Still, I make a point not to get too close.
The house itself is monstrously huge. It’s equally as big as our school, but tobacco fields, not woodland, surround the back acreage. The mayor’s house is newer and made of a white stone that rises up four stories, the roof topped by a plethora of cupolas and gables, looking very fancy and imposing. But there’s something else here that catches my eye, something even more impressive than the size of the house.
Electric lights.
I’ve seen electricity before, of course—word of Mr. Edison’s experiments in New Jersey had made their way down the Eastern Seaboard and there had even been a demonstration a year or so back here in Baltimore. I’ve never heard of them installed in a private home, though, and yet here they are, lighting up the pathway to the entrance. I couldn’t help but stare.
This is the house of a man used to being followed and obeyed, a man who has enough people between him and the shambler threat to never feel fear.
Miss Anderson and Miss Duncan lead the way up the front walk. Katherine and I keep a few paces behind, as taught. She walks with the grace and carriage of a true lady; I slouch along, hands resting on the hilts of my sickles, ready to draw them at the first sign of trouble.
Both of our instructors wear sedate, dove-gray dresses, but even the plain attire ain’t enough to detract from Miss Duncan’s beauty; Mr. Redfern’s eyes settle on her as soon as we enter the sitting room where most of the attendees have gathered for drinks. Coming over to greet our party, he’s the spitting image of the civilized savage the papers are always discussing: well-cut jacket, fashionable waistcoat, hair pulled back in a queue, well-worn boots, and a Bowie knife strapped to his waist. The perfect combination of gentleman and ruthless killer, just like the main character in some frontier adventure. He wears it like a costume, and I get the feeling Mr. Redfern also likes to use the low expectations of people to his advantage. Either way, it is most definitely a style that works for him, judging from the way Miss Duncan lights up. While Miss Anderson and Mr. Redfern exchange pleasantries, I note that he wears the knife on his right side. Mr. Redfern is left-handed, an interesting fact that I file away for later.
Mr. Redfern’s eyes barely even take in the rest of us before he bows deeply to Miss Duncan. “It is a pleasure to have your company for the evening meal, ladies. If you would follow me, I would be happy to make introductions.”
Miss Duncan, for her part, smiles widely. “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid I’m at a loss, because I never got the privilege of your name.” The two of them make eyes at each other for a minute, sharing a secret.
Mr. Redfern smiles. “My apologies. I am Daniel Redfern.”
Miss Duncan gives a quick curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Redfern. Amelia Duncan.”
I don’t know who they think they’re fooling with this act, but I’m convinced utterly that they are already well acquainted. Miss Duncan knows Mr. Redfern, but how? She catches me scowling at her and raises a questioning eyebrow. I smooth my expression and turn my attention back to the introductions.
Miss Duncan gestures at me and Katherine. “I trust you already know the girls.”
“Yes, we have met.” Mr. Redfern nods politely at Miss Anderson and Katherine before his eyes settle on me, his pleasant expression going hard. “Follow me,” he says.
I stand there, baffled, as they all file off to meet the crème de la crème of Baltimore’s elite. It might be my imagination, but I do believe this is the third time Mr. Redfern has looked at me as though he’d like nothing more than to use me as shambler bait.
I take my time following for the introductions, getting a feel for the house before making my way through the crowd. The sitting room is large, and off to the side is a massive dining room with seating for forty. The rooms here are lit by regular old gas lamps; I suppose the mayor put the electric ones outside to show off to guests and passersby. I watch as Mr. Redfern introduces Katherine and the Misses Duncan and Anderson to a group of women clustered together like a group of chattering hens, their broad chests puffed out in self-importance. One glance at their faces has me walking in the opposite direction.
Momma always said a healthy serving of scorn before dinner keeps a girl slim.
I remain posted up near the doorway while Katherine and the instructors circulate through the crowd. From here I can see right into the dining room and the majority of the sitting room while being blissfully ignored.
In the dining room servants are putting out place settings. A pasty-complexioned man barks out orders to the servants, most of them darker than me. They’re older, and they have the hangdog look I associate with the folks who came up enslaved, who never knew a taste of freedom until it was too late for them to properly embrace it. But one of the men walks with his head a little too high, as though he knows his worth. He’s lighter than the rest, his shoulders thrown back in a proud way, a sparkle of mischief in his too-light eyes.
Red Jack.
He looks out of place in a servant’s white shirt and jacket, gloves on his hands. The bruising on his face is barely noticeable, no doubt covered up by cosmetics from one of the working girls he knows. What does he think he’s doing, trying to hide in plain sight when the mayor’s boys roughed him up not two days ago? He sees me enter and pauses for a moment, raising a single eyebrow in a way that says, Look at you, all cleaned up. I give
