Miss Duncan gives me another small, pitying smile. “Well, Jane, that certainly is an interesting theory.”
We bump along in a decidedly uncomfortable silence. I can almost feel Katherine’s self-righteousness swelling up and filling the carriage. I bet she can’t wait to get back to her know-it-all friends and tell them how Jane McKeene is a mad half-wit that believes in invisible creatures swimming around in our blood. The rest of the trip passes in uneasy silence. There ain’t even any more shamblers outside the carriage window to break up the monotony of dirt and trees and the occasional farmstead.
Finally we approach the high stone walls of Baltimore. On this side, it’s covered in scaffolding, and men at the top appear to be adding more stones and bobbed wire. That thing’s tall enough if you ask me, but I suppose you can’t be too careful. We wait as the massive main gates of the west entrance are opened for us, and then pass into the city, the carriage letting us off at a central stop. The cobblestones are a nice change from the hard-packed dirt roads of the country. There are dirt roads in other parts of Baltimore, but this part of the city nearest to city hall has nicer streets.
I climb down, and while the rest of the girls disembark I study the gates. They are monstrously huge; I heard tell that each one takes three strong men to open and close. The wrought iron is painted black. Red, white, and blue ribbons are woven though the bars. Nearby a sign proclaims:
Come celebrate the five-year anniversary of the construction of Central Gate
on Rising Day, July 2nd, 1880
A project funded by Mayor Abraham Carr and the Survivalist Party
Dancing, food, and fireworks!
It would be nice to go dancing, but that celebration ain’t for me. No way colored folks would be allowed at a Survivalist shindig. Not unless we were serving the punch, that is.
Right before Katherine gets off the pony, she pokes me in the side. “I want my bonnet back right after the lecture, you lying thief,” she says, low enough that Miss Duncan can’t hear. She goes off to join her friends, a couple of younger girls who are just as well-dressed as she is.
I scratch at the frizzy mass of my hair and watch her walk away. I’m feeling mighty out of sorts, and I ain’t sure this day could get any worse.
“Hey there, Janey-Jane. What you doing in town?”
I turn around and coming down the walk toward me is Jackson Keats.
I was wrong. It just got worse.
Jackson swaggers up, his derby pulled low over his eyes. His light brown skin is more red than tan, which is how he got his nickname, Red Jack. Jack’s a true redbone, fair enough that you know at least a few of his people come from Europe, not Africa. His close-cropped curls even bear a hint of auburn. I once met an Irishman with hair the same color. He weren’t long for this world, seeing as how he got put down by a shambler, but I think of that poor fool every time I see Jackson.
“Can’t help but notice you ain’t been around lately,” he says. Jackson runs the roadways between Miss Preston’s and the city, and there ain’t much in Baltimore County that goes on without Red Jack being involved, legal or otherwise. His blue-green eyes gleam. “We missed you last Saturday, Janey-Jane.”
I shrug and glance around. Miss Duncan is still occupied with the pony drivers, most likely arguing about the fee. Drivers always like to up the price of a ride after the fact. Everyone knows they’re as crooked as they come. Most likely Jackson is here to collect his piece of the action.
“Well, I ain’t miss you or your hoodlum friends. And I told you to stop calling me that. My name is Jane, not Janey.”
He grins at me, revealing a flash of gold tooth. “Aw, now, that ain’t no way to talk to a beau. You keep it up with that sassy little mouth, I’m going to start to questioning your manners.”
I cross my arms. “You. Ain’t. My. Beau.” And he ain’t. What we have together is business, not personal. Not anymore, at least. I dart a quick glance toward Miss Duncan, who is still dickering with the carriage driver. “Scram before you get me in trouble.”
Jackson puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. His gold watch chain catches the light at the waist of the brand-new green paisley waistcoat he’s wearing. It’s fancy and eye-catching. Silk maybe, and nicer than anything I’ve ever owned.
He notices me noticing and gives a wide smile. “You like it? I remember you saying green was your favorite color.”
It is my favorite color, and it does look very dashing on him. No doubt about it, he is a fine-looking man. But he’s also a mountain of trouble, and there are lots of other good-looking boys that ain’t running around on the wrong side of the law.
“You did not wear that for me, so don’t try to talk sweet. I know you, Jackson. You were probably on your way to see some poor farm girl that you tricked into believing you were the deputy mayor of Baltimore. Don’t try to rope me into your shenanigans.”
Jackson flashes me that wicked grin of his again before his eyes shift to something over my shoulder. I turn my head to follow his gaze. Katherine watches the two of us with narrowed eyes. One of the girls says something to her and pulls her attention back to the group’s conversation, and I swear under my breath. “Lookit that. Now Miss Bigmouth is going to tell on me for sure. I’ve got to get back.”
He grabs my arm, that devilish smile playing around his lips. “Come down to the barrelhouse after you get back to your school. I got a surprise for you.”
“I don’t want any surprises
