Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve 

 

Hear now, The Six Demands We Make of Bellchester:

We Demand for Workers a Thirty-Hour Work Week

this being for the same pay, or more, as the current weeks.

We Demand for Workers Full Citizenship Without Property, 

this enfranchising the entire population, with all rights and duties 

therein. 

We Demand for Workers a Break-up of All Monopolies, 

to be divided into worker-owned industries.

We Demand for Workers a Tax Upon Wealth, 

consisting of ninety-percent above one thousand pounds a year, and that 

reparations be made for the Kerish Famine. 

We Demand for Workers Public Trials for Labor Violators,

and that unions be made a protected class; the violation of whose rights

accruing a punishment of forfeiture of all assets. 

We Demand for Workers an END to Collar Servitude

 

The hammer rings loudly in the early morning as Annette pins the notice to the side of a local bakery. She yawns and nearly strikes her own thumb as she misses the nail, which quickly jolts her awake. She turns around, rubbing her eyes and feeling the cool morning fog nestle up against her rosy cheeks. 

“I bet you like that last demand, eh, Red?” Patrick chuckles, his throating voice bouncing to her left. 

Annette scowls. “We’ve talked about this.” 

Patrick’s smile quickly leaves his face, and he looks down at the ground. “Right, sorry.” 

“Thank you,” Annette shakes her head. She yawns again and turns to face the third member of their party. “Marian, how many more do we need to post?” 

Marian thumbs through the stack in her arms. “Just a handful left.” 

Annette nods gratefully. “Thank God.” She rolls her shoulders and faces Patrick again, still sulking that his joke had failed. “Patrick, you take the rest.” 

“Why me?” 

“You know why,” she insists, pulling the flyers from Marian’s arms and pushing them up against his chest. She deposits the hammer and nails into his hands. He frowns, but Annette holds firm. “Just do it, we’ll keep watch.” 

Patrick obeys, though makes it clear he doesn’t like it. He shuffles away, grumbling, and after he turns a corner Annette can hear the muffled sound of him hammering up another notice. 

“So commanding…” Marian whispers provocatively. 

“I can be much more than just commanding,” Annette flirts back. 

“Oh, I’m aware.” 

Annette shares a knowing grin with Marian, and for a moment considers picking up her hand to kiss it. She decides not to, figuring they’d already be in enough trouble if they were caught putting up the posters. She smiles to herself and turns away, listening again for the sound of Patrick finishing their task. 

She’d known Marian for a little while before the Mallets. They’d run into each other at Eleonore’s Gallery a few times… well, more than run into each other. Marian was always so friendly to her, appreciative of the fact that Annette was a welcome difference from the men who usually purchased her services. 

Marian had a round face and warm eyes, with high cheekbones that shimmered slightly when the light caught her dark umber skin. She was a little shorter than Annette, a fact she often teased her about, and typically wore her curly hair back in a tight bun. Annette had seen it out of its confinement a few times, and knew it poofed out into a soft and voluptuous afro, which she found cute. Marian didn’t like to show it off very often, she already received enough strange glares from those who could tell she was from the colonies, and resented the attention that came with it. Around her neck dangles a tight leather collar. 

Annette glances back at Marian, noticing her shivering fiercely. “Are you cold?” 

“I’m always cold,” she puffs back. 

Annette makes to grab her coat, asking, “Would you like to borrow my-,” 

“Keep it,” Marian dismisses. 

“It’s really no trouble-,” 

“I have deep pockets,” Marian smirks, shoving her hands into the sleeves of her dress. She shoots a proud look at Annette, though continues shivering. “My hands will be fine. I can handle it.” 

Annette smiles back. “I’m quite sure you would stare down an upcoming locomotive and still be convinced of your own fortitude.” 

Marian shoves her. “Shut it, Red.” 

“Oho, I’m Red now, am I?” 

Marian flashes her teeth and sticks out her tongue, but bumps her hip affectionately into Annette. She stands a little closer, and Annette wishes she could just throw her arms around her to keep the cold at bay. They sit and wait for a while, occasionally hearing the sounds of Patrick’s hammer ringing out across the square. Annette notices the morning light slowly illuminate more and more of the area, turning the gray fog whiter, and begins tapping her foot impatiently. 

After a moment, she leans her head down to Marian and asks, “Do you think I could-,”

“Really?” Marian scowls. 

“I’d have enough time if I ran.” 

“You’re unbelievable. Jarl said ‘no.’”

Annette looks away mischievously. “He didn’t say ‘no.’ Not technically.” 

Marian waves a dismissive hand at her. “You’ve already made up your mind. I have no idea why you’re asking me.” 

“Are you okay to-”

“Finish up here?” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, obviously.” 

“You’re amazing, thank you,” Annette bounces in place.

“You’d better be back to warm me up later,” Marian pouts, “I’ll be pissed if Jarl kills you for this.” 

“Have no fear,” Annette beams, “I’m sure Joan would leap at the opportunity to fill my vacancy in your bed.” 

“You know I hate Joan.” 

“Then I’ll be sure not to let Jarl kill me,” Annette pips. 

She leans down and kisses Marian’s cheek, flashing her a final smile before taking off down the nearby alleyway. She’d already mapped out her route in her head as she put up posters all morning, and so she wastes little time dashing across town. It wouldn’t be too far, likely only a mile and a half, and a tiny part of her is grateful for the chance to get her blood pumping to push away the frosty morning air. 

 

– – – 

 

Annette stumbles into the meeting only a few minutes late, relieved that it seems she’s only really missed the opening introductions and greetings. She hovers against the back wall, shoulder to shoulder with a crowd of about twenty fellow laborers from different fields of work. Across the room she notices Jarl glare at her, his firm brow lowering, but ignores him. 

“...Regardless,” Failinis is saying, “I thank you all for joining me today.” 

A burly man with a bald head leans forward and slams a fist onto the table. “Why are we here, Mallet?” 

“For the same reason I always invite you…” the Mallet’s leader pauses for a minor effect, “...solidarity.” 

“Ass,” the burly man grunts. 

A scrawny man with gaunt cheeks and icy blue eyes glares at Failinus and scowls, “You’re here to poach more of our union dues.” 

“You ought to know by now, Charlie,” Failinis shakes his head, “I’ve no interest in your money.” 

The final woman at the center table snorts. “Just our workers.” 

A tense pause fills the room, and the surrounding crowd exchange hushed whispers between one another. 

Failinis takes a breath and picks up a piece of paper from the table, holding it up to the room. “Have you had a chance to look over our most recent publication? The Six Demands.” 

The woman perks up once more, frowning and saying, “We weren’t consulted.” 

Charlie nods his head in agreement, his face scrunched up incredulously. “An end to collar service? Have you lost your mind?” 

Failinis smiles. “The Mallets are setting forth an agenda for the cause,” he tells them, his voice smooth and polished. “They are finally beginning to fear us, fear the power of the Mallets. Now, the time and the context are right to press them for justice. The unions you represent ought to understand the significance of joining together at this moment.” 

The burly man shoves his chair back, letting a loud scraping noise screech out across the hall. “Now is the time? Now!?” 

“Say what you mean, Marcus.” 

Marcus stands, staring down Failinis like a hound ready to strike. “Where were your Mallets last month when Beckett’s men broke the masonry strike, huh? They were nowhere to be found!” 

A murmur trickles through the crowd. 

“I seem to remember your strike was broken by scab workers shipped in from the colonies,” Failinis rebuts.

“We could have blocked them if-,” 

“No, you wouldn’t have,” the woman to his right shakes her head. “Sit down, Marcus. You’re making an ass of yourself.” 

“Thank you, Miss Stonewater,” Failinis nods.

“Call me ‘Miss’ again and I’ll kick your teeth in myself,” she grunts. “It’s Marjorie, please and thank you. And ol’ Marjorie still has a bone to pick with you thinking you can set the agenda for us.” 

“The Six Demands,” Failinus smiles, “will reshape society from the ground up.”

“And I don’t deny it,” Marjorie shrugs. “But where’s the call to liberate our colonies overseas? Where’s the concern for foreign labor?” 

Charlie lets out a bark of laughter. “You know the crown would never-,”

“The crown wouldn’t end collar service either,” she interrupts. “It’s a miracle slavery was abolished years ago.” 

“Collar service is still slavery,” Failinis rebuts. 

Marjorie raises an eyebrow at him and frowns. “I don’t remember the blokes being carted off ships from the colonies having rights or contracts or ends of their terms of service.” 

“The rights are poorly regulated, and the -,”

“But it’s still rights,” she asserts. “It’s not the same.” 

From the corner of the room, Jarl crosses his arms and challenges, “Am I hearing correctly that the textiles union endorses collar service, Marjorie?” 

“No,” she growls. “It’s just not the same.” 

Failinis quickly resets. “May we return to the matter at hand?” 

“Yeah,” Charlie sits forward and drops his hands onto the table in frustration, “the matter of the Mallets being the leeches they are. Do you know how many of my workers abandoned the mills to join your warpath?” 

Jarl speaks up again, his voice cool, calm, and malicious, “Perhaps Mill United requires a more imaginative agenda to keep their enthusiasm.” 

“Ass.” 

“The Mallets bring two strengths to the equation: presence and ambition,” Failinis declares, tossing an appreciative nod towards Jarl. “The Barons are already beginning to fear us, as are the nobles, and now that we’ve made our demands we can begin negotiation. Or, more accurately, you can begin negotiation,” he gestures to the table of union leaders. 

“I don’t follow,” Marcus sighs.

“Of course you don’t, oaf,” Charlie sneers. 

Failinis continues quickly, capturing the momentum and energy of the crowd and effortlessly channeling the tension of the room onto his words. “The Barons will know that they can either negotiate with your unions or they’ll wake up with their collars freed and their throats slit. They can give into your demands now, or face the Mallets later. We are the vanguard that will provide you the leverage you need. 

“We’ll take their servants, we’ll take their workers, we’ll seize their factories,” he boasts, and the crowd seems to hang upon his every word, “and bring ruin upon them. If by industry they pull themselves up, then by industry we will cast them down!” 

There’s a brief applause, and the union leaders share a tense exchange of glances between them. One by one they stand, and only Marjorie Stonewater shakes Failinis’ hand. They file out of the room, followed by the remainder of the crowd, leaving behind only Failinis, Jarl, and Annette. 

Jarl’s angry scowl returns, and he storms across the room, stopping just in front of Annette and towering over her. “I told you not to come.” 

“Technically you only said I wouldn’t be welcome,” she smirks. 

“You’re out of line, Red.” 

“It’s fine, Jarl,” Failinis rolls his eyes. “Would you give us a moment?” 

Jarl furrows his brow for a moment, then shakes his head and leaves the two of them alone. 

Annette feels a tremble of excitement and nerves trickle down her back. She’d never been able to speak alone with Failinis before, and despite her curiosity and best efforts, she’d hardly spoken to him at all. He runs his hand through his red beard, and his eyes are a serious and thoughtful shade of deep brown. 

“I don’t think we’ve had a true opportunity to meet,” his low voice puffs. He extends a hand, which Annette shakes. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.” 

“What have you heard?” 

He takes a few steps back and plops into one of the empty chairs, kicking his feet up onto the table where his heavy boots slam down onto the wood. “Jarl says you’re disrespectful and impulsive. Guy says you’re clever and perceptive.” He pulls a pipe from his pocket and strikes a match, igniting it. He takes a long draw, then blows the smoke out of his mouth contentedly. “I’m inclined to believe the truth is somewhere amidst both.” 

Annette smiles and paces away, taking in the room. “That was a tense meeting.” 

“It’s all just posturing, looking tough,” he waves a hand dismissively. “What did you think?”

“I suppose I understand their concerns.” 

“Do you think they’re warranted?” 

She takes a thoughtful breath. “I think they’re scared, and have every right to be.” 

Failinis nods appreciatively, and takes another long inhale of his pipe. “Jarl tells me your owner, the Deacon, is still alive. He survived his unfortunate fall into the river.” 

Annette quickly hides her guilt. “Evidently he’s a strong swimmer.” 

“Did you help him?” His brows furrow, but he holds up a hand. “And before you answer, please know that this is a test.” 

For a moment, Annette considers lying, but decides not to. “... I did.” 

“Why?” 

“I didn’t have it in me to kill him,” she sighs. 

“Even though he was guilty? Tell me about your thought process.” 

Failinis’ voice is calm and measured, with a soft curiosity to it that seems genuine. Annette looks him over for a moment, and says, “The point of all of this isn’t to spill blood in the streets. The point is to gain leverage through fear, as you yourself said moments ago…” She takes a breath. “I deduced that assassinating a priest-to-be would have the same effect for leveraging fear as almost assassinating a priest-to-be. In either case, it communicates that no one is safe from judgment.” 

“Perceptive,” Failinis lets out a puff of smoke. “Jarl believed it was due to you being a coward.” 

Annette snorts. “I was brave enough to tackle him into a river then fight the current to deposit him on the shore.” 

“I agree,” he nods. 

Failinis returns to his pipe for a long few breaths, closing his eyes and savoring the scent of tobacco. 

“Did I pass your test?” Annette nudges.

“Both of them.” 

“Both?” 

Failinis smiles. “I have an assignment for you. It’s no small task, but I believe you may be particularly well suited to undertake it.” 

“In which way?” 

“We are after a man whom we must not kill, though many would surely want to.” 

“Who?” 

Failinis flashes his teeth in a mischievous grin. “Mister Wemberly.” 

– – – 

 

“Was he pissed?” Marian tilts her head, letting it lay over the side of the mattress.

Annette shakes her head, pulling the boots off of her feet and dropping them down next to the doorway of Marian’s room. “Jarl will get over it.” 

“Not him,” she sighs, head hanging upside down now. “Failinis.” 

“Not at all,” Annette shrugs. She stretches, taking a peek out the window before sitting beside Marian. The room is cozy and comfortable, in a small inn built against the side of Elenore’s Gallery. It’s where most of the collars who worked there lived. “He seemed intrigued.” 

“Intrigued?” Marian sits up. “By you?” 

Annette smirks and cups Marian’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Are you really one to be surprised by how interesting I am?” 

Marian snorts and shuffles away, crawling under the covers and lifting them up towards Annette. “Come off your high horse and get in here. I’m still freezing and it's your fault.” 

“I offered you my coat,” Annette smiles, sliding under the blankets. 

Marian tucks her head into Annette’s chest, prompting Annette to pull her into a warm embrace. “I wouldn’t have been up so early if you hadn’t sweet-talked me into it,” she mutters. 

“I say five words and you swoon,” Annette giggles. 

Marian blows a raspberry on her tunic. “I don’t swoon.” 

‘“Of course, Annette, you know I’ll do anything for you,’” Annette mocks, putting on a ridiculous impression of her. 

Marian shoves her playfully. “I’d barely be a part-time Mallet if it wasn’t for you.” 

“At least I make it worth your while.” 

“Oh, do you?” 

Annette tilts Marian’s chin up and kisses her, laughing a little as she does. Marian easily melts into the familiar taste of Annette’s lips, sighing and embracing the flush of warmth. Annette shifts over, slowly climbing on top of her and pushing her into the mattress, knowing that Marian loved the feeling of weight and pressure on top of her. She kisses her for a little while, not feeling much other than the simple enjoyment of a pair of soft lips and a friendly face, and eventually pulls away. 

Marian raises her shoulders and drops them, sighing contentedly. Annette was sure that Marian had to deal with a horrendous display of bad kissers and tedious partners at the Gallery, and a little part of her is thrilled to have been trusted enough by the girl that she relaxed into Annette’s kisses. Marian was kind enough to let Annette stay here while she was away with the Mallets, and Annette would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy the company as well. 

“I almost forgot,” Marian tucks an arm under her, opening the bedside cabinet. She pulls back, depositing an envelope into Annette’s hands. “This came for you. Maggie at the desk said a pigeon dropped it off.” 

Annette recognizes the penmanship immediately, and sits up to open it carefully. 

“It’s from her, isn’t it?” Marian asks, and Annette nods excitedly. “What’s it say?” 

Annette chuckles and turns back to her. “I can only tell you after I’ve had an uninterrupted opportunity to read it.” 

Marian smiles and shakes her head, plopping back into the mattress and pulling the covers up. Annette smirks and returns to the parchment at hand. 

 

My Dearest, Annette, 

 

I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I am particularly fond of the medium of written correspondence, and I even believe myself to be quite adept at the format. Indeed, it was my appreciation for the format that led me to befriend Harold in the first place, so that I might have a method of subverting the need for postage for my hobby. It does, however, come at the expense of seeds, so one might argue it was all for naught. However, I find that I have lamentably few acquaintances with which to indulge my interest in this hobby; save Martin, who has spectacularly poor penmanship; a school friend, Candice, who writes me only once every eight months, exactly on the dot; a penpal from Tuskova; and now, you. I look forward to discovering what sort of writer you are. 

 

I thought of you on my investigation yesterday; not you, specifically, but rather what you might say. As I hunched over to examine the body of a deceased Stanton Hound, over whose death two local lords were placing fault upon each other, I could almost hear you ask one of them: “Might it provide any comfort of me to suggest that your hound might be able to clarify the source of its demise once you encounter it in Heaven? Do dogs go to your Heaven?” I should clarify: one of the two men, Lord Dobbs, is a painfully religious man; the sort who might soon after take up the preaching circuit as a lay hobby, and whose obnoxious religiosity was annoying me greatly. I did, indeed, make the quip, which he did not find humorous in the slightest, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it might have been more comedically successful with your expert delivery. Success for whom? It’s difficult to say. 

 

I forgot to inform you during your last visit that amongst the cases I am presently working on, I am actually conducting the investigation given to me by Lady Deveroux at our dinner. It has been an unusual endeavor, reporting to such titans of business as Benton & Hayle, but I have found the work strangely refreshing; insomuch as it is simply a novel experience. I have never conducted such an inquiry as this, and in my efforts to infiltrate Pemberley Exports I cannot help but wonder if this is how you felt in infiltrating the Mallets. I shall endeavor not to be converted to the cause of Pemberley, as you were with the Mallets, the greatest of reasons being that in so doing, I would likely make us enemies. 

 

I have never seen a thunderstorm like that of the other night. I keep returning to my rooftop, armored by the naïve hope that perhaps there will be another storm, just like it. Perhaps you would join me to witness that spectacle as well. In the meantime, I look forward to your next visit, and I will earnestly hope that it is sooner rather than later. 

 

Yours, 

truly, 

Cordelia 

“So…” Marian sits forward. “What does it say?” 

“I… a great deal.” 

“Did she mention when the two of you…?” 

Annette blushes. “In a roundabout way.” 

“What will you say when you write her back?”

Annette lays back into the bed, clutching the letter to her chest and staring up at the ceiling. A part of her wondered if she had dreamt their whole last encounter, and she’d spent every night the last week wondering if she’d made a horrible error by kissing Cordelia. She didn’t even fully know why she did it… it had just felt right, or necessary, or… or… 

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. I think I’m still surprised she isn’t angry with me.” 

“So she enjoyed it?” Marian pokes her arm. “Are you going to go be with her?” 

Annette sighs, a sound somewhere between longing and directionless. “She implied that she would welcome it again.” 

“Oh, don’t be daft and just go to her!” 

Annette smirks, rolling her head over to face Marian. “ And leave you behind?”

Marian rolls her eyes. “Wilcox is more than sufficient for my heart, Annette, you know that. He’s a romantic, and unbearably charming. I’ll not be languishing away on my lonesome without you.” 

Annette smiles and nods. “Do you think he’ll propose soon?” 

“God I hope he does,” Marian plops back into the bed next to her. “Between the two of us, we’ve almost got enough to buy out the remainder of my contract.” 

“Will you have money to survive afterwards?” 

“We’ll go stay with his family in Kestol,” she closes her eyes, almost as though picturing it. “He even says there’s a few folks there from the colonies, too. I’m not sure which colonies, but perhaps we’ll be fast friends.” 

Annette bobs her head in agreement, and returns to staring aimlessly at the ceiling. She pulls the letter closer, trying to sort through the jumbled mess of things inside of her chest. 

“Oh, just go to her,” Marian groans. 

“I’ve not yet completed my work here.” 

“How forward.” 

“I meant with the Mallets,” Annette flicks her. “Though I’m still happy to tend to you as well.” 

Marian rolls over and stretches her arms out wide. “Just promise me one thing.” 

“Alright.” 

“Ensure that she courts you,” Marian tells her. She raises a finger to accent the point. “A proper courtship. You deserve nothing less.” 

Annette scoffs. “You know women like me don’t get to-,” 

“If there’s anyone who could find a way,” Marian grins, “it’s Baker and Jones!” She giggles, then rolls over. “Make her court you.” 

“She’s not one to respond well to demands placed upon her.” 

“I suspect she may be more amenable at the present time, especially towards the present company.” 

Annette shakes her head, smiling as well. “Is Wilcox the romantic, or is it simply that you are?” 

“I don’t see why it cannot be both,” Marian rebuts. “You deserve to be courted, especially after the nonsense with your noble fling.” 

“It wasn’t a fling-,”

“Annette,” Marian sighs, “do you know how many noblemen and women have promised to steal me away from this place; to have me for real, damn the consequences?” She raises her eyebrows at her, daring Annette to guess. Satisfied with Annette’s silence, she adds, “and do you know how many have followed through?” 

Marian gestures to the room around her, raising her own hand to fiddle with the edges of her collar. 

“I concede the point,” Annette mumbles. 

“Make her court you.” 

 

– – –

 

It’s another brisk night, and Annette can already feel Marian complaining about the cold. She glares up and down Bennt Street, watching for any signs of movement or cause for alarm. Content at the quiet of the late night, Annette recounts the plan to the two alongside her. 

“That’s hardly a plan,” Marian grumbles, her arms pulled tight across her chest. 

“I’m aware,” Annette shrugs. “It isn’t my plan.” 

“So you’d do this differently?” Her head cocks. “Let’s just do that plan, then.” 

“I don’t have my own plan.” 

Marian trills her lips and blows out a breath, watching up and down the street. “Well,” she sighs, “I’m sure that if you did it would be an improvement upon this plan.” 

You are reading story Baker and Jones at novel35.com

“I agree,” Partick nods beside her. 

“Thank you,” Annette pats his shoulder. “Now, shall we get this over with?” 

“If we must,” Marian mumbles. 

“Please, let us know if anyone is coming.” 

“I’ll just be shivering in the meantime,” Marian shakes her head, breathing onto her hands to accentuate the point. 

Patrick pips up innocently, “You can have my coat.”

“I’m terribly allergic.” 

“To… to coats?” 

Annette grins. “To acts of chivalry. Let’s go.” 

She ducks away onto the street, moving alongside the shadows and hunting down the address, written on a small scrap of paper in her hands. Sure, she’d visited the location with Jarl on Failinis’ orders to scope it out, but there was no sense in taking chances. They move silently through the streets of the wealthier neighborhood, eventually stopping at the largest mansion on the block. 

Annette finds a particular bush on the rear side of the house, just beside an alleyway, and carefully shimmies behind it, locating the small hole carved out for her in advance. She drops down, crawling underneath it and finding herself in the spacious backyard of the home, with a large field of grass bordered by marble sculptures and trimmed hedges. Patrick follows behind her a second later, groaning softly from the tight fit, but the two of them quickly dart towards the house, angling for a small door that was typically used for the servants of the home. 

The inside of the home is somehow more ridiculous than the outside, sporting dark oak walls and golden-framed photos along every hallway. It’s difficult to move quietly amongst the marble floors, and it’s likewise a struggle to resist the urge to stop and gawk at the various displays of frivolous wealth. Every small cubby or nook has been set up as a viewing location for some form of art, and it’s difficult to imagine this is a home rather than a museum or gallery. 

“Nice house…” Patrick whispers, glaring up at a long tapestry that fills an entire wall. 

“Well… collars pay, apparently,” Annette mutters. 

“I knew Mister Wemberley was rich,” Patrick muses, gazing around the room, “but this… I could be content with this.” 

“I’m not sure that’s how this works,” she whispers back. 

“I could be a successful businessman someday,” he quips back, a twinge of defensive pride in his voice. 

“I meant being content,” Annette sighs. “I don’t think the Barons ever get that feeling.” 

“Real grim, Red.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Let’s just find him and get out of here.” 

They ascend the massive central flight of stairs, working their way towards the master bedroom at the far end of the right hallway. Annette peaks the door open, confirming he was indeed in bed, and shuts the door. 

“You’ve got the cuffs?” 

“It’d be easier to just knock him out.” 

She snorts. “You’re most welcome to try.”

She opens the door again, tiptoeing their way inside. Patrick creeps up towards the bed, preparing to strike Wemberly, when suddenly a woman in the room shrieks. Wemberly bolts awake just in time to dodge Patrick’s strike, and leaps out of bed. In a panic, he charges away from him, only to be cornered against the far wall by Annette. The woman shrieks again, and when Annette looks to her left, she sees a young woman wearing a collar around her throat shaking in fear. 

“It’s alright,” she lowers her hands, trying to calm her. “We’re not here to hurt you.” 

Patrick nods to her as well, though remains close enough to stop Wemberly from fleeing. “Do you want to get out of here? We can free you.” 

“Mallets?” Wemberly croaks nervously.” 

“Ye-,”

“Don’t answer that,” Annette scolds Patrick, still focused on the young woman. 

“H-have you come to kill me?” 

“No.” 

“You want money? I have money.” 

Annette sighs. “We don’t want your money.” 

“Mallets,” Wemberly concludes gravely. He takes a long breath, then sits down onto the floor, resting his back against the wall. “I was wondering if you would turn up after your escape, Miss Baker.” 

Annette’s spine tightens as she hears her name. “You remember me?” 

“I never forget a face,” he shrugs. “I had higher hopes for you.” 

Patrick spits at his feet. “You’re coming with us.” 

“Why?” 

“You’re our prisoner now.” 

Wemberly chuckles, his chiseled and proper face shifting into a pleasant but bemused smile. “I wasn’t aware that the Mallets took prisoners.” 

Annette alerts from a motion at her side, and she ducks as the young woman leaps at her. She’s easy enough to side step, and Annette quickly has the woman’s arms pinned to her sides as she continues fighting. 

“Elaine, please don’t,” Wemberly pleads, his voice stern and sure. 

Elaine looks at him and relents. Annette softens her grip on the woman, and lowers her head, trying to meet her eyes. “Elaine, do you want your freedom? We can get you out of here.” 

Elaine shakes her head and a disgusted look crosses over her face. “Why would I go anywhere with you?” 

“We can help you,” Annette asserts, releasing her. “You could be free of him.” 

“She doesn’t want that,” Wemberly cuts in. 

“I’d rather hear it from her.” 

Elaine summons up her pride and echoes him, “I don’t want to leave.” After a moment, she furrows her brow and glares accusingly at Annette. “I love him.” 

“And I, you, dear,” Wemberly affirms. 

“You can’t love someone you own,” Annette glares at him. 

Wemberly smiles and shakes his head. “You were always so disciplined in the collarhouse, Miss Baker. Even at your lowest you resolved to maintain your dignity. I’m sure it served your owner well.” 

Annette scowls and turns to Patrick. “Gag him.” 

“Cordelia must be so distraught to lose your assets.” 

Patrick stops just short of Wemberly, kneeling just before him with a scarf raised to gag him. “Cordelia?” 

A shiver descends down Annette’s spine, and she suddenly feels her mouth grow dry watching Patrick’s confused expression. 

“Miss Baker is an escaped collar,” Wemberly tells him. 

“Her owner’s name was Simon Billings,” Patrick frowns. “The Deacon.” 

“I had the papers for her transfer to Mister Billings for scarcely an hour before I received word of her escape.” 

“He’s lying,” Annette says quickly. 

Wemberly shakes his head. “I can produce the documents, since you seem so intrigued, dear fellow. They’re just in my office down the hall.” 

Patrick turns back to Annette, and she watches the pieces arranging themselves in his mind. “Red?” 

“He’s lying,” she repeats. 

“Is he?” Patrick frowns. 

“I assure you I’m not,” Wemberly leans in, sensing an opportunity to pit them against one another. “Bind me. Check the paperwork. I’m quite thorough in my dealings.” 

“Ignore him,” Annette directs. “We need to leave.” 

Patrick’s brow furrows deeper, and he looks back at Wemberly. “Who’s Cordelia?” 

“Cordelia Jones,” he answers. “The Detective.”

“Detective?” Patrick’s voice washes with offense. 

“Patrick, we need to leave, now,” Annette nudges. 

“I’m thinking.” 

“Yes, Miss Baker,” Wemberly’s sly smile meets her, “give him space to develop his own conclusions. He seems a bright fellow.” 

Annette takes a breath and resets. “Fine, my real owner was Cordelia. I can explain later, and I will, but we need to get him out of here.” 

Patrick ponders for a moment, and for an agonizing breath it’s impossible to understand what he may be thinking. But he nods slowly and grabs Wemberly, bringing his hands and dragging him onto his feet. “Fine.” 

Annette shares a look of gratitude with him, then turns back to Elaine. She offers her hand to the woman, but Elaine simply steps back and shakes her head. Annette sighs and follows Patrick out of the room and onto the first floor, but just as they reach the final steps, a loud crash sounds out from the front door. Annette pulls Patrick to the side, and they drag Wemberly down the hall to the servant’s side door, scrambling out into the back yard. 

“What was that!?” Patrick whispers, his voice raspy and panicked. 

“Police, I imagine,” Wemberly chokes out, satisfied.

“Gag him,” Annette orders. 

They push Wemberly through the small hole in the fence, relieved he seems willing to comply enough not to be harmed. Annette follows last, and just as she bursts out through the bush and into the alleyway, Marian turns the corner, sprinting to find them. 

“The police are-,” 

“Here,” Annette stops her. “We know. Which way is the best way out?” 

“They’re about to completely surround the block,” Marian pants. 

“Shit.” 

Marian takes a moment, then drops her shoulders and says, “Get Wemberly out of here. We’ll cause a distraction.” 

“We!?” Patrick glares at her. 

“Just-,”

He points a finger at Annette. “She lied. Her real owner was a detective!” 

“We’ve bigger problems,” Marian groans. 

“You knew?”

“Patrick.” 

“She could be a spy! She could be reporting back about us!” 

“Patrick,” Annette sighs, “Please, just trust-,” 

“No!” 

“Then trust me,” Marian pleads. 

“No,” Patrick backs away from them. “No, you’re both in this together.” He shoots a dirty look at the both of them, then dashes away down the alleyway. 

Annette feels her stomach drop, sure that he would out her secret to the rest of the Mallets. “We need a plan,” she mumbles.

“Aren’t you worried about him-”

“Later,” Annette frowns. “Follow me.” 

Annette pulls Wemberly along with her, down through a small side path in the alleyway, bursting out onto a single street over. She quickly gathers her bearings, and makes a snap decision. 

“The police will be crawling over this area. We’ll need to find a place to lay low for a while,” Annette closes her eyes for a moment. “There’s no way we can make it all the way back.” 

Marian turns in circles, trying to sense where they were. “I don’t recognize this district.” 

“I know a place nearby… it’s over a couple blocks.” She takes a breath. “Ready to run?” 

 

– – – 

 

Annette’s hands shake timidly as she pours the tea from the familiar kettle. She allows it to steep for a nervous breath, then sets the cup onto a saucer and places it on the counter. In the room over, the living room, she hears Marian readjusting Wemberly’s bindings to keep him secure. 

Cordelia takes the cup from the counter and leans up next to Annette. Taking a sip, she says softly, “Your friend seems nice.” 

A trickle of guilt passes through Annette. “She is.” 

“How’d you meet?” Cordelia asks, and Annette’s face quickly flushes. “I’m only teasing,” the detective smiles, “I recognize her from the Gallery. I figured you probably were sharing the company of one of the workers there.” 

“Right,” Annette mutters. 

“What’s your plan here, Annette?” 

Annette leans forward and rests her forehead onto the door of the cabinet, feeling the countertop gently press back into her abdomen. “I’ve no idea,” she whispers. 

“Come now,” Cordelia faces her. “You’re far too clever for me to believe that. Walk me through what you’ve worked out.” 

Annette sighs. “Patrick is going to expose my lie to the Mallets, and Jarl will surely use this against me. He’s been looking for a reason to distrust me and I just handed it to him. Wemberly will corroborate the story when I bring him in anyway.” 

“So you may be burned in their eyes.” 

“And now I’ve involved you in it-,”

“Thank you, by the way,” Cordelia smirks. 

Annette shares a frustrated glance with her. “And if Wemberly ever escapes or testifies, it won’t just be me who goes down. You’ll be incriminated, too. I shouldn’t have come here, I ruined it all.” 

“And so you have,” Cordelia sips her tea.

“Thanks,” Annett grumbles.

Cordelia resets, shaking her head. “You’re brighter than this,” she insists, her voice full of assurance and a confidence that Annette worries is misplaced. “Let’s craft our way out of this. How do we contain this damage? Can we stop Patrick?” 

“Doubtful.” 

“Can you maneuver against Jarl?” 

Annette grimaces. “Even more dubious.” 

“Well,” Cordelia takes a sip, “that leaves Wemberly as your savior. Time to negotiate.” 

“Why would he bother?” Annette groans. 

“He’s a businessman; it’s all part of the trade.” 

Annette takes a breath and nods, relenting and accepting Cordelia’s guidance. “I'll need leverage,” she mumbles. 

“Bargain for his life?” 

“I’m not going to kill a man,” Annette scowls. 

Cordelia sets her tea back down onto the counter. “Does he know that?” 

Annette pauses, pushing her head back into the cupboard, and agrees. She gazes down at her hands, clenched into fists against the countertop, and watches them slowly grow white. She feels a looming dread inside. 

“It will be alright, Annette,” Cordelia shifts a little closer. “I’m sure of it.” 

“I’ve fucked it all up.” 

“Chin up, the game’s still on,” Cordelia bumps a knuckle on her shoulder. She sits in the quiet with Annette for a moment, then gently adds, “It’s good to see you.” 

“I wish it were under better circumstances.” 

“Nonsense,” the detective glimmers, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re easily clever enough to think your way out of it.”

Annette sighs again. “My mind feels so scattered… would you do it?” 

“I’m quite sure that you have the capacity to-,”

“Would you?” Annette begs. 

Cordelia thinks for a few breaths. “No.” 

“Please.” 

Instead of answering, Cordelia slowly and carefully pulls Annette away from the countertop, wrapping her into a gentle embrace. She rests her hand on the back of Annette’s head, politely moving her braid to the side, and allows Annette a few moments to breathe. 

“I have no doubt in my mind,” Cordelia whispers into her ear, her voice proud and reassuring, “that Annette is more than capable of thinking her way through this. Now… where is she?” She pokes her softly. 

Annette smiles weakly. “She’s here.” 

“Excellent, I cannot wait to see what she devises,” Cordelia nods. Her fingertips hover gently above Annette’s skin, as though unsure if she’s allowed to touch her. “Take a breath. Give it a moment. It’ll come to you.” 

“... thank you.” 

Annette allows herself to be buried in the feeling of Cordelia’s shirt and vest, smelling the scent of pine that was so characteristically Cordelia. She squeezes the detective a little firmer, feeling as though the ground was slowly settling underneath her, though the jitters of fear remain ever present. 

Cordelia lifts her head away, and raises a hand to Annette’s chest, placing it just over her heart. “Your heart is beating so fast,” she marvels. “Are you frightened?” 

“Very,” Annette mumbles back. 

“Of what?” 

“Losing it all,” Annette sighs. She feels something else linger underneath, the same feeling she felt on the rooftop, and the one that joined her as she read Cordelia’s letter. “And…” 

“There’s more?” 

Annette takes a breath, feeling herself fight the sense of inertia. She relents, allowing her tiredness and the rawness of her emotional state carry her forward. “I… I’m not sure if I’m more worried that you will or won’t kiss me.” 

Cordelia chuckles, pulling back to meet Annette’s embarrassed blush. She shoves a hand into her pocket, searching around for a moment, then pulls out a coin. She dances it through her fingers for Annette to watch. “An old adage,” Cordelia supplies, “‘chance reveals more of your heart than choice ever could.’”

She flips the coin, and Annette watches it tumble through the air, only to land once more in Cordelia’s outstretched palm. 

“Tails,” Cordelia shrugs. “...pity.” 

The detective slowly exits the embrace, stepping away to retrieve her tea, and Annette feels her desire push forward. She blocks Cordelia’s departure, pulling her back and lifting onto her tiptoes to kiss her. She sighs, savoring the feeling of Cordelia pushing back into her, enthusiastically lifting Annette up to meet her as well. 

Annette abandons her restraint, allowing herself to be swept up into the rapture of the moment. Cordelia’s touch is gentle and precise, holding her with a great deal of care and kissing her with a dedicated warmth. Her arm wraps around Annette’s waist, and a hand on her back pulls the former servant in deeper. Cordelia lets out a satisfied breath. 

When Annette eventually pulls away, her face warm and her chest feeling giddy, she’s surprised to find Cordelia’s hand return to her chest. “Well, let’s hope this rapid beat is excitement and not fear this time.” 

Annette giggles, and rests her forehead into Cordelia’s neck, closing her eyes and resting in the feeling of safety. 

“Now,” Cordelia says gently, “what shall we do about Mister Wemberly and your Mallets?” 

“You said it yourself,” Annette replies, slowly exiting Cordelia’s embrace and preparing to face reality once more, “he’s my only leverage left. It’s time to negotiate.” 

“Wait,” Cordelia stops her, hastily lifting a hand to her jaw and pulling her into another quick kiss. “Chin up. Shoulders broad. Face brave. Project confidence.” 

“Thank you,” Annette blushes. 

She takes another breath and turns on her heel, strolling into the living room and facing down Mister Wemberly. “I want to make a deal.” 

 

– – – 

Annette stands before them with her head bowed, hoping that she had done enough to sufficiently predict how everyone in the room might respond to her presence. She hopes that she’s done enough, but for now, she must simply sit and endure the escalating argument unfolding before her. 

“She failed to kill the Deacon, she failed to capture Wemberly,” Jarl is shouting, “and she’s lied to us all along!” 

Patrick leans over to Annette, and quietly whispers, “For what it’s worth-,”

Annette shakes her head. She’d rather avoid the unfortunate apologies now that the damage was done. “I understand.” 

“Truly, I-,” 

“We’re alright,” she sighs. “Don’t feel guilty.” 

Failinis’ voice fills the room of the impromptu trial. “We are in agreement that Red has failed in these tasks. But have you no mercy?” 

Jarl scowls at him. “You’ll let her live?” 

The burly redhead crosses his arms. “I’m not in the business of killing fellow laborers, Jarl.” 

“Her true owner is a detective.” 

“Yes,” Failinis puffs, “a bastard with a famously unpopular character who could not be taken seriously by the crown if she were old King Arthur herself!” 

“She could be a spy,” Jarl insists. 

“As could you. As could I. As could Patrick.” 

Jarl storms forward, towering over the shorter leader and letting his anger temper slightly. “You brought me here to be the voice of reason.” 

Failinis places a hand on his chest and pushes him back. “I brought you here to be the voice of cool pragmatism. And in this case, I’m siding with idealism.” 

Jarl scoffs. “And so you’ll what? Let them remain among us?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“So bury them,” Jarl insists again. 

Failinis waves him away. “Excommunication is punishment enough.” 

“Of course, wise thinking,” Jarl bites sarcastically, “so she may run to the police and expose us?” 

“Red is principled, and truly cares for the cause. She wouldn’t.” 

“And if you’re wrong about her?” 

“I’m not,” Failinis asserts. 

Jarl strolls away a few steps. “Unbelievable.” 

“I’ll remind you,” Failinis calls after him, “she is still wanted for escape, attempted murder, conspiracy, and now kidnapping.” 

“Say she makes a plea deal with Captain Beckett?” 

“He’ll want to make an example of-,”

Annette takes her mark and pips up, stepping forward and quietly interjecting, “I believe I have a solution: a compromise that removes my ability to report to the police while simultaneously guaranteeing my livelihood.” 

The two men exchange a surprised look and glare back at her.

 

– – – 

 

“As you can see,” Mister Wemberly announces to the crowd assembled outside of his famous collarhouse, the one Annette had lived in before being settled with Cordelia, “the brave men of Captain Beckett’s police have successfully recaptured the first of the runaways!” He gestures to Annette, standing at his side with her hands bound. “I personally commend them for the excellent work in combating the Mallets.” 

Captain Beckett steps forth, and Annette is surprised that he’s smaller than she expected. She’d always assumed he’d be a towering hulk of a man, but he seems to be just a regular fellow. 

“Rest easy, Bellchester,” Beckett informs the crowd, “as you can see, my men are more than capable of putting right the wrongs of this group.” 

Wemberly nods and gestures to Annette. “Miss Baker, as punishment for her escape, will surrender the value of her contract to my collarhouse and return to fulfill the rest of her service, with time added for escape.” 

And thanks to a generous bonus payment from Cordelia, Annette grumbles inside. 

Cordelia steps forth, frowning at Annette before standing beside Mister Wemberly. “Thank you, Mister Wemberly, Captain Beckett, for your role in restoring order to this city.” 

Annette is relieved Cordelia was successful in her effort to retrieve the contract from Simon. She’d be mortified if her bargain for her life resulted in once again being tossed in his path. She’s even amazed that Cordelia convinced Simon to drop the charges against her, and wonders how much convincing it had taken. 

“As an additional consequence,” Wemberly continues, “in conjunction with her owner, Miss Baker will bear a permanent accent to her collar to signify her wrongdoing, as well as a temporary representation of her shame upon her person.” 

She takes a breath. Cordelia had talked Wemberly out of the worst of his ideas for a symbolic gesture, and finally settled upon something that felt relatively reasonable. Cordelia takes a step towards Annette, grabbing her braid and brandishing a pair of haircutting shears. She makes quick eye contact with Annette, then slices her braid off. With a few more quick strokes, Annette’s hair is suddenly as short as many men wore theirs. 

Wemberly nods, satisfied. “Miss Jones, we once again offer you the option of returning Miss Baker into custody.” 

Cordelia shakes her head and places a firm scowl on her face. “I shall take charge of her punishment myself.” 

“And you are willing to uphold the remainder of her contract, plus damages?”

“I am,” Cordelia nods. 

“And you take full responsibility for her needs, duties, and discipline, for as long as she remains in your care under contract?” 

“I do.” 

Wemberly steps aside, allowing Cordelia to step forth with something new in her hand. She approaches Annette, her face remaining firm whilst her eyes twinkle knowingly. Annette shudders slightly when she sees the collar again, dreading the constant tugging and pulling of it around her next, the strangely claustrophobic feeling of it upon her at all times. But then she notices the permanent token on it that Wemberly mentioned, and sees that Cordelia has placed a small hook on the front of the collar, just enough to dangle a small ring upon it. It’s a simple silver band, with a small centerpiece etched with a House symbol that Annette didn’t recognize. 

Once she’s closer, Cordelia winks at Annette, and she feels a little flutter run down her chest. Her hairs stand on end as the leather wraps around her neck, and she flinches a little as the locking mechanism clicks shut. But then she sees nothing but Cordelia’s eyes, glimmering at her and reassuring her, and knew some part of her was relieved that Annette would be back home with her. A part of Annette is relieved, too. 

Cordelia feigns as though she is inspecting the binding on the collar, ensuring it is firmly in place, and quietly whispers in Annette’s ear: 

“I do.” 

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