Baker and Jones Ch. 01

"Then you can create your own. Buy whatever you like."

It feels as though Annette's heart stops in her chest. She stammers, trying to get her words out clearly, "W-whatever I like? Truly anything?"

"Be reasonable, Miss Baker," Cordelia scoffs, hardly looking away from the shelves. She occasionally moves bits and pieces around, rearranging books or papers and reorganizing them.

Annette takes a moment to steady herself. She'd known Cordelia must've had some money to be able to afford owning a servant, but the modest house made her expect it to be only a respectable sum. The idea that the costs of stocking a pantry didn't even register to her... that Annette might have full control of where and what her next meal might be...

"What's wrong?" Cordelia mutters. "I can hear you thinking."

"Nothing, Miss Jones," Annette forces her dry mouth to swallow. "I-I'll prepare a list for your approval."

"Do you always require this much oversight, Miss Baker?"

"No, Miss," she shakes her head quickly. "I'm just trying to get settled in."

"Good," the detective exhales.

Annette returns to the kitchen, sifting through the pantry and trying to get a sense for what they'd need. She wasn't an excellent cook by any means; but between the basic training at the collarhouse and the ingenuity that street-life had forced her to learn, she figures it couldn't be too difficult to keep things up for Cordelia. With free reign, she could even visit the stalls that sold the expensive game. She'd never had the guts to try and steal from them. Annette had watched too many fail and get forcibly dragged towards prison or a collarhouse.

It was better to willingly sell yourself into servitude than to be forced in, and not just for the psychological peace. Voluntary negotiation meant that a contract had some value and would cost more for a prospective owner to purchase. The more skills and experience and desirable qualities a servant had, the more their contract could be sold for and the more likely it would be snapped up by wealthier owners. Those forced into service lost most of their value, more likely to be doomed to a position of hard labor. After nearly half a year on the streets, never quite managing to find a foothold back into society, Annette had decided that service would be better than starvation.

"I would like shepherd's pie tonight, Miss Baker," Cordelia says suddenly, finally relenting from the task of re-organizing Annette's cleaning.

"Of course, Miss Jones," Annette replies. That was easy enough, she'd expected Cordelia to have more expensive tastes. "I'll need to visit the market shortly then."

"I'll go with you," Cordelia rolls her shoulders, striding over to a coat rack and grabbing a long trench coat that matches her slacks. A silver pocket watch chain dangles from the pocket.

"It's no trouble at all, Miss."

"I know," she replies, "I just need to get out. Can't seem to keep my body still up in my study. Come along." She strides out towards the doorway and Annette shuffles quickly to follow, griping internally that she hadn't yet finished assembling a list. She'll have to remember things on the fly.

Down the right side of Mill Street where it meets the aptly named Market Street, they arrive at a pleasant and bustling market, filled with streetcarts and stalls and vendors. It sits just on the edge of the Fennes river, where the cobblestone street eventually forms into a wall that falls down to the bank of the river ten feet below. Annette follows Cordelia delightedly though the stalls, eagerly grabbing anything and everything she could; she's constantly picking up and smelling the various fruits and vegetables and herbs, ecstatic to actually bring some of them home. She turns a mango around in her hand, over and over again. She'd never actually held one before.

"You... you seem rather excited by shopping," Cordelia observes, standing a few feet behind Annette as she rummages through squash. She isn't even sure what makes a particular gourd better than any other, but everyone else seems to be inspecting them before buying.

"I am, Miss," Annette calls back pleasantly.

"This your new girl?" The man behind the cart grunts to Cordelia.

"Just arrived this morning, Mr. Tumm," Cordelia nods.

"Welcome to town, Miss..."

"Baker," Annette chirps happily, seizing a few zucchini and shoving them into a bag. "Annette Baker."

"Phil Tumm," he replies, resting a large hand on his chest and inclining his head. "I'm here nearly everyday, so I'll see you around."

"Not that one," Cordelia mutters, crossing her arms and looking away absently as Annette's fingers wrap around an apple. She sets it down and picks up the one next to it.

"There's a better pick," Phil agrees, nodding happily. "Fresh off the trees this morning."

"Do you have a nice farm?" Annette asks politely, rustling in her bag to pull out the checkbook for him.

"It's not much," he shrugs. "Keeps me fed."

She scribbles a quick check, hoping she'd added up the cost correctly, though she isn't sure Cordelia would even notice if she went too high. The investigator's head remains on a slow swivel, scanning the crowds mulling around them.

"Take good care of her," Phil leans in, speaking so only Annette can hear and gesturing to Cordelia behind her. "Lord knows she could use the extra hands."

"You should see the kitchen..." Annette mutters and he grins warmly.

After a few more booths and pleasant interactions with farmers and merchants, Annette feels high from the novelty of the experience. She had spent so long only interacting with firm scowls and watchful eyes, it's invigorating to be treated so much more kindly; the collar around her neck serving as a message she was more trustworthy than a desperate, starving mouth with greedy eyes. She can hardly erase the beaming smile on her face and the lightness in her step, reveling in the sweetness of polite conversation.

She wraps the handles of her bags over her shoulders, balancing the heavy weight carefully and trying not to drop anything in front of Cordelia. Along with some basic ingredients, she's acquired some cured meats and cheese and nice butter and everything else her jittery heart could justify. She also picks out a few plain dresses and spare clothes, eager to have something less restrictive than her thick petticoat and corset.

"What are you looking for?" Annette asks Cordelia, noticing her head still turning back and forth to take in their surroundings.

"I'm not looking, I'm watching."

"What are you watching for?" She asks innocently.

"Feel no need to continue asking questions, Miss Baker," Cordelia replies cooly. "Conversation is not a requirement of your employment."

"Very well, Miss." She readjusts the bags on her shoulders. "Shall I return home and put these away?"

"Yes, Miss Baker," Cordelia's distracted and absent voice answers. She stands at the edge of the market, staring in towards the central plaza with her arms crossed, eyes flicking back and forth. "But do come back once you do."

Annette nods, slightly confused, but obeys. She trots home at a steady pace, feeling a burning tension in her shoulders from the weight of her purchases. It'd be less precarious at a slower pace but Annette underestimated how much she bought and doubts she could hold it that long. She stumbles inside the house, setting the bags down and striding back to rejoin Cordelia.

When she returns, she's mildly surprised to see Cordelia isn't alone anymore. One of the Sisters from St. Bartholomew's cathedral stands beside her, adorned in the modest robes of its convent. Cordelia listens intently, nodding occasionally as the Sister continues with her story. Annette takes a breath, forcing herself to remain calm and neutral as she approaches, but her endeavors quickly fail once she's close enough to recognize the particular sister.

"-found out after the last service," the sister is saying as Annette arrives and hovers just behind Cordelia.

"I'm sorry to hear it, Sister Pullwater," Cordelia replies, hands folded behind her back calmly. "Is there any word regarding Father Thomas' health?"

"It's to the Lord now," Pullwater looks to the sky briefly, and when she looks back down her gaze locks onto Annette. "You have new help."

"First day," Cordelia nods, gesturing to Annette behind her. "Sister Pullwater, this is Annette Baker."

"Oh, I'm quite familiar with Miss Baker..." Sister Pullwater's crony eyes flash with recognition and scorn, causing Annette to shrink back into her skin slightly. She'd hoped that after the collarhouse she'd finally be free of the Sister's ire.

"Indeed?"

"Sister Pullwater, so good to see you again," Annette curtsies politely, though Pullwater's judgmental glare seems displeased.

"Maybe now you'll finally learn obedience, Miss Baker," Pullwater grumbles.

"Troublemaker?" Cordelia's eyebrow raises, looking back at Annette with a softly proud expression. "How do you know the Sister?"

"I... I grew up in St. Bartholomew's orphanage," Annette says in a quiet voice. She tries to put on a braver face and continues, "Sister Pullwater has been watching over me since I was six."

"Not much good it did," Pullwater mutters. She continues to stare down Annette as though punishment could be doled out by expression alone, though growing up she wasn't exactly sparing the rod. "Keep watch over this one."

"I shall indeed, Sister Pullwater," Cordelia confirms, cordial and confident. "Good day," she bows her head as the nun takes her leave.

Cordelia turns to look at Annette, hands still tucked behind her back and eyes flicking over her once again. Her energy seems to dramatically change once the nun leaves, dropping its warm, polite tone and returning to her usual sardonic glow.

"You were raised by the nuns?" She asks after a brief moment.

"Yes, Miss Jones."

"Christ, I don't envy you, Pullwater is a bitch, even by St. Bartholomew's standards."

Annette lets out a surprised chirp of laughter, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. "I... I wouldn't know what you mean, Miss Jones."

"Very well, Miss Baker," she snorts. "Cancel my dinner orders, by the way. I'm going to be out tonight."

"Oh?" Annette tilts her head. "Very well, Miss Jones. Should I prepare anything for you before you go? Or for when you return?"

"Nothing at all," she nods sharply, her head flicking back towards the market behind them. "I'll likely be gone all night."

"Should I stay up and wait fo-,"

"I'd rather you didn't," Cordelia interrupts, vacantly looking away. "The rest of the evening is yours, Miss Baker."

Annette bows politely. "As you wish."

Uttering a quick, "Good-day," Cordelia strolls away, disappearing off into the crowd and leaving Annette to wonder what she was going to do first with her newfound freedom.

*****

Annette had made a promise to herself that she would stay away from the Fleeting Faery for a while once she'd sold herself. Any reasonable owner who caught her here would use it as easy grounds for termination of the contract or punishment. But Cordelia wasn't really typical, and with an entire afternoon and evening off to herself... the temptation was too great. Samantha's hand stroking her thigh made the decision even easier.

"Let me see it closer," Samantha pleads, smiling and leaning forward against the pub counter. It isn't particularly crowded this evening, just a handful of regulars and a few strays.

"I shouldn't," Annette shifts on her stool, mug of beer cool against her palms.

"Come now, Annie," the woman whines, though it's more from denied curiosity than anything else. "You wouldn't disappoint a Lady like that, would you?"

Samantha's fingers on her leg squeeze a little tighter through Annette's casual dress. She's relieved to no longer be wearing the corset, and with the thinner fabric the warmth of the woman's hand is hard to resist.

"Fine," Annette sighs, leaning closer and lifting her chin to expose her neck. "There's metal under it," surprise twinkles in Samantha's dark brown eyes, her fingers lifting from Annette's thigh to carefully grip the collar around her neck. "I thought it was just leather."

"If it was just leather, it'd be too easy to cut off," Annette replies quietly. "The leather is just there so it's slightly more comfortable."

"You poor thing," Samantha leans closer.

Annette has known Samantha from a distance for a few years. They were both semi-regulars in the pub, one of the best and worst kept secrets of Bellechester. A bartender in the Fleeting Faery might give them a side-eye warning if they're getting a little too close for deniability, but outside of a brothel it was hard to find a safe place to flirt with other women. She'd always admired Samantha, a Lady of the lowest rung of nobility, for her confidence and swagger.

"It's better than the street," Annette shrugs.

"Hardly," another voice coughs from nearby. Annette turns to lock eyes with Mel, an older woman with a matching collar.

"How's Mr. Beckett treating you, Mel?" Samantha asks, lowering her hand back to rubbing Annette's thigh.

Mel throws back a drink, rolling her eyes and letting silence answer the question. She shifts to face away from the two of them, returning to watching a few others play darts with a grim solace.

"Mr. Beckett is vile, Annie," Samantha explains, speaking quieter. "You'd think a police captain would be better suited to enforcing decent conduct in his own home."

"Would you?"

"I should think so, yes."

Annette recalls the many times one of Beckett's men would kick a boot through her shelter and silently disagrees. She'd never be able to forget the chill tension in her bones when she saw a cop on patrol downtown.

"So who bought your contract?"

"I... I shouldn't say," Annette replies. Cordelia's reputation was a mixed bag, and Annette decides it is better not to leave clues for the detective to find her.

"Are they at least treating you well?"

"Well enough," Annette takes a drink, frowning a little bit at the bitter taste of the beer. The buzz was worth pushing through the feeling. "It's ironically more freedom than I've had in a while."

"That's what I always tell people," Samantha nods, "The collarhouses are good policy. It keeps people from the streets and gives them honest labor."

"Sure," Annette hides behind another sip. Samantha's cute enough to make Annette decide her wealth wasn't a dealbreaker.

"Do you think your owner will see the contract through?"

"It's six years," Annette sighs. "There's no telling."

"Some owners prefer longer ones. Chin up."

"If you say so."

"I do say so," Samantha tilts forward, bringing her face closer to Annette's. "You should be grateful, Annie. If you have enough freedom to still come around this place, perhaps I'll still make it worth your while." Her fingers slide further up Annette's leg, making her face flush with warmth.

"Like last time when you stood me up?"

"Annie," Samantha pouts, "You aren't still morose over that affair, are you? It's been a year. I already told you that Revier had called me to a surprise engagement."

"I know, I know."

"Trust me, I'd much rather spend my time with you, dear."

"'Dear?'"

"Don't be daft," her mouth cracks open with a sly smile. "You know you like it when I call you dear to me." She sets down her drink, taking one of Annette's hands with her own and rubbing her thumb across the soft skin.

Annette can hardly deny the helpless flutter in her chest. "But if I were to call you 'dear'..."

"I shall never know what you mean."

Annette leans closer, scooting forward on her stool and bringing her face close enough to feel Samantha's breath lightly brush against her face. It's been too long since Annette has been truly touched; none of the other girls in the collarhouse were open to exploration and she wasn't willing to really risk it there anyway. And not a single soul there had the poise and charisma that Samantha exuded.

"Then you can keep calling me 'dear,' if you'd like," she smiles and lets her eyes drift down to Samantha's lips.

"As you wish, dearest," the noblewoman leans closer, pushing out her chest towards Annette and letting her gaze find Annette's lips as well.

"I think you should kis-,"

"Ahem," the bartender puffs, wiping down the counter with a dirty rag a few feet behind them, brow furrowed.

"Oh, sod it, Bill," Samantha groans. Annette feels a pang of disappointment as she leans back, crossing her arms and ensuring there's an appropriate amount of space between the two of them. Deniability was the only thing that kept the Faery open.

"It's not my rules, Miss Deveroux," Bill pips back.

"Thank you, Bill," Annette grumbles.

"You got a problem? Take it up with the police or with Missus Bevel," he waves away her frustration. "It's not my head that'll roll."

Samantha turns her back to Bill, blocking Annette's view of him. "Do you want to get out of here, Annie?" She drops her voice lower. "Do something exciting...?"

Annette glances over her shoulder, locating the old, clanking grandfather clock in the corner. Quarter past eight. It'd be getting dark soon, hardly anyone would be able to see them if they wanted to sneak away and find a private alleyway. Or... if Cordelia really wasn't supposed to be home until much later, maybe she could get away with having Samantha over. She'd get real privacy with a gorgeous woman.

But she sighs. Bringing Samantha over would likely reveal her owner's identity, and if they were caught... The memory of brisk nights and an aching stomach is enough to discourage her. Maybe once she was more established in Cordelia's household, with a better awareness of what she could get away with. For now, it was too early.

"I shouldn't," Annette hangs her head, hating the words exiting her mouth.

"You should."

"No, I really shouldn't."

"Be a dear, Annie," Samantha leans forward again, whispering, "Be my Dear."

"Another time, I swear."

Samantha lets out an impatient and frustrated sigh. She throws back the rest of her drink and stands up from her stool, giving Annette a disappointed glare. "Boring," she accuses, rolling her eyes and huffing away to another corner of the pub.

Annette releases a tense breath. She stares down into the half-finished beer in front of her and decides the buzz isn't worth it anymore. Despite her best interests, or perhaps because of them, she'd leave the Fleeting Faery sober and alone.

*****

Annette wakes again in her new bed to a loud noise downstairs. She sits up quickly, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and feeling her heart pound in her chest. Jitters of adrenaline tremble through her and it takes a moment to let it fade and realize the noise is just Cordelia loudly returning home, not a true threat. She waits in the dark for a few moments, deciding it must be just past midnight, and wonders if she's needed downstairs.

She's just about to roll over and return to the grips of sleep when a loud crash of glass reignites her fight-or-flight response. Scrambling to light a candle in the dark, Annette stumbles out of her room and downstairs to investigate.

"'-not qualified for betting pools...'" Cordelia's voice mutters below, "I'll show them 'not qualified for betting pools...'" She's slurring, rambling to herself.

Annette carefully descends the staircase, holding the candlestick tightly in her fist. Her instincts tell her to move quietly but she quickly realizes that Cordelia might not appreciate her surprise appearance and deliberately makes a little noise as she makes her way down.

"Miss Jones?" She calls out timidly.

Cordelia doesn't respond. She's laying her chest down across the dining room table that is thankfully still clean, resting her forehead against the hardwood. The shattered remains of a whisky bottle glitter across the floor in the dark.