The most distressing change here at Rose Hill is that, due to the undead plague, most of the people in the valley have abandoned their farms for easier living out west. I daresay that if it weren’t for the aunties, even our happy community would be torn asunder. But Auntie Aggie and her sisters have proven to be as wise as ever, and we are living still in relative comfort.
The narrow staircase is dark, but a yellow glow from up ahead provides a bit of illumination. I walk behind Katherine, my fingers brushing hard-packed earth on either side.
The staircase ends and deposits us in a sizable room. The walls and floors are buttressed like a basement, and the entire space is much larger than the small building we entered. Katherine is looking around the room, her expression filled with wonder, and it’s no surprise.
We are in a genuine laboratory.
One of the weeklies a few months ago had been about a scientist who went mad, turning himself into a terrible creature that ravished women. The scientist eventually kills himself after he sees the horror he hath wrought, and I think that, had the story been real, this is the kind of place that might have been his lair. Small lights are embedded into the ceiling, but I find it hard to believe there might be gas lines in this hellscape. Beakers and bits of metalwork are strewn across a wooden workbench, and there are a number of strange, shiny steel things that I reckon are weapons along one wall.
“What kind of place is this?” Katherine breathes. She’s just as awed as I am. I ain’t never seen something so amazing, and I’m half afraid that this ain’t real, just a fever dream from being locked up in that railcar.
“It’s my lab. I’m responsible for a lot of the technology you’ll see around Summerland. Electric lights,” he says, pointing to the ceiling. “Some of the farming equipment we use. I designed a lot of the weaponry. It’s my job here. You heard the sheriff up there—everyone in Summerland has their place, and it’s important to remember what it is.” There’s a tone in his voice, and I wonder if Mr. Gideon ain’t here by choice any more than me and Katherine.
He sighs and waves us over to a workbench along the back wall. A dozen different pieces lie across the surface, and he holds up a sharp needle attached to a glass vial.
“Every Negro who comes to Summerland gets vaccinated. The purpose is simple: the vaccination keeps you from turning if you get bit while on patrol.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
His eyebrows raise. “You don’t believe me?”
“While in Baltimore, I had the benefit of attending a lecture given by a professor named Ghering. You heard of him?”
Mr. Gideon puts down the syringe and crosses his arms. “I have.”
“Well,” I say, bending down to take the sheriff’s newspaper from the top of my boot. “I happened to kill the man the professor turned after his vaccine failed. Professor Ghering was no Louis Pasteur, I can tell you that. You can ask my Miss Katherine, she was there, too.” I slip back into the faithful servant act I put on for the Sheriff for just a moment. I don’t know this man, and I have to question the sanity of anyone who thinks sticking a needle in my neck is a good idea.
Mr. Gideon turns to Katherine, and she gives him a tight smile. “What Jane says is true. His vaccine didn’t work.”
Mr. Gideon gives me an appreciative smile. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me at all. But this is my vaccine, not his, and I happen to know for certain that this is the genuine article.”
“Oh. You test it out on Negroes as well?” I ask, the black feeling growing just a smidge. Despite his kindness, this man is just like the rest of his kind: polite until you tell them no.
“You’ll be the first. I tested it out on myself and a few unwilling cats. Now, please let me finish vaccinating you. I assure you that it’s perfectly safe. If you decide to put up any resistance, Bill back there would be happy to assist. I’m sure a lady of your bearing would much rather face adversity with her head held high than in physical restraint.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Please. I know what the sheriff has planned for you. It really is for your own good.”
I purse my lips to keep from telling him what I think of his assumption as to the nature of my character and inherent needs. I don’t like the idea of that needle punching holes in me. But I ain’t in any position to put up a real fight right now. I’m even more tired and hungry than when I got off the train, and I’ve no desire to get pummeled like poor Jackson. An uncertain future is still better than no future at all.
Besides, I have yet to find a jam I can’t get myself out of. One day this whole Summerland fiasco will just be an interesting footnote in the story of my life.
I step forward, pulling down my collar so Mr. Gideon can stick the needle in the hollow of my neck. He pulls up the leather string with my lucky penny on it, a single eyebrow raised. “Are you superstitious, Miss McKeene?”
“It’s only superstition if you don’t believe, Mr. Gideon.” This close his eyes are more green than brown, and they dance with humor as a smile quirks his lips.
“Quite so, Miss McKeene, quite so.” His hands are gentle, and the metal is cool as it pierces my skin. “Thank you,” he says, his voice low. It causes an odd shiver to go running down my spine, and I step backward a little too quickly, anxious to put some space between the two of us.
“Now, Miss Deveraux, it seems the sheriff believes you to be a white woman. Why is that?” Mr. Gideon takes off his spectacles and wipes them with his pocket square.
Katherine shoots me a glare. “Because someone told him I was.”
Mr. Gideon nods. “Well, phrenologists claim we can identify someone’s character and racial derivation by measuring the skull.” He goes to a drawer and pulls out a set of calipers.
I cough to cover my laughter. I’d been thinking Mr. Gideon was a fair sight smarter than the typical fellow in this place, but if he believes that he can tell anything by the size of someone’s head, he’s just as daft as the rest of them.
Katherine doesn’t say anything, but Mr. Gideon is gentle as he takes several measurements and jots them in a notebook.
“It looks like you’re telling the truth, according to my calculations,” Mr. Gideon says with a frown.
“Hooray for science,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I don’t believe in phrenology at all. It’s easily disproven, the pet hobby of bigots.”
I cross my arms. “Kate is white.”
Mr. Gideon gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I think. Pastor Snyder is the Sheriff’s father, and the real power in town. The preacher makes the final decision on all matters. These numbers are for him.”
“So this town is a family business, then? Good to know.” What a degenerate group of kinfolk. No wonder they found themselves exiled to the middle of the continent.
Katherine gives me another dirty look while Mr. Gideon packs away his implements and I shrug and give her an apologetic grin. I feel mighty bad about getting her shipped out west with me and Jackson. If I can make sure she can live here as a white lady, that should go a long way toward squaring us. I don’t much care about Katherine, but I hate owing anyone anything. Most especially someone as put together as her.
Mr. Gideon sighs, dragging my attention back to him. “I’m sorry you find yourselves here, ladies. Truly, I am. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll get you some clothing better suited to frontier life and some food. I expect you’re both hungry and tired after your long trip.”
We both nod and follow Mr. Gideon up the stairs. Halfway out of his laboratory Katherine grabs my wrist and gives me a proper glare.
“I hope this thing about me being white is part of some grand scheme you have to get us out of this,” she whispers. Emotion is heavy in her voice, and I worry that she’s about to break on me.
I give her a saucy wink. No, I don’t have any idea how we’re going to get out of Summerland. But I’m a patient girl, and all I need is time.
Stepping back out into the sun after the cool shadows of Mr. Gideon’s lab is like a punishment all its own. Bill leans against the side of the small building that shelters the staircase, hat forward to keep the sun off of his face.
“Ladies,” Mr. Gideon, says, tilting his bowler as he shows us out. Bill startles awake, loosing a thick stream of tobacco juice in my direction. I manage to jump aside before it hits my fancy boots.
“I bet you’re a big hit with the ladies,” I say.
He says nothing but just glares in my direction before yanking his head to the side. “Come on so we can get you outfitted. The sooner we get your black ass out to the border, the sooner you’ll lose some of that sass.”
I smile sweetly in Bill’s direction as we follow him back to the general store. Bill is not the kind to open a door for a lady, so Katherine and I let ourselves in while he posts up next to the entryway, tilting his hat low again.
The man behind the counter of the general store, a Mr. Washington, is kind and helpful, and gives me two sets of loose-fitting trousers, two shirts of a rough material, a pair of sturdy boots that appear used, and a single set of underthings.
“This is all you get for free. Anything else you have to buy. Shopping day for Negroes is Tuesday. Don’t try to come round any other day than that, the sheriff will just have you thrown out. Also, you’ll need to buy winter gear early. Last year I was clean out of coats come November, and I don’t know where you’re from, but January here is no joking matter.”
“You got anything nicer for Miss Kate?” I say, raising my head defiantly.
Mr. Washington narrows his eyes at me. “That’s all I got for clothing.”
Katherine gives Mr. Washington a kind smile. “I apologize, sir. Jane is a good girl but a bit protective, as an Attendant should be. She meant to ask, do you have any clothes suitable for a lady?”
Mr. Washington’s expression softens and he shakes his head, looking truly saddened. “No, miss. I’m afraid you’ll have to see Mrs. Allen for that.”
He moves away, and I lean in to Katherine. “At least it ain’t striped,” I say. She scowls at me and I grin wide. “And hey! You stopped arguing about being white.”
“You’d better be right about this. I dislike lying.”
“It gets easier the more you do it.”
Mr. Washington comes back with a ledger and asks us to make our mark. I put an X where he indicates while Katherine signs with a flourish.
We thank Mr. Washington and carry our bundles out of the store. Bill stands when he sees us and gestures down the street.
“You’ll share a room with the rest of your kind above the Duchess’s place. Sheriff won’t send you out to the line today, he’s a good Christian and the pastor thinks even animals deserve a day off after the trip out here. You’ll eat with the rest of the girls, patrol with them, what have you. For now you’ll use the weapons out on the line.” Bill spits again. “Try not to get yourselves killed too quickly. I bet Pete you girls would last to All Saints’ Day at least.”
The door to the sheriff’s office opens, and another of his flunkies walks toward us. “Pastor says the blond one is white. Test checks out. We gotta walk her to the church. Other one can go on patrol, though.”
Katherine stands up straighter. “I require my Attendant by my side. It isn’t proper to be walking around unprotected.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on you,” the man says, giving Katherine a grin that makes me feel like I ate something foul.
“Not likely,” I say, putting myself between Katherine and the man. “It ain’t proper and I’m here to make sure Miss Katherine is cared for like the lady she is.” I spread my feet in a defensive position. Attendants get training in hand-to-hand combat because the dead ain’t the only threat to young ladies of good breeding. Besides, I’d like nothing more than to have a reason to break one of these fella’s faces.
“Let the girl walk Miss Deveraux to the church. You know how the pastor feels about his ladies,” Bill says, voice low. He leers at Katherine for a moment before he leans in close to me. “I look forward to straightening out that sideways attitude of yours.”
He and his friend walk off back toward the sheriff’s office, leaving me and Katherine alone for the first time since we arrived in Summerland. She turns toward me, her expression impassive. “Jane, I fear we have landed ourselves in a certifiably terrible place.”
A bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to well up, and I have to swallow it back down. “What was your first clue?”
“As I said earlier, I trust your devious brain is working through a way out of this pickle. This town is terrifying.”
I set off toward the church, Katherine yapping all the while. I ain’t sure what to expect in Summerland’s house of the Lord. Nothing good, though. Even under the best of circumstances me and preachers don’t mix so well. And these circumstances ain’t anywhere near the neighborhood of good. Katherine and I both stink to high heaven, and I can’t expect that a man of God will want to tolerate our stench any more than we do.
As we walk, Katherine’s voice is getting more and more hysterical. “There’s a separate shopping day for Negroes, I have been called a darkie at least four times today, and I’m pretty sure that Bob called us animals.”
“Bill.”
“What?”
I sigh. “That fella’s name was Bill. Bob was the other one. And you’re a white woman now, so don’t get your knickers in a twist whenever someone says something about Negroes. You’re supposed to enjoy talking down to colored folks.”
Katherine stops and puts her hands on her hips. I pause as well, half turning toward her. Her lips are pursed with displeasure. “How on earth am I supposed to live a lie, one that will surely end up with me dead if anyone discovers the truth?”
I don’t say anything, because she’s right. A couple of years ago a Baltimore shopkeeper named Rusty Barnes was discovered to be a Negro who’d been passing as a white man. A mob looted his shop and burned it to the ground. They would’ve killed Rusty as well if Jackson and I hadn’t managed to sneak him out of the county. There’s nothing white folks hate more than realizing they accidentally treated a Negro like a person.
“Well,” I say after a long pause, “you let me worry about that. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not.” Katherine rolls her eyes, but she keeps up with me when I start walking again. Time to change the subject. “I ever tell you about the garden back at Rose Hill?”
Katherine shades her eyes as she looks at me. “Jane, what are you going on about?”
I pull Katherine up into the shade of the boardwalk. The church is just across the street, a white picket fence setting it off from the rest of the town. “Back at Rose Hill, Auntie Aggie—that was the woman that mostly raised me—would plant a huge garden full of okra and carrots and cabbage, green beans, and black-eye peas, everything you needed to feed a plantation full of hungry people. Everyone had to work the garden at least a couple of times a week if they wanted to eat good, and even my momma would put on her big sun hat and go out and pull weeds. It was a necessity in a place where a trip beyond the barrier fence to the market could mean death.
“One summer, the garden was plagued by a rabbit. This wasn’t no ordinary rabbit, this was a hare of unnatural ability. It would always find a way inside of the fencing, filling itself up on the fruits of our labor. It was, as Momma said, a bastard of a rabbit.”
Katherine gasps and looks around. “Jane! Such language.”
“Let me finish my story. Anyway, Auntie Aggie and a few of the boys put out snares and traps galore, everything from crates baited with carrots and bits of lettuce to complicated tie snares I found in an old frontiersman’s book Momma had from her dead daddy. Nothing worked. Every morning we’d go out and see the parsley munched down to nubs, or nibbles in the cabbage. The frustration was enough to put one off of gardening altogether, truth be told.
“But Auntie Aggie never let it faze her. Every night she would set out the same kind of snare, a simple loop knot that someone had taught her long ago. And every morning, when the rabbit wasn’t caught, she’d retie that snare, same as she did the day before. I asked her once if she was scared the hare was going to eat the whole garden clean before that trap of hers caught him.
“‘Jane,’ she said, ‘look at this garden. Look at the lettuces and those beans! And those tomatoes? They are especially fine this year, don’t you agree? Trust me on this: it’s just nature for creatures like him to get greedy.’ That was all she said to me.”
Katherine’s listening now, her eyes narrowed. “So what happened?”
I grin. “She was right. After nearly two weeks of trying to catch the hare, Aunt Aggie made us a nice rabbit stew from that fat bunny. See, while the rabbit was skinny and hungry, that snare couldn’t catch him, and he was cautious enough to avoid it. But once he got fat, he couldn’t fit through the same holes he used to. I ain’t lying when I say he was big enough to feed darn near all of Rose Hill that night. And tasty? Well, all of his good eating meant even better eating for us.
“The point is, sometimes when the rabbit gets too fat, too comfortable, he makes mistakes. But the gardener, she ain’t got nothing but time. Because even the hungriest rabbit can’t eat the entire garden. At some point the good sheriff will make a mistake, some gross miscalculation, reveal some weakness, and that’s when we’ll find our freedom.”
Katherine is nodding now, her expression thoughtful. “We will be patient gardeners.”
“Yes. We will be the most patient gardeners, and we will fatten up that bunny like nobody’s business. And when that rabbit is nice and plump, we shall set the snare, and let him run right on through it.”
Katherine nods. “Thank you, Jane.”
I smile, because I’m relieved that she didn’t ask the question I’ve been dreading since we got here.
What if we’re not the gardeners, but the rabbits?