening, for now, but with a sense of urgency. 

Don’t tell her. Protect her. 

Shadow Woman’s hand is raised, pointing back down the hill. Cordelia forces herself to ignore her - to ignore the churning, violent fear inside of her chest. 

“Christ, I’m no good at this.” 

Annette looks at her softly. “I don’t need you to be good at it. I simply need you to do it.” 

Cordelia nods, staring down at the ground. “There’s… I’ve received…” 

Shadow Woman points once more, just as insistent. 

“I’ve placed you into danger, Annette.” 

“The old man was playing a sick joke,” Annette shakes her head, unafraid. “And I don’t come along with you for the safety.” 

“Not here,” Cordelia murmurs, palm raising to massage the tension from her continual headache. Shadow Woman is closer now, pointing all the same. An impatient noise leaves Cordelia. “Fine,” she gives in, glaring down the hill. 

“Fine?” 

Smoke is rising from the cottage chimney. 

“The danger isn’t the-,” she scratches the back of her head. “It’s not something I…” 

One puff. Then two puffs. 

Rhythmic. 

“More smoke?” Cordelia mutters under her breath. 

“It’s a brisk morning,” Annette says dismissively, desperately trying to keep the conversation on track. “Might we continue our-,”

One puff. Two puffs. 

Pause. 

One puff. Two puffs. 

A signal. 

“Christ!” Cordelia exclaims suddenly, the realization dawning on her. “We need to move!” She swipes up Annette’s hand and pulls her along, racing up the hill towards the initial plume over its crest. 

She pants heavily as they dash up the steep incline, her body quickly growing warm and uncomfortable from the effort. Her feet have to dodge pitholes and brambles - every foot of the hill is covered in obstacles. 

Pine branch, drying out from a lack of-

“Why are we running?” Annette demands. 

“He’s signaled them!” Cordelia explains, releasing Annette’s hand to point at the cottage far behind them. “If we don’t move quickly they’ll break away!” 

“Signaled who?” 

…Pine branch? 

Cordelia races across the grassy incline without explanation - Annette will surely piece it all together in just a few moments. And, on the possibility that she does not, Cordelia will explain it once the necessity of the present has departed. For now, she sprints towards the crest of the glas, ignoring the burning in her thighs and calves, pushing past the increased stress this adds on her headache. All of those things can be tended to later. 

She’d had a scattered array of predictions of what would lay on the far side of the hill, none of which bear any fruit as she stumbles over it. Instead of, say, a small campfire with dancing witches cavorting about, there lay a small, ruined village. 

Moss and ivy overtake the rugged stone structures in the glen. Thatched roofs collapse in on themselves, sprouting the plants of decay. What were once small dirt streets between the homes now exist only as a pathway for weeds. Perhaps fifty or sixty people once lived here, but now, it’s empty. 

Empty, apart from the smoke rising from a single chimney. 

“Do you intend on filling me in on any-,” 

Cordelia’s already working her way down the hill, hopping and skipping over the rugged terrain. An abandoned village is far more exciting as a prospect than anything else she might’ve predicted. 

A sound like branches snapping underfoot surprises Cordelia, and suddenly she finds herself tumbling down to the ground. A hole emerges in the rough ground to swallow her up, and she finds her hands clawing at the grass, desperately trying to pull herself out as it falls deeper and deeper. 

She nearly succeeds in heaving herself out, when the edge gives way completely, dropping her back into its depths, where her back lands against an entirely unexpected sensation. 

Bark?

Annette arrives above her, peeking down from the now six or seven feet of distance between them. “Are you hurt?” Her voice flicks nervously. 

Cordelia waves her concern away. “Leave me! Go find the source of the smoke!” She implores, waving her arms wildly, hoping Annette will grasp the necessity of the task. 

“I’m not going to-,”

“Annette.” 

Annette grumbles, throwing her hands over her head with frustrated resignation. She pulls at her hair for a moment, then sighs and nods. She rises to her feet once more, preparing to march off, when Cordelia hears the crackling, sinking sound once more. Annette’s boot collapses through the ground, followed by her leg, and then the whole precipice gives way. 

She tumbles down as well, knocking into Cordelia. 

A long pause holds them as they await any further structural failures of the hilltop. Nothing, so far. 

“Miss Jones?” 

“Yes, Miss Baker?” 

Annette swallows dryly. “I’ll not be able to investigate the fire for you.” 

Cordelia nods, shifting so that Annette’s elbow is no longer entrapping her lungs. “Forgiven,” she sighs, “given the circumstances. You’re not hurt?” 

Annette struggles to return to her feet, laying against Cordelia’s back, but shakes her head, muttering a word of her status. She pushes up, grabbing hold of what ought to be the dirt and mud comprising the walls of their earthly tomb - only to struggle to make any headway amidst the tree branches holding them. 

Tree branches. 

“Why on Earth is there a branch in my ass?” Annette gripes. 

“Under the Earth, as it were,” the detective muses thoughtfully. Her fingers wrap around the nearest one - Kerish pine, it seems - and she slowly reacquaints herself and Annette into an upright position. Her eyes flick around, marveling at the unexpected position they’ve now found themselves in. 

Damn the smoke, there’s a forest under the glas. 

Annette turns around, and Cordelia finds herself just as captivated by the ever-lovely shimmer in her round eyes. Chestnut irises, with a dark ring around their edges, so soft and precise. A delicate glow around the pupils, nearly hazel. 

Cordelia, despite the circumstances, raises a hand to Annette’s cheek. 

She’s yours. You get to love her, a wondrous part of herself marvels. Protect her. 

Don’t be possessive, another scolds. 

Cordelia withdraws her hand quickly. 

Don’t be distant. 

She leaves her palm hovering in the air, halfways between warm affection and cool detachment. 

Annette raises her own hand to gently procure it, bringing the back of Cordelia’s palm to rest against her smooth cheek. The chestnut glow in her eyes looks sweetly concerned. “My dear, will you please tell me what’s gotten into you? Everytime your eyes meet mine it’s like they’re haunted by something.” 

Haunted. 

Cordelia’s gaze flicks upwards to the light above them. Shadow Woman hovers just above them, unassailing, undisturbed, but watchful. She casts no shadow, despite the angle, and does not disturb the light from reaching them. Incorporeal. 

You are being haunted.

Cordelia sucks in a heavy breath, unwilling to accept such a premise. There’s some other explanation to be seized upon, surely. It would be preposterous to let her mind convince her of something of the sort. 

Haunted, or you’re losing your sanity. 

She shudders. 

With a guilty pang in her chest, and resolving not to worry Annette with this sort of nonsense, Cordelia shuts it away past a stoic wall. She releases a long exhale. “Might I talk when ready, and not a moment before?” 

Annette tenses, purses her lips. “But you will tell me.” 

A pause. “Yes.” 

And now you’ve lied to her, and deceived her, and placed her in danger-

Cordelia resolves not to make it a lie. She will tell Annette, when necessary. There’s no sense in panicking her while so little is, at present, understandable. She will share the Letter in due time. She will explain… whatever the Shadow Woman is. 

“Okay,” Annette places a tender kiss on her forehead. She takes a breath to reset. “Now, shall we find our way out?” 

Annette gazes up out of the hole, up towards the light, once more showing no awareness of the Shadow Woman. Cordelia, on the other hand, kicks her boots through some of the branches underfoot, clearing away the gray and drying fronds. 

“Down, I believe.” 

Annette raises an eyebrow. “Down?” 

Cordelia nods. “We are, if I’m not mistaken, about thirty feet above the forest floor.”