A PrologueIn Which I Am Born and Someone Tries to Murder Me
The day I came squealing and squalling into the world was the first time someone tried to kill me. I guess it should have been obvious to everyone right then that I wasn’t going to have a normal life.
It was the midwife that tried to do me in. Truth be told, it wasn’t really her fault. What else is a good Christian woman going to do when a Negro comes flying out from between the legs of the richest white woman in Haller County, Kentucky?
“Is it a girl or boy, Aggie?” When my mother tells the story, this is the point where she pushed herself up on her elbows, giving the midwife’s pale, sweaty face some powerful evil eye. And then, depending what kind of mood she’s in when she’s telling it, my momma either demanded to hold me, her cooing baby, or she swooned and the villainous midwife gave me over to Auntie Aggie, who cleaned me up and put me into an ivory bassinet until one of the mammies could suckle me.
But if you ask Auntie Aggie, the woman who mostly raised me up, she would say that my mother was thrashing around on the bed, still in quite a bit of pain on account of the whole birthing thing. Aunt Aggie would say that Momma had no idea what the midwife was about, and that the realization of my near demise came much later. She was the one who, when she saw how the midwife was about to put a blanket over my face and declare me stillborn, stepped forward and held out her hands.
“Wasn’t that lady’s fault,” Aunt Aggie said as she told me the story. “Ain’t no white woman going to claim a Negro bastard, and I’m sure it wasn’t the first time the midwife seen it.” Aunt Aggie shook her head sadly, like she was thinking of all the poor little babies that didn’t make it just because they happened to come out the wrong color.
“What happened then?” I asked, because there’s nothing better than the memories of others when you’re little and have no stories of your own.
“Well, I turned right to that midwife and said, ‘I’ll take the girl and get her cleaned up right.’” That’s what Aunt Aggie says she said, and I believe her. If I close my eyes, I can imagine it, my momma’s big bedroom on the east side of the main house: the windows open to let in the evening breeze and the sounds of crickets and workers singing in the fields, the coppery stink of blood heavy in the humid summer air. The bed linens, no longer crisp and
white, a crime punishable by a whipping if the mess had been caused by anyone but Momma. She would never tolerate a stain anywhere, especially not on the bedsheets of her big four-poster. I can see Aunt Aggie there, her voice calm, her dark hands outstretched, her spine straight, her gaze unwavering and stern, an island of calm amid the chaos of house girls running to and fro, bringing the midwife hot water to clean and towels to sop and a cool glass of iced tea because it’s hotter than the dickens out.
Yes, I can imagine Aunt Aggie saving me from the clutches of that well-meaning midwife. Aunt Aggie was the one that done raised me up right, despite what Momma says when she gets in one of her fits. Aunt Aggie was more my momma than my real momma, in the end.
And I suppose I might have grown up better, might have become a proper house girl or even taken Aunt Aggie’s place as House Negro. I might have been a good girl if it had been in the cards. But all of that was dashed to hell two days after I was born, when the dead rose up and started to walk on a battlefield in a small town in Pennsylvania called Gettysburg.
Dearest Momma,
I hope this letter finds you well. It is coming up on my third anniversary here at Miss Preston’s, and although I have not received a letter from you in quite some time, I felt that I would be remiss in letting such an important anniversary pass without acknowledgment. I only hope the fortunes and future of Rose Hill are as bright as my own. Why, I think it is more than fair to say that the teachers treat us as warmly as they would their own children, had they any. I don’t think there is a single teacher here at Miss Preston’s who isn’t completely devoted to our prospects for advancement. . . .
Chapter 1In Which I Am Found Lacking
“All right, ladies. We shall try it again. Scythes up, and on my count. One, two, three—SLASH! One, two, three, SLASH!”
We lift the weapons up into the ready position, adjust our grips, take a breath, and slash them across the space before us in time with Miss Duncan’s count. Up, adjust, breathe, cut through an imaginary line of the undead.
Sweat pours down between my bosoms, and my arms ache from the weight of the scythe. In all of my seventeen years I ain’t never been so tired. When Miss Duncan said we’d be doing close-combat training I’d been expecting to work through some drills with the sickles, which everyone in Miss Preston’s School of Combat for Negro Girls knows is my best weapon. But instead we work with the twice-damned scythe, which is a two-handed weapon and not at all good for close combat, in my opinion.
“Jane, your grip is faltering,” Miss Duncan says, those eagle eyes locking on me. “Raise it up . . . up . . .” Her voice climbs in pitch, as if she could use it to lend strength to my overtaxed arms.
I swallow a groan and raise the scythe a few inches higher. It ain’t like my weapon is lower than anyone else’s. Miss Duncan must have just heard my dark thoughts. She’s punishing me.
My arms tremble as I hold the scythe up in the ready position: vicious curved blade pointing down, body-length handle at an angle across my chest. Miss Duncan waits until I’m about to scream from the holding before she gives me a small nod and turns back to the class.
“Aaaaaaaaaand, relax.”
The scythes drop and the group of us let out audible gasps of relief. I shake my arms out, one after another, willing the burn to go away. Next to me, Big Sue catches my eye.
“She ain’t human,” she mutters, talking about Miss Duncan. I nod. No, Miss Duncan ain’t human. Because there ain’t no way a normal woman, and a white woman at that, could survive ten years in the Army hunting down shamblers. I can just imagine how that went, the other soldiers falling all over themselves to lay down their jackets every time Miss Duncan needed to cross a puddle. No, I cannot believe a woman could maintain her virtue and serve honorably with the troops out west. So while I do believe Miss Duncan is a fine instructor, I do not believe that she is human. Perhaps she’s a revenant, like the creature in Mr. Alexander Westing’s latest weekly serial “The Ghost Knocks Thrice.” Miss Duncan is pretty enough; I tend to think she would make a fine revenant, possessing the bodies of young women and using them to avenge crimes of passion. Of course, that raises the question as to why Miss Duncan is here at Miss Preston’s instead of out seeking her vengeance. Perhaps even revenants need steady employment.
“All right, again. Scythes up.”
I lift my weapon, focusing on Miss Duncan and trying to decide if she is indeed a revenant instead of thinking about the deep burning in my poor scrawny arms.
“And, on my count. One, two, three, SLASH!”
As we go through the movements for what has got to be the hundredth time—God’s honest truth—I watch Miss Duncan walking carefully around us, just out of range of our one-two-three-slashing. Today her brown hair is pulled into what my momma would call a messy knot at the back of her head. She wears a prim, high-collared dress of moss-green cotton, perfect for the warm weather we’re having. Her skirts are a little higher than a real lady would wear, midcalf just like the rest of us, modesty leggings underneath. The shorter length of the skirts is supposed to let us kick shamblers easylike and not trip us up if we need to run. I think we’d have to get all scandalous like the working girls down in the city, hems barely brushing our knees with nothing but bare leg beneath, if we wanted to really be able to run comfortably. But that’s a whole other conversation.
I slash the scythe across the empty air until my arms feel like overcooked green beans, limp and wobbly. A glance toward the observation pavilion at the edge of the practice ground reveals why we’re being worked like rented girls.
A couple of white women in fashionable day dresses stand under the awning of the pavilion, a white wooden structure covered in wisteria erected specifically for the comfort of the fine ladies that sometimes visit Miss Preston’s looking to engage an Attendant. An Attendant’s job is simple: keep her charge from being killed by the dead, and her virtue from being compromised by potential suitors. It is a task easier said than done.
“Sue,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Who’re those white ladies?”
She
glances over toward the pavilion and grunts. “Don’t know. But those dresses are from this season, so they must be somebody important.”
“Well, at least now I know why Miss Duncan is determined to make our arms fall off. We ain’t seen finery like that around here in a fair while.”
Sue grunts again, which this time I take as agreement.
Finally the evening bell rings, and Miss Duncan turns toward the main building.
“That’s all for today, ladies. Before you go, I have a treat! Mrs. Spencer has brought lemonade for you, with ice.”
On the edge of the green is Mrs. Spencer, a white woman whose farm borders the school. She waves at us, and everyone starts to chatter excitedly about the prospect of lemonade. Miss Duncan ain’t finished, though. “I will see most of you later this evening for the lecture at the university. Please make sure you wear your Sunday best for this fine event.” Miss Duncan watches as we heft our scythes and head over to the table Mrs. Spencer has set up.
“Hello, girls, hello. There are cookies as well!” Mrs. Spencer grins at us. The Spencers are the nicest white people I’ve ever met, and at least once a week Mrs. Spencer brings us a treat to enjoy after we’re done with our training. Next to her stands a smaller girl with pale skin and a smattering of freckles, her hair in pigtails. I smile at her.
“Hey there, Lily,” I say as she hands me a cup of lemonade.
She gives me a tight smile but doesn’t say a word. Once upon a time I used to keep an eye on Lily for her brother, but that’s our secret.
I drink the lemonade too quickly, sweet and tangy and cold, and watch as Miss Duncan invites a few girls over to talk to the fine ladies. I ain’t in the mood to play show pony, so I file into the building with the other girls, heading back to the armory to secure our weapons. Big Sue falls into step next to me.
“You going to that lecture?” Her voice is deep, and she sings a fine baritone in church. She’s the tallest of us here, big and dark and imposing, with arms like John Henry. But she’s also ace-high at braiding, and my own perfectly straight braids are thanks to her nimble fingers. She’s the closest thing to a friend I got here, just all around a nice person, and that’s something Aunt Aggie taught me you don’t find too often in this world. So even though Big Sue might be a little dense sometimes, she’s my friend, and that’s that.
“Me, go to that university lecture?” I snort and shake my head. “I ain’t about that. What do I care what some trumped-up rich white man thinks about how the dead rose up? He probably ain’t never even seen them out there shambling about. You know how it works. He lives his life sheltered away behind the walls of the city while us poor Negroes go out and kill the dead.”
“Jane McKeene!”
Katherine (never Kate) Deveraux stands before us, blocking the way to the armory, arms crossed over her generous chest. She is one of those girls that makes you question the school’s admissions criteria. With her light skin, golden curls, and blue eyes I wonder how it was she ended up in a Negro school in the first place. Katherine is passing light; a body likely wouldn’t
even know that she was colored unless someone told them. She’s the prettiest girl at Miss Preston’s, and I figure that’s as good a reason as any to hate her.
Not that she ain’t good with a weapon. She is a crack shot with a rifle, invaluable in a long-range capacity. But she is also from Virginia, and I ain’t had much cause to like Virginians. Partly because most of them are Baptists and Momma ain’t too keen on Baptists, being a staunch Presbyterian and all. But mainly it’s the way they’re so damned self-important, like they’d single-handedly stopped the dead at the Mason-Dixon Line or some nonsense. It is downright ridiculous.
Katherine and I have been butting heads since I showed up at Miss Preston’s School of Combat, and not just on account of her being so offensively pretty. She is one of those girls that doesn’t know when to mind her own business, and she’s a know-it-all that could try the patience of Jesus Christ himself. I ain’t a very good Christian, so you know where that leaves me.
“How dare you slander Professor Ghering!” Katherine continues, now that she has my attention. “He is an expert on all scientific matters pertaining to the deathless. Why, the man even traveled to Europe and Asia researching the undead. What would you know of the realm of academics?”
“First off, they ain’t deathless—they’re dead. That’s it. Just because they happen to run around terrorizing the countryside doesn’t make them anything but the walking corpses they are. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool and wouldn’t know a shambler if it held him down and bit him, including this professor character. Second, I’d be much obliged if you would keep my name out your mouth. The last thing I want is you sullying it with your silliness.” I make to push past her, my scythe still an awkward weight in my hands, but she blocks me once again.
Big Sue frowns down at me and Katherine, her dark brow furrowing. “What’s it matter? If he’s wrong, then he’s wrong. All this arguing is a waste of time, especially since you’re gonna make me late for supper.” She shoulders past Katherine, who puts her hands on her hips and huffs a little.
“Professor Ghering is a brilliant man. Miss Anderson says the papers say he’s going to cure the undead plague! The two of you should attend his lecture. Homespun wisdom can only get you so far.”
I snort. Ever since Baltimore and a handful of the other major cities were certified shambler-free more than a year ago, the government has turned its attention to finding a cure. You ask me, that’s a luxury we ain’t earned yet. I’ve tangled with enough shamblers to know there ain’t no such thing as “shambler-free” while just one of those drooling corpses is still walking about.
But according to the “experts” there haven’t been any major attacks within the city limits—or even in the county at large—since before the last Rising Day, and I’ve heard enough political speeches to know that letting rich white city folk think that we’ve made even a small part of America safe again is a better stump speech than telling them that we’re still in trouble
five years after the Army stopped fighting the dead. Especially when the current political party has been in charge that whole time.
But I don’t say another word to Katherine, just walk past her into the armory. All the girls at Miss Preston’s have their own weapons locker, and I am no exception. I place my scythe into the bracket set into the wall specifically for it. Next to it are my sickles, the blades as curved and sharp as Miss Anderson’s tongue. Beside them are my batons, short wooden clubs with a metal spike in the weighted end and a leather thong at the bottom, a last resort in the case of a melee. The crown jewel of my collection is the well-oiled Remington single-action, the close-range gun of choice for Miss Preston’s girls. I love that six-shooter. According to the newspapers, the Remington single-action is the gunslinger’s pistol of choice, which makes it even more ace.
There is also a rifle near the bottom that’s seen better days, a relic from the War of Northern Aggression and damn near useless. I hate that rifle with a passion, all because it is hands down my worst weapon.
When I come out of the armory, Big Sue and Katherine are gone but Miss Preston’s girl, Ruthie, is waiting for me. “Jane! Miss Preston says you need to come and see her right away.”
I take a deep breath and let it out, praying to Jesus for patience. Ruthie is just a little thing, with big eyes, dark, velvety skin, and braids that are more fluff than braid. I don’t want to take my frustration out on her. Ain’t her fault that it’s pork chop night and I missed lunch because I was taking remedial etiquette training with Miss Anderson. And the remedial training is probably why Miss Preston wants to see me, anyway, so it ain’t like I’m in any hurry to get to the firing line.
“Tell Miss Preston I’ll come see her after supper, okay? I’m so hungry I could eat a whole hog.”
Ruthie shakes her head and latches her tiny hand on my skirt, pulling me in the direction of Miss Preston’s office. “She says you gotta see her now, Jane. So come on. She’s already in a fine fit. You ain’t gonna want to make her mad.”
I reluctantly nod and let Ruthie pull me down the hallway to the main office. The school was once a fancy university, but after the dead rose up, most of the students fled. The building still looks like a school: fine wallpaper, maps of far-off places, writing slates in most of the rooms. The floor is a pale wood polished to a high gloss, and there are carpets so that you hardly even notice the bloodstains here and there.
During the Great Discord, right after the dead began to walk and before the Army finally got the shambler plague under control, the building was empty. Back then people weren’t so much worried about education as they were not having their faces eaten by the undead. But then as the cities were cleared out and recaptured, folks got civilized once again. Shortly thereafter, Congress funded the Negro and Native Reeducation Act and dozens of schools like Miss Preston’s were created in cities as large as Baltimore and as small as Trenton.
The minority party in Congress was against the combat schools from the start, saying that Negroes shouldn’t be the ones to fight the dead—either because we’re too stupid or because it’s inhumane. But once the act was passed and the schools were established, there wasn’t anything they could do, even if they’d wanted to. The federal government is the law of the land, but it doesn’t have much say in how things are truly run within the walls—most cities are small nations unto themselves, with the mayors and their councils in control. And anyway, I don’t much mind the schooling. Those congressmen probably ain’t seen the dead shambling through the fields for years, going after folks, trying to eat them. But I have. If I can get training on how to keep everyone back home at Rose Hill Plantation safe, then why shouldn’t I?
Ruthie pulls me through the main foyer and down into the left wing of the building, to the big office at the end. I get a whiff of meat frying, the smell most likely coming in through the few open windows. The big summer kitchen is out behind the left wing of the house, and I can already imagine the crisp fried deliciousness of Cook’s pork chops, my stomach giving its own noisy approval.
I have half a mind to slip out of Ruthie’s little-girl grip and sprint back down toward the dining room, but she’s already rapping on Miss Preston’s door. A creaky voice calls for us to come in, and Ruthie lets go of my skirt to open the door.
“I brought Jane McKeene, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Ruth. You may run along now and get supper.”
“
Yes’m.” Ruthie gives me a pitying look before taking off back down the hall, to a meal that I am beginning to fear I may never get to enjoy.
“Jane McKeene, stop loitering in the doorway like a vagrant and come in.”
I straighten and enter the room, closing the door behind me. Miss Preston’s office looks like the master’s study back at Rose Hill. A massive desk—covered with documents, an inkpot and pen neatly placed in one corner—takes up most of the room. Bookshelves of leather-bound volumes fill the walls with the exception of the one directly next to the door. That wall is covered with the same set of weaponry as my locker: twin sickles, a Remington single-action revolver, a rifle, a pair of spiked batons. Instead of the scythe there are a pair of Mollies. They’re named after Molly Hartraft, the woman who led the defense of Philadelphia after the undead first rose. Only the most elite of Miss Preston’s girls get to train with the short swords, no longer than a woman’s forearm, and my hands itch to pick them up and test their weight. I’ve gotten to use the swords twice, and I’m passable with them, though I need a lot more practice.
On a table behind Miss Preston is a beaded buckskin bag that she says was a gift to her family from a Sioux chief. From what I know about folks I think it’s more likely one of her ancestors stole it. Rumor is that Miss Preston’s people had gone west to the Minnesota Territory before the war but came back when the undead got the better of them. There were whispers that Miss Preston had taken a Sioux lover while out west and that she kept a single eagle feather in his memory, but I don’t believe any of that. Seems a little too much like the “True Tales of the West” stories printed every week in the paper. Plus, there ain’t a feather to be found on her desk anywhere. I would know; I spend a lot of time in the headmistress’s office.
Miss Preston occupies the chair behind the desk while Miss Anderson sits in the chair in front of the desk. My instructor wears her lemon-eating face, so I know this ain’t going to be a pleasant chat.
I inhale deeply and drop down into a curtsy. “Miss Anderson, Miss Preston, good evening.”
“Save the pretty manners, Jane McKeene. You know why you’re here.” Miss Anderson is a widow, and even though her husband died in the War between the States—fighting for the Confederacy, no doubt—she still wears her widow’s weeds. Personally I think all black suits her. With her pale skin, hatchet-sharp nose, and constantly down-turned mouth, I can’t imagine her in any other color.
“Miss Anderson, I’m afraid I am ignorant as to the reason of this visit. Honest Abe,” I add when she opens her mouth to call me a liar. Momma used to tell me, “Deny it until they’ve got you dead to rights, sugar. If they can’t prove it, it never happened.” It’s good advice, and it’s served me well.
Miss Preston clears her throat, distracting Miss Anderson from whatever she is about to say. “You’re here because your progress in your etiquette training is inadequate. In addition, Miss Anderson tells me she found you sneaking in newspapers yet again. As you are already
on probation for previous infractions, these latest shenanigans don’t bode well for your continued enrollment here.”
I nod and clench my hands in my skirts. I should have known that Miss Anderson would run to Miss Preston as soon as she found that newspaper under my bed. Most of the girls here can’t read, so sometimes I read out loud to them. But reading isn’t something an Attendant needs to learn, so it’s frowned upon. Newspapers and novels are considered unnecessary distractions. From the way Miss Anderson acted about us girls reading, you’d think it was something dangerous.
But the contraband was peanuts compared to my test. I wasn’t all that surprised that I’d failed my most recent etiquette examination. Seemed like a bunch of tomfoolery to me. Who could care what spoon was used for what or the proper address for a European noble? Still, I thought I might’ve had a bit of respite before I was going to be marched into Miss Preston’s office. I was already on academic probation on account of not caring enough about the importance of gravy boats. Now it looks like I’m about to get the boot.
And then where would I go? I don’t even know if Rose Hill still stands. I haven’t gotten a letter from my momma in nearly a year, though I still write faithfully. And Rose Hill and Miss Preston’s are the only two homes I have ever known.
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Miss Preston, I’ve been trying. You have to believe me when I say that I’ve been working my fingers to the bone trying to get better at drawing place settings. Why, I went through an entire box of chalk just last week.” I actually went through the chalk because a few of us girls were drawing unflattering pictures of Miss Anderson on our slates, but that is beside the point. “I daresay my efforts have been derailed not because of my difficulties with etiquette but because of Miss Anderson’s treachery.”
The smile that had been ghosting across Miss Anderson’s face while Miss Preston admonished me drops off real quick, and Miss Anderson’s usual sourpuss face reappears.
“Treachery? What treachery?”
I sniff, indignant. “Why, that last test wasn’t even fair. Questions on the proper address of European nobles? And European-style place settings? We ain’t even talked about that stuff in our lessons.”
Miss Anderson jumps to her feet, her face redder than boiled beets. “A ploy? Treachery? It was important etiquette, you ungrateful little brat! I’m preparing you for the noble endeavor of serving as an Attendant to polite society, but it’s like trying to teach manners to an animal. You think I don’t know what you say about me behind my back? That mother of yours—”
“Sarah, that is enough!” Miss Preston surges to her feet, a mountain of calicos and lace. “You will excuse yourself from this meeting. Now.” I’ve never heard Miss Preston yell before, never really even seen her mad. It is awe-inspiring, a woman of the headmistress’s considerable girth moving so quickly.
Miss Anderson stands, gathers her skirts (no small feat, she has to be wearing at least four petticoats), and saunters out, slamming the door behind her. Once she’s gone, Miss Preston
takes a deep breath and lets it out on a sigh.
“Sit,” she commands, and I fall gracelessly into the chair Miss Anderson just vacated. Miss Preston lowers herself back into her own chair, her lips tight with dismay.
“Your sardonic nature has worn through Miss Anderson’s tolerance, Jane. I spoke to a few of the other girls about their most recent examination, and I fear you are correct in your estimation of Miss Anderson’s faithlessness. The questions she submitted for you were far more difficult than those of your peers.”
I school my face to blankness, but, inside, my emotions are raging like a creek after a spring storm. The truth and I ain’t very close—uneasy acquaintances at best—so imagine my shock to discover that Miss Anderson really did go harder on me than the others. When I’d said all that nonsense about perfidy, I’d been telling a yarn, hoping that I could distract everyone from my questionable manners. But to know that Miss Anderson has been intentionally sabotaging me . . .
Well, that ain’t such a good feeling at all.
“Jane, I know that etiquette isn’t your strongest area. Many of you girls have trouble with it, which is why we wait until your last year here to introduce it. But providing the ladies of the better families with well-heeled and well-trained girls is central to our goal here. You’re a bright girl, and so I’m going to be frank with you. There isn’t the same demand for Attendants as there used to be. With the cities being declared free of undead, people are beginning to feel there isn’t much of a practical requirement any longer. An Attendant is becoming more a luxury, a mark of social standing. An ornament. Something to demonstrate one’s wealth, at dances and dinner parties. Not a life-and-death necessity. And in this context, etiquette and fashion are more important than ever.” She leans back and takes a deep breath. “I care deeply for you girls. Truly, I do. I want you all to find good homes, to get the right start in this brave new America. And that means training you properly to be a part of it. So while you might feel that finishing classes are a waste of your time, I assure you that your lack of proficiency places you in very real danger of expulsion from this academy.”
A lump blocks my throat, and I swallow it down right hard. I ain’t going to cry, but it’s a near thing. ...
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