“Lenape. I doubt you’ve heard of us, my people don’t exactly get featured in the weekly serials.”
“Is Redfern a Lenape name?”
His lips tighten. “No, it was the name given to me by a teacher at the school I was sent to when I was six.”
I brighten and cling tight to the fact that we have something in common. “Did you go to a combat school?”
He doesn’t look at me as he answers. “They called it an industrial school, but yes.”
“What was it like?”
“They took me from my family, cut my hair, beat me every time they felt like it, and sent me to work for the mayor when I was eighteen.” His expression is still calm.
“Sounds familiar,” I say before I consider my words too carefully.
His eyes widen slightly, and he looks straight ahead once more. “You should spend less time conversing and more time listening.”
“You don’t like me very much, and I ain’t sure why. I’ve done nothing to earn it.” His words have opened up an ugly feeling in me, part rage at the unfairness of it all, part anguish, and I don’t know what to do with it but throw it back at Mr. Redfern.
“I’ve seen you skulking on the county roads in the dead of night, Miss McKeene. Do you know they call you the Angel of the Crossroads, the people you save?”
I get an uncomfortable feeling like I’m sliding backward down a slope into a deep hole that I dug my own self. If people are whispering about me, that isn’t good. Stories have power, and how long will it be before Miss Preston hears about my nocturnal exploits?
Mr. Redfern continues. “I don’t like you because you’re arrogant and self-important. You could be so much better than you are, but you’re too selfish to see it.”
There ain’t much I can say to that. His words sting, and he isn’t even looking at me to determine their impact. Next to me, Katherine hasn’t said a word during our entire exchange, just kept watch over the white folks eating their meals. Seems like as good a plan as any, so I look straight ahead and wish the time away.
The servants return to clear the plates and set down the next course, a fruit compote with cheese melted on top. Then there’s a fish course that smells like something died, yet all those fine gentlemen and ladies gobble it up. All the while, there’s a fierce hollowness gnawing at my insides and I try to imagine a life of this, watching fine people eat while I nigh on starve to death. It’s the first time I’ve considered what the life of an Attendant might truly be like. It ain’t a comforting thought.
Up to now I’ve been focused on whatever mischief Jackson is getting mixed up with, Mr. Redfern’s inscrutable glare, and the food everyone has been eating. I’ve been so preoccupied that I’ve just now noticed Miss Anderson’s companion, a sickly pale man who is draining his third glass of wine. The man sweats, dabbing his brow with his pocket square, his hands shaking as he puts it away. Next to him Miss Anderson is talking, but the man is too far gone to pay her proper attention. Saliva makes a discreet trail down the side of his mouth, and he reaches with clumsy hands for his napkin.
He’s turning. Right there, at the table. Any moment now his eyes will start to yellow, and when he does Miss Anderson will be his first course.
I don’t have a moment to wonder how on earth this rich man could have become infected. I look around to see if anyone else notices what I do, but Katherine stares into the distance, the disciplined gaze that functions to make our charges feel watched and not watched at the same time; and Mr. Redfern is speaking in low voices with one of the servants, directing the girl to stop serving wine to this guest or that one. Even Miss Anderson is too busy with her own wine glass to see that her neighbor is panting, laboring under the change his body is going through.
I tap my companion’s shoulder. “Mr. Redfern.”
He gives me an irritated glare before turning back to the conversation with the serving girl on his other side.
I grab his arm, shaking him. “Mr. Redfern!”
His head whips around. “What?” he snarls, all pretense of manners gone.
“Might I borrow your blade for a moment?” I ask sweetly, pointing across the table to the man stumbling to his feet, knocking over glasses as he does so. A low growl comes from his throat and a chorus of answering screams ring through the dining room as everyone realizes that there’s a shambler in their midst.
Mr. Redfern seems to be as much in shock as everyone else, so I grab his blade without waiting for permission. I heft the knife in my hand, taking just long enough to get a feel for the weight. Then, as the man lunges for Miss Anderson, I hurl the knife through the air.
It’s a good throw, and the blade goes end over end between the heads of the dinner guests before lodging squarely in the temple of the shambler. For a moment the creature continues its grab for Miss Anderson before crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
My instructor backs away in terror, her face gone pale as she stares at me across the table. Everyone’s eyes are upon me now, their faces twisted in disgust, as if killing a dinner guest, shambler or no, is a terrible faux pas.
“My word,” the mayor’s wife says from the far end of the table. The look she gives me makes me feel less human and more like a bear that’s managed to stumble into the middle of dinner.
“Yes, it was an amazing throw, wasn’t it?” Katherine says, her
