The one drawback to attending Miss Preston’s is the quiet. It is ever so calm and safe here, with most of us having not a care in the world beyond our studies. . . .
I’ve snuck out of Miss Preston’s many times. In the beginning it was because I was homesick, and it was a comfort to be able to lie on the sprawling lawn and know I was under the same big moon as Momma and Auntie Aggie back in Kentucky. I’d lie in the grass in my white hand-me-down nightgown and stare up at the sky, the occasional growls and moans of the shamblers at the barrier fence barely audible over the sound of my crying.
But that didn’t last long, and it got so that I was sneaking out less because I was homesick and more because I just enjoyed the freedom. There’s something about skulking around while everyone else is fast asleep that you can’t put words to. Eventually, after a few months or so, I got bored enough with the sneaking about to jump the barrier fence. After all, Auntie Aggie had sent me away from Rose Hill so that I could see the whole big world, and that meant something besides the grass of Miss Preston’s.
This was back when Baltimore County was filthy with shamblers, and sometimes I would hunt them in the dark, just another monster slinking through the deep shadows. Other times I would climb a tree and watch the folks dumb enough to travel at night, their whispers too loud, their reactions too slow. I would try to help out, jumping down from my perch and coming to their aid like some guardian angel. That was how I’d met Red Jack, curse my terrible luck. Most days I think I should’ve just let him get eaten.
But sometimes I couldn’t help the people on the road when the shamblers came. I didn’t risk taking a gun for these nocturnal excursions, and my sickles were only so fast. There were too many nights when jumping down to lend my steel would only have ended in my own demise.
Those nights were the worst.
My nightly wanderings more often than not ended well, and I learned a lot from the shamblers I watched. I figured out they preferred to hunt in packs, and that the old ones were slow while the new ones were just as fast as a regular person. I discovered that they couldn’t outrun a deer but they could take down a dog if given enough time. I found that their sight isn’t as good as it seems, but their hearing is much, much better. I learned that they can’t help but gather up in a horde, and the dead are never lonely, that their natural inclination is to have a lot of friends. And I discovered that shamblers are never, ever satisfied. They are always hungry. And just when you think you’re safe, when you let your guard down—that’s when they get you.
I also learned to tell the look of a man that’s been bit and the moment the change starts to take hold, the way he shakes like he’s got a chill and the way his eyes begin to yellow. I learned that I can be ruthless when I need to, and I can be merciful when I’m able. I learned that there is nothing to fear in the dark if you’re smart. And I had no doubt that I was pretty damn clever.
But no matter how much my nightly travels may have taught me, I am still stupid enough to let Katherine tag along.
A clever girl would’ve found a way to keep Katherine at the school, frightened her off with tales of evening slaughter on the roads, of shamblers and bandits and men that lurk in the shadows at night, ready to steal a girl’s virtue.
A smart girl would’ve just left her behind and taken the eventual punishment when Katherine told Miss Preston about unauthorized visitors and subsequent midnight departures.
But I am a stupid girl, so midnight finds me leading Katherine out the rarely used side door to the summer kitchen behind the school. The door doesn’t make a sound when I open it. It’s my usual route, and the hinges are well oiled. That doesn’t keep Katherine from squeaking, though.
“What?” I whisper, irritated that we haven’t even made it outside and she’s already working on getting us caught.
“Something ran across my foot.”
“Probably just a mouse. Now pipe down before you wake someone.”
I head straight toward an abandoned outbuilding on the far edge of the property. It was once used to house the slaves the men’s college owned, but it’s empty now that slavery—the kind that ended with the War between the States, anyway—is no more. The building is long and low, with a door on either side. I use the door on the opposite end of the school, just in case anyone happens to glance out her window. The moon is high tonight and casts a pale silver over the landscape, painting it in shadows and light. It’s a good night for investigating.
It’s also a good night to get caught by a teacher doing her rounds on the perimeter fence. I try not to think about that.
Inside of the old slave cabin, I go to a dusty cabinet and take out my personal sickles, a set Red Jack gave me a long time ago as a gift, and an extra set, since Katherine didn’t bring any of hers. Both sets are well made, balanced and sharp, and I take care of them so they stay that way. I set them on a rickety table and take out a pair of trousers, tossing them to Katherine.
“Put these on.”
She holds them out in front of her, her horror visible in the moonlight coming in through the empty windowpane. “You want me to wear a pair of men’s trousers?” Her voice is just short of hysterical.
“Yes.”
She shakes her head. “That is the height of indecency. I am not wearing these.”
“We’re going to be walking through the woods, up and down hills and through underbrush. Skirts get caught on branches and whatnot. Plus, if we do have to fight off a shambler, skirts are a liability. We’re less likely to get killed if we can run. You wear them or you stay here.” I take out another pair of trousers for myself before I pause. “You better not be wearing a corset.”
She sniffs. “I’m not. I learned my lesson, thank you very much.” She casts a bit of side-eye at the trousers once more before sighing. “If you tell anyone about this, Jane McKeene, I will make sure you spend the rest of your time at Miss Preston’s on housework.”
I snort, because it’s an empty threat and we both know it. But I don’t say anything more. Sometimes I am a gracious winner.
I pull on my own set of trousers, tucking my sleep shirt in the waistband. Katherine copies my movements. I show her the loops near the waist for weapons and how to secure the waist ties and extra strings at the ankles. And then, after handing her my spare set of sickles, we secure our weapons and are off into the night.
It takes us nearly two hours to go the scant distance to the Spencers’ farm because we have to walk slower than a blind turtle. Katherine is skittish as all get out, and I have to remind myself repeatedly that she ain’t used to creeping around in the dark like I am. The woods are dense, with thickets and patches of poison ivy that we have to make our way around. Plus, our part of Maryland is hilly. I don’t think there’s a single flat patch of land, and huffing and puffing up and down those hills takes a while. By the time we finally make it to the Spencers’ farm it’s closer to sunrise than I’d like.
The Spencers are one of the most prominent families in the area, and very generous to us Preston girls, so I’ve been out to their homestead a fair few times. The last was in early spring, when Miss Preston sent the older girls round to the local farms to help with clearing the fields once the thaw came and the dead got a mind to start walking again. Mrs. Spencer was always the kindest, bringing out warm milk and biscuits with jam once the killing was done. She also makes an amazing strawberry-rhubarb pie that won a blue ribbon at the county fair a few years back. The thought of something happening to her makes me a little sad, but I shove the emotion down deep. I need to stay sharp.
Red Jack meets us a little ways from the barrier gate to the homestead proper. He wears a rough-spun shirt and trousers for a change, shedding his flashy attire for something a little more sensible. In the pale moonlight I see Katherine’s eyes widen as she takes him in. I understand why. Jackson is just as pretty in rough cotton as he is in fine silk. Plus his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his finely muscled forearms. He used to work on the docks, back before he realized he could make more money taking “odd jobs,” as he calls them, on the roads between Baltimore and the outer settlements. It’s no wonder poor Katherine is smitten with him.
“You two have any trouble?” Red Jack asks, his voice low.
“No. We didn’t see a single shambler,” Katherine says, her voice loud and disappointed.
“Not for lack of trying,” I mutter, shooting her a dark look. Both she and Jackson ignore me.
Red Jack gestures toward the main house. “I walked up and around the property. There’s no one there. All of the windows are still intact, and the front door is latched. It’s like they left on an errand and never came back.”
There’s a slight tremor to his voice, barely noticeable. I don’t say anything, because I understand why he’s upset. People—especially those that are well off—are heard to move around, try their luck in a different city or settlement. The Spencers could have done just that and taken Lily with them and somehow forgot to tell anyone they were doing so. But I’ve learned that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. And that means shamblers. I don’t care how “safe” these lands are supposed to be.
Jack said that there was no evidence of a break-in, but he couldn’t have gotten a good look inside yet. The dead tend to leave a lot of evidence. Very messy evidence. If the Spencers were attacked, as unlikely as that is, we’ll know soon enough.
I sigh loudly, dreading the task at hand. I’m tired of seeing people I care about die. “Come on, I’ll check out the perimeter, then we’ll let ourselves inside to see what’s going on.”
We walk down toward the homestead on cat feet, quiet except for the sound of our breathing. Even Katherine, who tromped through the woods like she was flushing rabbits, is silent, her footsteps whisper-soft. Shamblers are attracted to sound, so if we are discreet enough, any dead in the area shouldn’t even know we’re here.
The Spencers’ house is a modest thing. It’s newer, built in the years after the dead started to walk. You can always tell by the square windows, which are large enough to allow some light but too small to let a body in. Trip wires with early-warning alarms are scattered throughout the yard, but these are clearly marked by stakes in the ground and we step over them easily. On the small porch, there are a couple of rocking chairs and hooks holding sickles, a scythe, and extra-sharp swords within close reach, in case shamblers get through the barrier fence. These sorts of modest protections and alarms have been adequate for settlements in the county these last few years.
Jackson pulls a set of slim metal pieces from his pocket—a lock-picking set. Katherine’s brows draw together in a frown, and her lips purse in displeasure. She opens her mouth to say something, but I catch her eye and shake my head. There are some things she’s better off not knowing, and the sordid details surrounding that lock-picking set is one of them.
Red Jack unlocks the door easily, and it swings open on quiet hinges. I grip my sickles, ready to swipe at anything that comes out, but nothing does. I look to Jackson and Katherine, both of whom are looking at me.
“Oh, I take it I’m going in first?”
Katherine sniffs. “You do have the highest marks in close-quarters combat.”
I swallow a laugh. She has no idea.
I roll my shoulders a couple of times, trying to loosen up the suddenly tense muscles. Then I walk into the dark.
The windows only let in a tiny bit of the moonlight, so it’s hard to see anything. I make out a table, a long cold stove, a few chairs around a nearby fireplace. But there’s no one in the room, dead or otherwise.
“There’s a lamp on the table,” Jackson says, his voice close to my ear. It takes everything I have not to jump.
“Well, light it. I can’t see a damn thing in this gloom.”
“Jane, language,” Katherine calls from somewhere behind me.
Jackson walks over to the table and lights the oil lamp. Once it’s turned up it’s easy to see that the interior of the house is completely undisturbed. There ain’t even a dirty dish in the sink. If their disappearance was the work of shamblers, they were the tidiest shamblers I’ve ever heard of.
“You sure Lily didn’t mention anything about them all heading somewhere?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to my question.
Jackson shakes his head. “Their iron pony is still in the barn, stocked full of coal. And look.” He gestures to the wall where a portrait of the family hangs—Mr. and Mrs. Spencer and their two little ones, their pale faces staring out at us. If they’d picked up and left, they most definitely would’ve taken the family photo.
Katherine drags a finger across the ledge of a china hutch. “They’ve been gone for a while. Either that or Mrs. Spencer is an inadequate housekeeper,” she says, holding up a dusty finger. “Why was your sister staying with them, anyway?”
Jackson’s jaw tightens, and I answer for him. “Lily was about to turn twelve.”
What Katherine knows—what we all know—is that the Negro and Native Reeducation Act mandates that at twelve years old all Negroes, and any Indians living in a protectorate, must enroll in a combat school “for the betterment of themselves and of society.” The argument went that we benefitted from compulsory education, as it provides a livelihood for formerly enslaved, who couldn’t find gainful employment after the war. Whites, therefore, were excluded from the law, although some went to the combat schools of their own accord, since it was good to know how to protect one’s self in these dangerous times. Still, there’s a difference between an education officer showing up with a group of armed men and carrying someone off, and their enrolling in a school on their own.
“Lily is fair,” Jackson says. “She’s passing, like you, Katherine. I figured if she lived with a white family, the education officers would leave her alone. The Spencers are Egalitarians, and they don’t truck with the Survivalists and all their nonsense about Negroes being inferior.” Jackson sits heavily in one of the chairs. “I just wanted to keep her safe.” There’s so much heartache in his voice that I almost go to him, almost offer what little comfort I can. But that ain’t my place anymore, and I swallow my concern like a bitter draught.
That’s when a chorus of bells sounds from out behind the house, and I quickly extinguish the lantern.
Something tripped an alarm.
Jackson is moving toward the back of the house, and Katherine peers out the window. “There are people approaching.” She turns around, her expression indistinguishable in the dark. “They don’t look like the dead.”
I join her at the window, and she’s right. A lantern swings back and forth in the night, revealing at least three people. “Those ain’t shamblers, but I’m betting they’re trouble nonetheless.”
Jackson waves us back toward the bedroom. “The Spencers have a shamblers’ hole. This way.”
We hurry through the house. In the windowless rear bedroom he flips back the rug, revealing a small door in the floor. He pulls it up and we tumble down into the darkness. I feel around, moving forward until my hands brush against a dirt wall. I half expect to kick something soft and yielding in the dark until Red Jack whispers, “They ain’t down here. This is the first place I checked when I couldn’t find them.”
I’m wondering why Jackson dragged us out here in the middle of the night if he’s already checked the house thoroughly. But there’s no time to ask him now. He pulls the trapdoor shut, and the small space is loud with the sound of our breathing. A shamblers’ hole is a last resort when a homestead gets overrun. Sometimes hiding out away from the dead for an hour or so can mean the difference between life and undeath.
The Spencers’ hole was built for a family, so there’s more than enough room to move around. I take deep breaths and force my heart to slow, Jackson and Katherine doing the same. Less than a dozen breaths later the sound of boots on the wooden porch echoes through the house, along with voices.
For a moment, I think maybe this is it. Maybe this is my final moment, the scene that leads to my death. But the penny in the hollow of my throat is warm to the touch, and I know that this ain’t the end. When it’s time for me to die that penny will be cold, of that I have no doubt.
The realization is calming, and my heart finally settles down. Someone grabs my hand in the dark and squeezes. I ain’t sure whose hand it is, but I squeeze back anyway. Not because I’m scared, but because it just seems like the right thing to do.
The boots pause for several long moments before advancing into the house. Once inside, it’s a lot easier to decipher what the voices are saying.
“I saw a light on in here. I know I did.” The boots sound closer, walking toward us. They pause over our heads.
“I didn’t see anything. You sure you aren’t imagining things? You’ve been skittish ever since we left. Even tripped over that warning alarm like a greenie.” The voice is hoarse and accompanied by a rasping cough. I recognize the second speaker.
Someone grabs my arm, hard. I swallow a yelp. “That’s Miss Anderson,” Katherine whispers, her breath warm on my ear.
A feeling, half sick and half rage, blooms in my middle. If Miss Anderson is involved, then I know those folks above can’t be up to any good.
“Rupert’s got a thing about shamblers,” a third voice says, low and even. “Too much time out west in the wide open. He thinks he’s safer behind the walls in Baltimore than he is out here.” There are footsteps, and the voice sounds again from a new place. “Come on, we need to clean out what’s left. The mayor wants everything belonging to the Spencers packed up and out of here by morning.”
The voices subside, and I lean back against the dirt wall and let myself think. What did that mean? Did the Spencers leave of their own accord? Or did something happen to them, and these people are trying to cover it up? There’s no way to tell, and Jackson looks fit to burst as we listen to the people above move in and out of the house.
“That’s it,” comes a voice from above after a little while. “We don’t need to pack up the bigger furniture. Mayor said just their personal items need to be collected. Now, what are we going to do with the rest of this stuff? Sell it?”
There’s a cough, and Miss Anderson says, “Have some respect. These aren’t pickaninnies we’re talking about. The Spencers are a fine upstanding family.”
I clench my hands at the slur rolling off of the lips of one of my instructors. I knew there was a good reason I didn’t like that woman. If I could deck her I would, but I’m trapped in a hole in the dark, so all I can do is listen as she keeps talking.
“You and a few of your boys can come back tomorrow and get the rest,” she continues. “Load it on their pony in the barn and send it along on the next train.”
“I ain’t coming back here again!” says Rupert. “Are you out of your mind?”
Rupert and Miss Anderson start arguing, and the other man finally interrupts. “Quiet! Both of you. Rupert, grab the trunk. Miss Anderson, would you be so kind as to assist me in a visit to the Johnson homestead? The mayor believes Mr. Johnson has been organizing demonstrations in opposition to his run for Senate, and I find that mid-night visits elicit the most reliable results.”
“Of course, Mr. Redfern.”
Their footsteps echo as they leave the house. There are a few moments of swearing and thumping as Rupert takes the trunk out, then silence settles back over the night. The sound of our breathing seems to echo as we wait to make sure the trio is gone.
I ain’t sure how long we spent in the shamblers’ hole, but by the time Jackson opens the door I’m groggy and sorely in need of sleep. He climbs out and comes back with an all clear. I can’t see his face in the gloom, but I can tell that he’s holding back some feelings by the lack of spring in his step. Who can blame him?
We’re quiet until we clear the barrier gate. Jackson locks it carefully, even though we all know the Spencers ain’t never coming back. Katherine holds herself, cupping her elbows in her palms. Once we’re within the shelter of the forest I clear my throat. It’s likely dangerous to talk in the woods, but there are some things that need saying and no one seems willing to break the silence.
“Well, I always knew Miss Anderson weren’t no good.”
Katherine’s voice comes through the near dark. “So, do you think the Spencers are . . . ?” She can’t finish the thought, and Jackson can’t speak, either.
“Dead?” I say finally. “Truthfully, I don’t know. It was hard to tell from what they were saying, but . . .” Jackson lifts his eyes to mine. “I don’t think so. The way Miss Anderson was talking about taking care of their things, it sounded like they’re still alive, somewhere. What we do know is that wherever they’ve gone, Miss Anderson and those men she was with were ordered by the mayor to cover it up.”
“Maybe the Spencers were attacked by a big pack of shamblers but they weren’t bitten and even though they survived, the mayor doesn’t want anyone to know,” Katherine suggests. “He doesn’t want people to think Baltimore County is unsafe again. So he packed them up and sent them off somewhere against their will.”
I shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe they just picked up and moved to a different city on their own, and the mayor doesn’t want anyone to know about that, either, seeing as how popular they were. We’ve all heard stories of folks leaving without so much as a how-do-you-do, though not as much recently. . . . Still, they could have found somewhere they like better than here. Maybe Philadelphia? Wherever it is, it must be pretty nice if they were fine leaving their things behind.”
“They didn’t leave.” Jackson’s voice is almost too quiet to hear. “Not on their own. Lily would have gotten word to me.”
“Maybe she didn’t have the chance. It’s not like she could tell a message runner that she’s your—”
“You don’t know her like I do, Jane,” he snaps. “Even if you always think you do.”
I don’t say anything to that, because what’s the point? He ain’t going to listen to reason. Jackson might not like it, but if the Spencers did move on, at least they didn’t leave his sister behind like unwanted dishes.
“Well, either way, we need to get on back,” I say after a long moment. “The sun’s coming up.” When I go on my nightly escapades I’m usually back soon enough to get a bit of sleep, but that’s not happening tonight. The sun peeks across the horizon, shading the world gray as dawn approaches. If it takes half as long to get back as it took to get here, we’re going to be much later than I’m comfortable with. I start walking.
“You can’t just leave,” Jackson begins behind me. “We have to— Jane?”
I freeze. My penny has gone ice-cold.
“What is it?” Jackson says.
“Trouble.”
An unmistakable groan-growl echoes through the trees.
“Is that . . . ?” Katherine starts, her voice trailing off.
I turn around, searching for the sound. Jackson clears his throat. “On your left,” he says, voice low.
I turn, and sure enough there stands a shambler, lips pulled back in a hungry snarl. It looks like the little white girl I saw along the side of the road a few days back. Guess the patrols didn’t take care of her after all. This close it’s easier to see details, like the ragged red ribbons at the ends of her braids and her sickly yellow eyes. She’s no more than nine or ten years old. I don’t recognize her, and that’s a mercy. It’s hard having to kill the dead you once knew.
I take out my sickles, ready to end her, when Katherine makes a choked sound. “Bide your time,” she says, one of the tenets of defense we’ve learned at Miss Preston’s. I’m ready to snap out something rude when I notice the movement in the trees. Behind the little girl is a whole pack of shamblers, their clothing in tatters, their gray skin hanging loose. There are a few colored folks mixed in with the group, but they mostly look white, scarily nondescript and similar in that way shamblers get when they’ve been not-dead for a while. From their clothing they’re originals, people that got turned during the first dark days back during the war, before the armies realized that they had a bigger threat to fight than each other.
I don’t even stop to wonder at a pack this large roaming the woods so close to Baltimore. I just spin my sickles in my hand, relishing their comfortable weight. On my right, Katherine has my spare set of sickles out, and on my left, Red Jack has pulled out a long knife from God knows where.
Around my neck, the penny is now cool against my skin, no longer icy. The small shift lets me know that my time ain’t up, at least not today.
We take a step forward, and the shamblers attack. They’re slow and ungainly, tripping over their own feet, tangling in the dense underbrush, dragging themselves along the ground when they can’t find their footing. Old shamblers are the best. They’ve lost enough of their humanity that they’re dog-dumb, attacking without any sort of organization. Newer shamblers are as fast as regular people, but the long dead are like grandmas, shuffling along. Their danger comes from the large packs they travel in. Killing ten people at once may not be difficult for three people trained in combat, but it’s hard for a lone person green as the grass.
I cut down the little girl first. The sickle whistles as it slices through the air, singing in the moments before it separates her head from her body. The gore that gushes out ain’t blood but a thick black ooze. The smell, of dead and decaying things, is the worst. But this ain’t my first waltz, and I keep moving through the pack, letting my blades do the work.
My sickles ain’t like regular blades that you’d use in the field. Instead of a crescent moon curve they’re a half-moon, the blades weighted and sharpened on both sides to easily cut in either direction. They’re designed to separate a head from a body, since that’s the quickest way to put a shambler down. I like to call this harvesting, because you can’t really kill the dead, can you? Plus, it soothes my soul to think I’m doing some good when I end a shambler, sending them on to their well-deserved immortal rest.
I cut through a woman in an old-fashioned dress, noticing her long bedraggled hair more than her features. When her body falls to the ground I turn to harvest a large man crawling toward me, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound, his clothing that of a field worker. His dark head separates easily from his body. I spin and let my blades cut through the neck of an old white woman lunging for my throat, her stringy gray hair hanging loose. Her slate strands pick up leaves and twigs as her head rolls away from me across the forest floor. It’s such an odd detail to notice in the heat of the fight, but that’s just how it is sometimes.
And then, there is no more movement.
I breathe heavily, my sickles and hands covered in the inky mess that is a shambler’s blood. Katherine removes the head of a bearded man, shoulders heaving as she searches for any more dead. Jack is bending down and wiping his long knife off on a younger woman’s dress. Everyone seems fine.
“No bites?” I ask between heavy breaths as I wipe my hands off on my trouser legs. Both Katherine and Jack shake their heads. “All right.” I glance at the sky and the increasingly pink horizon. The world had already gone to shades of gray as dawn approached, but now colors are starting to bloom. It didn’t take us long to take down the pack, but it was time we didn’t have. “Me and Kate are going to have to run back to make it before classes start. We need to meet up again to figure out how we’re going to deal with this.”
“What’s there to figure out? The Spencers are out there somewhere, and my sister is with them.” Red Jack’s jaw is set, and there’s a ruthless glint to his eyes that makes me think he’s got murder on the mind.
“That’s great and all, but did you hear one clue in that conversation that could tell us for certain that they’re still alive, and if so, where they’ve gone? There’s still a lot of country between here and the closest protected city. We set out half-cocked on a rescue mission, we’ll get taken down by shamblers before we’re five steps past the county line.”
“You say ‘we’ like you’re involved in this, Janey-Jane. Like you get a vote.”
My temper flares at his dismissive tone. “Oh, so now you don’t need my help? After I snuck out and spent most of the night huddled in a shamblers’ hole, you can suddenly handle this all by yourself? You’re too good for my blade work?” I’d like to carve my initials into his fool face.
Jackson’s voice is even. “This is my problem, and I’ll handle it myself. I trust you ladies can find your way back to your school.”
And just like that, Jackson, the boy I once kissed in the moonlight, is gone, replaced by Red Jack the ruthless criminal. There ain’t no arguing with him once he’s got his mind set like this. “We’ll be fine,” I counter. “Don’t you worry none about us.”
He gives me a curt nod and bows fluidly to Katherine. “Thank you for accompanying us on our trek this evening. It’s nice to know that such a beautiful rose can use her thorns effectively.”
Katherine nods and gives a polite smile at the compliment. Without a backward glance in my direction, Jack sets off on his own course through the woods.
Katherine looks at me, and I point my sickle behind her. “Road.”
She nods, and we walk. Once our feet hit the hard-packed earth we set off in a run, settling into a pace just light enough for speech.
“These . . . sickles . . . are . . . great. Where did you get them?”
I scowl. Katherine would have to ask the one question I don’t feel like answering. “The set you have came from Jackson. Keep them. I like these better.”
Both sets came from Red Jack, of course. The set that Katherine holds were a birthday present. The set I hold? A parting gift. There is probably something to be said about the fact that the gift I got when he put me aside was nicer.
I pick up the pace so that there’s no more breath for Katherine’s asinine inquiries.