Chapter 4: Chapter Four

(TW: Religious Homophobia)

 

Chapter Four 

“Tell me what you notice, Miss Baker,” Cordelia orders, hands tucked behind her back and chest squared. She’s sobered up a bit, though she’s so consistently stoic it’s difficult to tell how much it impacted her in the first place. 

“The smell,” Annette complains, waving a hand in front of her nose. Rusting metal and coal and soot mix deviously with the scent of rotting fish and putrid water. 

“What then?” 

I thought you were the detective, Annette mutters inside, though she bites her tongue. Best not to poke at her ire any more today. 

Annette surveys the scene further, turning and strolling about for a few seconds. The gravel creaks under her boots as she walks along the riverfront, a small shoreline just down from the stone walls that separate and guide the Fennes river through Bellechester. Alongside the railyard it’s filthy, the water corrupted by the industrial runoff and the sewage of the city. On hot days the smell could be unbearable. 

The locomotive groans and squeaks as the river current pushes back against it, dangling down from the tracks and into the water like a fallen log caught in a stream. Annette is struck by how massive the beastly machine is, and how much force it would take for something like that to be thrust off of the tracks. 

“It’s huge,” she supplies. 

“Never seen one up close?” 

“Not like this,” Annette sighs. She’d spent plenty of time near the railyards, it was comparatively safer than some other places in the city, but the cops and Bembrook’s guards were careful to keep potential train-hoppers away from the tracks. 

“So… it smells wretched and it’s large?” Cordelia scoffs. “We’ll solve this in no time, Miss Baker.” Her voice drips with condescension, though Annette can hardly complain if she’s taken up the case just on her behalf. 

“Have they found his body?” 

“Cop said it was pulled away by the river current,” the detective frowns, gazing across the scene with the first hint of compassion Annette has seen from her in days. “But according to all of his coworkers, Henry was in the cab when it went over.” 

“Poor Henry,” Annette sighs, hearing another loud creak from the machine in the waves. 

“Please continue with your observations, Annette,” Cordelia directs. “It smells bad and it’s big, as it were.” 

Annette glances back up at the tracks, just on top of the wall above them, no more than ten feet higher than the river and twelve feet from the shoreline. The tracks themselves are only minorly damaged, slightly bent and scraped up, but they’ve somehow survived the brunt of the accident. 

“It would take a great deal of force to derail this machine,” she muses. She looks down the tracks, seeing the primary railyard is less than a quarter mile away. “This early out of the yard… the locomotive couldn’t possibly have been going very fast.” 

“It could be a through-line train. Didn’t need to stop in the yard.” 

“Where’s it’s cargo, then? It’s just the engine and the coal truck, no other cars attached.” 

“Astute,” Cordelia nods, though prevents a smile from creeping to her lips. “And of the tracks?” 

“If they’re hardly damaged… I can’t imagine such small bends in the metal would be enough to derail anything.” 

“Therefore?” 

“Fault of the machine itself. Henry was right.” 

“My conclusions as well, Miss Baker,” Cordelia lifts her hands out of her pockets, stepping closer to the capsized locomotive and inspecting it closer. “Do you know anything about steam engines?” 

“Simply that they exist, Miss Jones.” 

“Impressive contraptions,” Cordelia muses. “Yet if there were to be a fault with the engine, what might we see as a result?” 

Annette thinks quietly to herself, trying to gauge where Cordelia was trying to lead her. She stares at the locomotive, laying on its side so that the top of it faces the two of them. Coal is scattered all around from the cab overturning, and yet despite the crash the machine looks surprisingly well intact. Its metal has bent slightly from the force of the drop, but there’s remarkably little signs of anything wrong with it from a careful glance. 

“Is a steam engine combustible? Would it explode like gunpowder?” She asks. 

“Indeed it can. Those boilers are especially dangerous.” 

“And yet there’s no signs of such an explosion. Other than the force of the impact, the engine itself looks unharmed.” 

“And what does this tell us?” 

“I’m not entirely sure…” Annette scratches the back of her head, stretching her neck slightly to relieve some of the tension of her collar. “The actual engine itself wasn’t the problem?” 

“Seems probable.” 

“So Henry was wrong?” 

“There’s plenty of pieces of machinery that could fail that wouldn’t qualify as the engine, Miss Baker.” 

“So it would be something smaller than the engine. A few bolts or bars or some tiny detail that caused the train to fail?” 

“Let’s go have a work with Mister Bembrook, shall we?” 

“B-Bembrook?” Annette croaks. “He’s not likely to cooperate with us, Miss Jones.” 

“I have a way with people, Miss Baker.” 

 

– – – 

 

“And what have we here?” Bembrook leers, sitting back in his chair as the two of them enter his office. “Two fine women in a place where there aren’t many fine women.” 

Annette furrows her brows, entering the room behind Cordelia, who seems entirely unphased by his impunity. She’s seen Bembrook in passing a few times, only from a distance. He’s a large man with wide shoulders and a full belly, held at bay by a crisp collared shirt and heavy suspenders. His graying beard is less well-kempt up close than it had seemed, covering a thick neck and broad jaw. He’s balding, and clearly decided that hardly matters in the privacy of his own office, leaving his top hat unused on the side of his desk. 

“Investigating,” Cordelia replies simply. She strolls around his office, gazing over the heavy wood panels and full bookshelves. It’s certainly the product of a man known for garnishing wages and driving costs up, and Bembrook has hardly spared any luxury. 

“On whose orders?” His voice growls, dropping low as his eyes flick past Cordelia to hungrily scour over Annette. She frowns, stepping closer to the detective. 

“My own,” Cordelia putters, turning to face him and resting her hands in her coat pockets. “We’ve heard you lost another mechanic in that derailed locomotive.” 

“Lost three, actually,” he sighs, taking a sip from a whiskey glass. “Horrible tragedy. Breaks my heart.” 

“I’m sure it does.” 

“Tell your collar to flash me a smile,” he chuckles, continuing to glare at Annette. 

“She’s not the happy sort.” 

“Tell her anyway,” he shrugs, a perverse grin on his lips, “or get out of my office.” 

Annette looks at Cordelia, waiting for her response, only to be surprised to find the detective scowling incredulously back at her. Her eyes seem to guffaw, as though asking in disbelief: You won’t talk back to him? Annette shakes her head slowly, staring down Bembrook and keeping her expression as flat and neutral as possible. 

“She’ll smile once you answer some questions for us,” Cordelia offers, grabbing the chair in front of his desk and plopping herself down into it. Annette steps forward, hovering just over her shoulder. 

“Why would I bother?” Bembrook snorts, taking another sip of whiskey. “No statement from me.” 

“Henry Rosen was a lead mechanic,” Cordelia supplies, “he’s likely to have filled reports on the upkeep he does. We’d like to take a look at them.” 

“Fat chance.” 

“Is it more or less profitable to derail a train?” 

He chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?” 

“I couldn’t care less about Henry,” Cordelia confesses, ignoring the glare from Annette behind her. “But, I imagine it isn’t great for business to keep losing machines left and right. We’ll find what took the locomotive down, you’ll pay me for my services, and everyone’s happy.” 

“I don’t need any help from you,” he growls. “I’m not showing you any damn papers.” 

“Annette,” Cordelia turns over her shoulder. “Give us a smile, would you?” 

Annette crosses her arms and scowls angrily at Cordelia. She huffs, shaking her head and wondering if she was always to be used as a ploy for Cordelia’s interrogations. 

“Never seen a collar refuse an order like that,” Bembrook mocks.

“Dear Miss Baker’s simply devastated by the loss of her cousin,” Cordelia nods towards Bembrook, spinning a lie that leaves her lips as easy as breathing. “She’d be ever so grateful if you were to help put her dear aunt’s heart at rest and help us.” 

Annette takes a deep, tense, frustrated breath and faces Bembrook. “I would be, Mr. Bembrook, sir. Henry was like a brother to me growing up. I just want to put his work right. That’s all he cared about, was doing his work right. That’d let him rest in peace.” She hopes her words don’t feel too disingenuous, taking another breath and plastering a weak smile on her face. 

“She Kerish?” Bembrook leans in and whispers to Cordelia. “I thought Rosen was a Jew? Only one in this yard, far as I know.” 

“Mom’s brother converted when he married,” Cordelia answers quickly. “Miss Baker is as Kerish as the best pickled Haddock.” 

“Wish she had the accent,” he mutters. “Such a feisty way of speaking, don’t you think?” 

“Couldn’t agree more, Mr. Bembrook,” she utters, shooting a surprisingly apologetic look at Annette while he takes another drink. 

“Christ, why not?” Bembrook grunts, loudly setting down his empty glass on the desk. “If her cousin kept any of his papers anywhere, he’d leave it in the shed back behind the water tower. You can have a look, but I’m not giving you a cent.” 

Stomaching her pride, Annette gives him a proper smile, happily replying, “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Bembrook. They’ve always said you were the reasonable sort.” 

“I am,” he declares proudly. “I am.” 

“We’ll be off,” Cordelia rises, strolling out of the room. 

“Miss… Baker, was it?” Bembrook asks as Annette steps into the doorway to leave. She stops and nods slowly. “Bummer you took your service with Miss Jones, you’d be such a doll at the Gallery.” 

Annette resists the urge to spit at him, closing the door behind her and catching back up with Cordelia, a few strides ahead of her. 

“Christ, Annette,” Cordelia mutters as she joins her, “You couldn’t just smile? Lay it on thick? Idiots like him will do anything for a pretty woman like you.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Annette smirks, pushing through her discomfort. 

“So we’re back at this again now, are we?” Cordelia’s voice is sharp and annoyed, but Annette is convinced she can hear just a hint of satisfaction underneath it. “Regardless, let’s get to the shed and be done with this.” 

“I nonetheless thank you for the compliment, Miss.” 

“Christ,” she shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’ve dragged me along for this.”

“You can’t believe I’ve asked you to help someone?” 

Cordelia ignores her, walking away briskly towards the far side of the railyard. “If you’re going to continue assisting me in my work, the least you could do is learn to go along with my plans. Just smile next time.” 

“I’m not going to smile whenever a disgusting pig like Bembrook asks,” Annette declares, skipping to catch up with Cordelia’s pace. “And you ordered me to assist in this case.”

Cordelia sighs. “I’ll humor you. Why not?” 

“He’s a wretched man. How am I supposed to smile while I’m thinking about all the lives he’s gobbled up to make himself rich? Meanwhile he’s wondering how he can throw a hand up my skirt.” She groans, shivering at the revolting image her words provoked in her head. 

The detective halts her walk, stopping to collect her words for a moment. Her face softens, and she replies, “Think about it this way, Annette: by smiling, you make him the fool. He’s an idiot, guided solely by his base desires. You can kick and scream and spit in his face, but that’ll do you no good because he’ll just bite back. But, take his weaknesses and make him willingly fold into your plot, and you hold all the power.” 

“That’s… I…,” Annette pauses. Cordelia’s more right than she’d like to admit, yet Annette is even more surprised by the helpfulness of her words, absent of her usual scorn. “You’re actually providing me with useful advice. You never do that.” 

“Of course I do,” Cordelia scoffs, returning to her march. 

“No, you don’t.” 

“My mistake,” she shakes her head, dark black hair flicking with the breeze. “I’ll endeavor to be less pastoral from here on.” 

“I wasn’t aware you were capable of such constructive favorability.” 

“I’m still wondering if your mind contains a deficiency in its ability to remain silent, Miss Baker.” 

Annette smiles, once again feeling the comfortable back-and-forth of their dynamic return. With each passing hour, it’s as though Cordelia’s aggressive walls temper, not quite lowering, but simply softening. She’s not exactly kind in how she speaks to Annette, though there’s a casual discourse to the words that feels… it’s not quite disarming, yet it alleviates Annette’s concern for the security of her position. She bubbles lightly inside at the notion that Cordelia does, in fact, enjoy her snark. 

“If I were to remain silent, who would exist to prevent the meteoric rise of your ego?” Annette giggles. “Surely Penny would be disappointed if I inadequately pruned this trait.” 

To Annette’s surprise, Cordelia laughs lightly. “Penny… Christ, Penny would despise you, Annette.” 

“Despise me?” 

“Not as a person,” she clarifies, “but as a collar. She was so proper and you’re…” 

“... improper?” 

“Cleverer,” Cordelia shrugs, walking further ahead of her. 

“Two compliments from the Missus?” Annette’s voice pitches up excitedly, laughing along with the detective and reveling in the alleviation of the tension between them. “I daresay it’s my ego we’ll want to be on watch for from now on. A third compliment and it’ll take flight.” 

“We can’t have that, now, can we?” 

Cordelia glances over her shoulder and Annette swears there’s a twinkle in her eyes. On the case, Cordelia is so much lighter and freer, fully in her element. Annette suspects that her creativity comes alive when faced with mystery, and the impacts on her mood are far-reaching. She makes a mental note to herself of that fact, wondering if there’s a way to use it to temper her worse affects. 

 

– — –

 

“Get the door, Annette,” Cordelia calls out from the dining room. Annette sits in the living room, an array of scattered work reports and machine diagrams splayed out on the coffee table in front of her. She looks up from Henry’s documents, eyes weary from reading such dense material for the last few hours. 

She stands, making her way down the hallway towards the door, though she stops to poke her head into the dining room briefly before she continues. “You’re closer to the door,” she quips. 

“Working,” Cordelia replies absently.

“So was I,” stretches her arms out, trying to relieve some of the ache in her back from hunching over the table. “I’m surprised you’re not up in your study.” 

“The door?” Cordelia looks up for the first time, furrowing her brow and gesturing with the paper she’s holding at the front entrance. 

“Of course, Miss.” 

Annette returns to the hallway, gently swinging the door open. Her enthusiasm for the distraction quickly evaporates as she meets Sister Pullwater’s scowling eyes. 

“Slow to the door, Miss Baker,” Pullwater grumbles. “As always.”

“So lovely to see you again, Sister Pullwater,” Annette sighs. “What are you doing here?” 

“‘What are you doing here?’” She repeats, the words leaving her mouth with a frown. “What am I doing here? What a poor way of greeting a guest.” 

“Of course, Sister Pullwater, my apologies.” Annette cutsies cautiously, bowing her head and thinking about all of the times Pullwater’s cane had cracked against her bottom or her hands or… really just anywhere when Annette failed to meet her high expectations.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” 

“Do come inside, Sister,” Annette steps aside, waving her into the home. “Miss Jones is just in the dining room, if you’ll follow me.” 

She leads the nun inside and closes the door softly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath while her back is turned. Annette steps into the dining room, clearing her throat and saying, “Miss Jones, Sister Pullwater has come calling for you.” 

“Greetings,” Cordelia mutters, hardly looking up from her work. 

“I’ve come to borrow Miss Baker,” Pullwater declares.

Cordelia’s eyes pull upwards, her brow furrowing as she takes in the request. “You wish to borrow my collar? Whatever for?” 

“Believe it or not, Miss Baker is a… shining example of the orphanage’s success,” Pullwater answers, clearly struggling to let the compliment leave her throat. She coughs and continues, saying, “I’d like to bring her to speak to a troubled child at St. Bartholomew’s, to demonstrate an alternative to becoming another common vagabond.” 

Cordelia sighs. “We’ve a great deal of work to do.” 

“It would only be for an afternoon.” 

Annette makes eye contact with Cordelia, stealthily shaking her head and pleading for her to deny the request. Cordelia exchanges another look with her that she can’t read, and Annette replies, “I’ve not yet finished going through the papers you wished me to study, Miss Jones.”

Pullwater turns and glares at Annette. “I see that you’re still attempting your usual tactics with Miss Jones.” 

“Usual tactics?” Cordelia’s voice raises, intrigued. 

“Miss Baker has an aptitude for avoiding tasks she dislikes.” 

“I’ve noticed,” the detective smiles. “She’s yours, Sister Pullwater. Please have her back before dark.” 

“Thank you,” Pullwater inclines her head, her head veil falling forward slightly and causing her to adjust it. “Come along, Annette.” 

Annette sighs, frowning at Cordelia, who simply nods and waves her away. She follows Pullwater out the door and towards Market Street, making their way towards St. Bartholomew’s orphanage in the late morning sun. 

“Does she know?” Pullwater says quietly, shuffling along on the cobblestone street, weaving around other pedestrians and the occasional carriage. 

“I’m not sure,” Annette answers, staring at her feet. 

“You elected not to tell her?” 

“I didn’t lie about it, if that’s what you’re wondering. It simply hasn’t come up.” 

“Always so defensive, Miss Baker,” Pullwater grumbles. “Do you want her to know?”

“Not if I can help it,” she answers quietly. “Who am I supposed to be speaking with at the orphanage?” 

“Bratty little lad named Thomas. He claims he wants to be twice-born.” 

Annette nods slowly. She’d suspected that was why Pullwater had come to her specifically. Annette was hardly a success story, but there weren’t many twice-born women in town. “How old is Thomas?” 

“Year older than you were. Eight.” 

“That’s old enough,” Annette responds. “So why do you need me?” 

They round the corner and suddenly St. Bartholomew’s cathedral enters their vision. It’s a towering work of stone and glass, with heavy gothic arches and wide stained windows. Jutting off of the side of the main building, currently doused in shade by one of the huge spires, is a moderately-sized brick convent. It was home to the nuns and the orphanage they cared for, and as Annette sees her former home once again she feels a shiver go down her spine. 

“It was Sister Minnerva’s idea,” Pullwater strides along, her pace increasing now that their destination is in sight. “She’s somehow convinced herself Thomas will abandon the idea once he meets you. She’s foolish like that, but I suppose that’s to the Lord.” 

“Yeah,” Annette exhales. “Do you want me to talk to her?” 

“Focus on Thomas.” 

“Yes, Sister.” 

As they step inside, Annette is flooded with memories and detached emotions. There’s fear, and the time she snuck into bed with Susan as teenagers and had her first kiss. There’s anger, and the time she taught Michael how to properly sing his favorite hymn. There’s nostalgia, and the desperate, looming, dreadful need to escape this place and be someone else. She wonders where her friends ended up, and if they ever could really escape. 

“Thomas is in my office,” Pullwater directs her, leading her past the ground floor, a wide room with a row of bunks splayed across the far wall. A soot-filled fireplace smolders in the corner, and an array of rugged and dirty toys scatter the floor. Annette wonders who’s going to get spanked for forgetting to clean them up. Pullwater brings her upstairs and down a long hallway, where each Sister’s room doubles as a space to sleep and a space for study. 

She steps into Pullwater’s office, whispering a quiet greeting to Sister Minnerva, currently occupying Pullwater’s chair. On the bench against the far wall of the small room, a young boy sits fearfully, anxiously swinging his legs and refusing to look at anyone in the room. Annette knows the feeling well, and as much as she disliked Pullwater, she knew that Minnerva was a more specifically intimidating force to them both. 

“Miss Baker,” Minnerva spits, her wrinkles and bushy eyebrows contorting at her arrival. She stands and shuffles past Sister Pullwater, who takes her now vacant seat. Minerva slams the door as she leaves, a final empty threat at the group. 

“Thomas,” Pullwater croaks, a tiny warmth entering her voice for the first time. “Don’t be so rude. Greet Miss Baker.” 

“Hello, Miss Baker,” Thomas squeaks, timidly lifting his head to face her. 

“Hello, Thomas,” Annette replies sweetly, taking a seat next to him on the bench across from Pullwater. She shares a glance with the nun, who impatiently waves her to continue. “Sister Pullwater tells me you wish to be twice-born.” 

Thomas doesn’t respond.

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“That’s a really brave thing to decide to be,” she nudges, though he stares at the ground and gives no indication he hears her. “Did the Sister tell you who I am?” 

A moment of quiet. He shakes his head slowly. 

“I grew up here, just like you,” Annette keeps her voice soft and gentle. “Sister Pullwater… she watched over me, just like you. I know exactly what you’re feeling.” 

“No, you don’t,” he grumbles. 

“Okay,” she smiles weakly. “Does your answer change if I tell you that I’m twice-born?” 

“Y-you are?” His interest piques up for the first time. 

“I am,” she nods and smiles again. 

“But you’re… you look normal.” 

“It’s a normal thing to be.” 

“Don’t listen to Sister Minnerva,” Pullwater’s grizzly voice bounces across the room. Thomas seems to shudder as she speaks, another feeling Annette recognizes well. “God smiles upon rebirth.” 

“Sister Pullwater wants to help,” Annette agrees, trying to push away the complicated array of feelings bursting inside of herself. As much as she despises the nun, flinches whenever she raises her hand or voice, she knows that Pullwater was the only Sister who protected her, who helped her… even if her way of helping often left Annette with bruises on her bottom for the next few days. “I want to help as well.” 

“Sister Mabel said that-,” 

“Bah!” Pullwater interrupts, frowning. “Sister Mabel doesn’t know the difference between the Kalle manuscript and the Winsor revisions. They’re all wrong.” 

“God doesn’t like it,” Thomas complains. “He’s going to judge me and send me to Hell.” 

“How do any of them know what God likes and doesn’t like!?” Pullwater’s voice cracks and she forces herself to remain seated. “Birth and rebirth, righteous conduct, proper living - that’s what God cares about. ‘Go and sin no more,’ that’s what God cares about.”  

“Sister Pullwater,” Annette pips up, knowing the nun was veering towards a lecture that would continue uninterrupted for some time, “Might I speak with Thomas alone for a moment?” 

Pullwater frowns, but she nods. She rises and exits the room, grumbling quietly to herself while Annette and Thomas nervously watch her leave. 

“She hates me,” Thomas whines. 

Annette gazes over him quietly, pursing her lips and gathering her thoughts together. “I know that Sister Pullwater is strict… but she will help you. She helped me.” 

“You’re afraid of her too,” he complains. 

“I am,” Annette concedes. “But she also made me strong. It isn’t easy being twice-born, and Sister Pullwater, despite all of her flaws, is one of our strongest supporters.” 

“She said it's more common outside of Bellechester. Is that true?”

“It is,” Annette agrees. “Our Bishop doesn’t like it as much, so the ceremony is performed less here. Apparently the church of Andland performs it dozens of times a year.” 

“Dozens?” 

“And they’re happy to do it,” she looks out the door towards where she knows Pullwater is lurking and waiting. “Are you sure it’s something you want?” 

“I’ll look like you when I get older?” 

“Everybody looks different,” she answers patiently. “But yes.” 

“I want it.” 

“It isn’t easy.” 

“I still want it.” 

“Okay,” she nods. 

“Do I get to pick my name?” 

“One of the Sisters will pick for you. Sister Maxwell picked mine, is she still here?” 

“She died,” he shakes his head. “Last winter.” 

“I’m sorry. Sister Pullwater will probably give you one then.” She stands, loosening her shoulders and preparing to invite the nun back inside. 

“Does.. does God hate you?” 

She stops at the door. She bites her lip, quietly mulling over the question and the terrified sincerity underneath it. “Not for that reason.” 

Annette steps out into the hallway and finds Sister Pullwater leaning up against the far wall, gesturing for Annette to close the door and speak with her in private. Annette obeys, taking a spot along the wall to her right. 

“He still wants to go through with it,” Annette answers. 

“Good, good,” Pullwater’s head bobs up-and-down. “Will you stay during the rebaptism?” 

“I can’t.” 

“Can’t, or won’t? It would mean a great deal to the kid.” 

Annette shudders at the thought of staying longer than needed, but she reminds herself that she would have appreciated having a twice-born woman there when she went under again. Hers had been a lonely celebration, just Sisters Pullwater and Maxwell. Sister Minnerva had deliberately brought the rest of the orphanage away on a trip when it happened. 

“I’ll stay,” she sighs. 

“Thank you,” The nun seems to settle a little. She’s always been old to Annette, but these days she seems to wear her age like a chain around her neck. “Are you behaving?” 

“Like a saint,” Annette says quickly, facing away from Pullwater’s glare. “Just as you taught me, Sister.” 

“You better be brushing your hair and washing regularly, like I taught you. None of that tomboy play you’d do when you were younger.” 

“I’m not a child,” Annette complains. Pullwater’s accusing eyes remain hardened and Annette lets out a gloomy breath. “Yes, Sister, I am keeping clean and proper.” 

“Good. How many punishments have you earned thus far?” 

“Only one,” she says softly, recalling the furious look in Cordelia’s eyes, pushing her to her knees on the front porch. 

Pullwater snorts. “Liar.” 

“It’s true, Sister. I’ve been a model of good behavior.” 

“You’re not still sneaking over to that wretched bar, are you?” 

Annette feels a rumble of guilt push through her chest. She stares down at the ground, feeling much like she’s disappointed her mother. In many ways, Pullwater often feels like a mother to her, though it’s more complicated than that. She doubts confessing sins feels the same with a mother that wasn’t a nun. 

“Annette…” Pullwater hisses. 

Annette’s mouth feels dry. She shamefully recalls feeling Samantha’s lips on her lips, hearing her ecstatic moans call out through a room, tasting her… Annette’s shame catches in her throat and she finally brings herself to look at Pullwater, her guilt plain across her face. 

“Unbelievable!” The nun scowls, a harsh judgment flashing in her eyes. She turns her gaze to the sky above, exclaiming, “How am I supposed to prepare such a wretched girl for you, Lord?” 

“I’m sorry, Sister Pullwater,” Annette mumbles, the hallways of the orphanage and the scorn in the nun’s voice make her feel like a little girl again, preparing for yet another dressing down from Pullwater. 

“It’s sin, Annette,” she lectures. “Don’t tell me I’ve wasted all this time turning you into a proper woman just for you to throw it away on a life of impurity.”

Annette makes to speak, but Pullwater quickly interrupts her. 

“And you’re not just representing yourself! Your sins convince everyone that there’s no proper integration of the twice-born into the church! Do you want to make Thomas an outcast?” 

“No, Sister Pullwater.” 

“Your actions disagree! You must be a paragon of womanhood, Annette. Nothing short of perfect.” 

“Yes, Sister Pullwater.” 

“Then for God’s sake, Annette, find a man. Follow the sacraments. Be a model of a holy, blessed marriage,” she implores, her tone sincere and maternal. “Enough with this sinful lifestyle.” 

For a long moment, Annette considers arguing with the Sister. But there’s no words that can be said in her defense. Pullwater had always been like this, pushing for Annette to be a model of femininity, critiquing every remnant of “boyhood” she decided Annette possessed. When Annette would wrestle her friends in the dirt, she was caned for acting like the other boys. When she didn’t do enough to manicure her appearance, she berated as sloppy and mannish. When she was caught fooling around with Susan or Rachel or some other girl she liked, they’d get a stern reminder about sin and Annette would be yelled at for an hour about debauchery and lustfulness and what it meant to be a Godly woman.

“I’ll try,” she promises. 

A grunt of displeasure rumbles out from Pullwater’s throat. “And now we’re adding another lie to your list of sins this week.” She’s silent for a long breath, an aura of scorn rising from her skin. “Time to confess properly, then. Who was it with?” 

“Sister…” 

“Don’t you dare,” Pullwater snaps. “I may not be able to correct your behavior anymore, but I won’t hesitate to defer your punishment to your owner or God above. Who was it with?” 

“... Samantha Deveroux,” Annette mumbles in a low voice. 

“Annette!” The sister’s harsh whisper cuts through her. She turns her face away from Annette, glaring up and down the hallway. When she speaks again, her voice is low and measured. “Is it not bad enough to lay with a prostitute? Instead you’ve gone and defiled a Lady… Heavens above…” 

“It was one time,” she pleads softly. “It won’t happen again.” 

“Enough attempts at deceit,” Pullwater groans. “After everything I’ve done to put you down a proper path… and this is how you live?” She sighs heavily, full of the weight of expectations and maternal responsibility. “It’s best that you leave now.” 

“What about the rebaptism?” 

“I’ll not risk you corrupting that woman-to-be,” Pullwater snipes. “Leave, Miss Baker.” 

Annette hangs her head in disappointment. She pushes off from the wall she’s leaned up against, walking a few steps away before turning back and softly saying, “Can I make one request?”

Pullwater takes a long breath, letting her face soften at the very end. “What is it?” 

“After Thomas’ rebaptism… name her Judith.” 

“I’ll… I’ll consider it, Annette. Go in peace, my child.” 

“Thank you, Sister.” 

 

– – – 

 

“Good, you’re back,” Cordelia calls out from the dining room as Annette slowly strolls inside. Annette steps into the foyer, removing her coat and soberly hanging it up on the rack. She’d taken a long walk home from St. Bartholomew’s and evening was just arriving. Long shadows laid across the walkways and cobblestones as she’d ambled home, her heart twisting into frustrated knots. 

Cordelia strides into the hallway with her, a deliberate purpose to her movements. She actually smiles as she sees Annette, though if she notices the servant’s anguish she says nothing. “Put your coat back on,” she chirps, “we’ve work to do.” 

“It’s late, Miss Jones,” Annette complains, gloomily pulling her jacket back down from its place on the hanger. 

“And it’s important,” the owner rebuts, her voice cheery and focused. “Keep up.” 

She strolls through the doorway and bounces down the steps, trusting Annette would keep pace with her. Annette shuffles her feet for a moment but follows, locking the door as she departs. Cordelia moves quickly, walking the way she does when she’s feeling especially clever, and as rare as it is to catch her in such a chipper mood, Annette’s in no state to enjoy it. She remains a few steps behind Cordelia, brooding and allowing her thoughts to devour her. 

As much as she wishes Pullwater’s approval doesn’t matter to her, the pit in her stomach gapes open the more she hears the words bounce in her head. She’d never been good enough for the Sister - there was always some aspect of femininity Pullwater decided was lacking. Annette could complain and complain that such skills were beyond her, but it never mattered. She could speak perfectly, move elegantly, develop proper manners, keep herself manicured and desirable… she and Pullwater had successfully killed every aspect of her first-birth except one. 

When Pullwater decided she couldn’t play with boys anymore, Annette grumbled and complained and eventually fell in line. When Pullwater decided her interests were too masculine, Annette learned knitting and sewing and Bible study and all the things Pullwater claimed made a woman holy. She gave up swimming, she gave up loud and filthy jokes, she even gave up speaking so much. 

But as she once again remembers Samantha’s hand on her thigh, her scent in her nostrils, her skin on her skin, Annette knows it had never been possible to give up this need. There was no vaccination for this sickness Pullwater despised so deeply in her. The first few times it happened, she was punished, but there was grace. When it continued happening, Pullwater tripled her efforts of correction. Now, as Annette prepares to turn twenty-three, each year loosening the Sister’s grasp on her life, she can feel Pullwater’s desperation build. 

Annette’s breath catches in her throat as she realizes that Pullwater might tell Cordelia. She hadn’t considered that while they spoke. She was so buried in feeling like a child facing condemnation that she failed to consider that Cordelia’s ownership of her contract couldn’t protect her from Pullwater entirely. Her eyes flick up at the back of Cordelia’s head, bobbing slightly as she continues her walk. It was only a matter of time before Pullwater told her. 

She scrambles to think of how to insulate herself from the danger. She hadn’t told Pullwater when she met up with Samantha, maybe she could pretend it happened before Cordelia bought the contract? It’d still be bad, but in theory she couldn’t be punished for something that happened before her ownership. Cordelia would likely be skeptical that Annette could sneak out and meet someone while at a collar house, but Annette doubts she knows enough about the inner workings of one to completely reject the idea. 

“You’re quiet,” Cordelia says suddenly, her head peeking over her shoulder to gaze over Annette with suspicion. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to scold me again.” 

“No, Miss,” Annette croaks, trying to pull herself out of her rumination. 

“Then out with it,” she demands. “Why are you so dormant tonight?” 

Annette stares out at the slowly darkening city around her. She can vaguely tell the evening is cooling, and might even be cold, but the heat from her nerves keeps her warm. “Simply tired, Miss Jones.” 

“Tired? How can you be tired? We’re on the case!” She stops, turning to face Annette with a surprising amount of passion. “How are you not excited?” 

“I’m not sure.” 

Cordelia is quiet for a moment. “So there’s something else then, isn’t there?” 

“Might we continue our stroll?” Annette begs quietly. “I’m eager to sleep and put today behind me.” 

“Something happened with Sister Pullwater.” 

“Nothing but resurfaced bad memories, Miss.” 

Cordelia shifts her weight from foot to foot, tucking her hands into her pockets. She stares at Annette for a few moments, emerald eyes picking over her form as a variety of thoughts flash across her face. “Would you be benefited by speaking on it?” 

“Please, no.” 

“You’re upset.” 

Annette sighs, her face warm and red. “Yes, obviously.” 

“Then tell me.” 

“I would rather not.” 

“I’ll not have your gloomy disposition meddling with our work tonight. Out with it,” she commands, her voice clear and direct. 

“Pullwater is a mean, cranky woman,” Annette replies bluntly. “You’ve noticed this yourself. Now, can we please be on with it?” 

“She brought you to speak to some troubled child, didn’t she? How could that possibly have upset you so?” 

Annette groans. “Must we do this out in the street?” 

“Yes,” Cordelia crosses her arms over her chest and furrows her brow. “I need you at your best, which clearly is not the case at the moment.” 

“You don’t need me,” she whines, “You’re the detective. Do the work yourself.” 

“I’ll remind you that you pushed me to do this case, Miss Baker. I’ve made it clear that its outcome is partly your responsibility.” 

“Then let us go investigate whatever lead requires examination so late and be done with it,” Annette shuffles away a few steps, desperately trying to end the conversation. To her displeasure, her efforts only seem to embolden Cordelia. 

“You and the child must share some characteristic other than life at the orphanage,” Cordelia observes, a threat underlying her voice. “Similar troublemaking, perhaps? I’d wager you were a disobedient child.” 

“I won’t tell you so now you’ll attempt to deduce it?” 

Cordelia shrugs, strolling in a circle around Annette. “But it must be more than simple misbehavior… it must be a specific offense that you’ve overcome, or are in the process of overcoming.”

Annette shuts her eyes, trying to hide the emotions on her face but hardly succeeding. Behind her eyes, she can feel the beginnings of frustrated tears push forth, desperate to be done with this scrutiny and return to their usual routines. Her heart pounds, hopeful she won’t be forced to lie about her desires for women so early. 

“I take it you have a guess,” Annette mutters. 

“A handful. Petty thievery, pickpocketing… I could even see you capable of arson.” 

“Arson?” Annette scoffs. 

“Full of surprises, I’m sure,” Cordelia nods. “And yet, despite the fact that your speech with me is so quarrelsome, you’re quite tame and mild-mannered. I’d place your guilt at something closer to vague immorality, especially in the perspective of a nun.” 

Annette’s heart skips. Cordelia was getting close, and she can feel her muscles clench as her nerves push forward. “Nothing of the sor-,” 

“Judging by the tremor in your eyes I’d guess I’m getting closer.” Cordelia takes a breath, opening her hands and gesturing for Annette to speak. “Come now, simply admit whatever it is and be done with this.” 

Annette shakes her head slowly. 

“Should I guess instead?” 

“That’s not necessa-,” 

“Sexual immorality is always a favorite of the nuns,” Cordelia muses. “But what kind might you be capable of? Adultery? Lustfulness? Coveting another’s hus-,” 

“I’m twice-born!” Annette blurts out, her voice quivering. 

Cordelia stops in her tracks. Her brow raises and her face softens thoughtfully, eyes darting across Annette’s form. She takes a long breath. “Ah,” she says at last. 

“Sister Pullwater brought me to speak to a child who’s just made the decision to be born anew,” Annette says quietly, eyes dropping to stare at the cobblestones below. 

“So… so when you were born you weren’t…” 

“A girl?” Annette supplies, feeling a pit in her stomach. “No.” 

“Ah,” Cordelia breathes again. 

“Is… is that an issue?” 

“An issue?” 

“Do you take it for grounds as removal?” 

“Why would it be grounds for removal?” 

Annette stifles a groan. “It isn’t a popular idea in Bellechester.” 

“But it’s church-sanctioned, is it not? I see no reason to punish you for something that is perfectly legal, even if a bit uncommon or unusual.” 

Annette lowers her shoulders and takes a deep breath. She hadn’t planned on disclosing that fact to Cordelia, but for now it seems to have disrupted her interrogation and given Annette a moment of relief. 

“I was upset because it was a challenge for me and will be for the child,” Annette adds, hoping her sincerity will put Cordelia fully at ease. It’s not a lie, she was nervous for Thomas, or perhaps even Judith by now. 

“I see,” Cordelia relents. “I had a friend who was a twice-born man. Lovely fellow, told the filthiest jokes I ever heard. I think I might have loved him.” 

“Miss?” 

“I wonder what happened to him…?” Cordelia mutters to herself, drifting off into her own nostalgia. “Regardless, is this matter finally resolved? Might we continue?”

“Please, Miss Jones.” 

Cordelia nods one final time and resumes her walk. With each step, Annette slowly realizes they are returning to the railyard, and she wonders if they’ve left some important clue to discover in Henry’s workshed. 

“Annette Baker isn’t a Kerish name because it’s your reborn name,” Cordelia connects after a few silent minutes pass. 

“Indeed.” 

“It suits you,” she says simply. 

At the railyard once more, now eerily quiet for the night, Cordelia’s confident stride reignites. She surprises Annette, turning away from the path that would lead to Henry’s workspace and instead making her way towards Mister Bembrook’s office. Annette takes a deep breath, forcing herself to once again prepare for his frank and revolting flirtations. 

She could not, however, prepare herself for the sight of Mister Bembrook’s limp body splayed out across his desk, unbreathing, unmoving. His vacant face wears a look of terror and alarm, and his collared shirt has been stained with what must be his own blood. Annette’s next breath chokes in her throat as she can’t bring herself to look away from his eyes - the left, frightened and glassy; the right, impaled by the rusted iron of a railroad spike.  

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