Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(4)
“Tell Miss Preston I’ll come see her after supper, okay? I’m so hungry I could eat a whole hog.”
Ruthie shakes her head and latches her tiny hand on my skirt, pulling me in the direction of Miss Preston’s office. “She says you gotta see her now, Jane. So come on. She’s already in a fine fit. You ain’t gonna want to make her mad.”
I reluctantly nod and let Ruthie pull me down the hallway to the main office. The school was once a fancy university, but after the dead rose up, most of the students fled. The building still looks like a school: fine wallpaper, maps of far-off places, writing slates in most of the rooms. The floor is a pale wood polished to a high gloss, and there are carpets so that you hardly even notice the bloodstains here and there.
During the Great Discord, right after the dead began to walk and before the Army finally got the shambler plague under control, the building was empty. Back then people weren’t so much worried about education as they were not having their faces eaten by the undead. But then as the cities were cleared out and recaptured, folks got civilized once again. Shortly thereafter, Congress funded the Negro and Native Reeducation Act and dozens of schools like Miss Preston’s were created in cities as large as Baltimore and as small as Trenton.
The minority party in Congress was against the combat schools from the start, saying that Negroes shouldn’t be the ones to fight the dead—either because we’re too stupid or because it’s inhumane. But once the act was passed and the schools were established, there wasn’t anything they could do, even if they’d wanted to. The federal government is the law of the land, but it doesn’t have much say in how things are truly run within the walls—most cities are small nations unto themselves, with the mayors and their councils in control. And anyway, I don’t much mind the schooling. Those congressmen probably ain’t seen the dead shambling through the fields for years, going after folks, trying to eat them. But I have. If I can get training on how to keep everyone back home at Rose Hill Plantation safe, then why shouldn’t I?
Ruthie pulls me through the main foyer and down into the left wing of the building, to the big office at the end. I get a whiff of meat frying, the smell most likely coming in through the few open windows. The big summer kitchen is out behind the left wing of the house, and I can already imagine the crisp fried deliciousness of Cook’s pork chops, my stomach giving its own noisy approval.
I have half a mind to slip out of Ruthie’s little-girl grip and sprint back down toward the dining room, but she’s already rapping on Miss Preston’s door. A creaky voice calls for us to come in, and Ruthie lets go of my skirt to open the door.
“I brought Jane McKeene, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Ruth. You may run along now and get supper.”
“Yes’m.” Ruthie gives me a pitying look before taking off back down the hall, to a meal that I am beginning to fear I may never get to enjoy.
“Jane McKeene, stop loitering in the doorway like a vagrant and come in.”
I straighten and enter the room, closing the door behind me. Miss Preston’s office looks like the master’s study back at Rose Hill. A massive desk—covered with documents, an inkpot and pen neatly placed in one corner—takes up most of the room. Bookshelves of leather-bound volumes fill the walls with the exception of the one directly next to the door. That wall is covered with the same set of weaponry as my locker: twin sickles, a Remington single-action revolver, a rifle, a pair of spiked batons. Instead of the scythe there are a pair of Mollies. They’re named after Molly Hartraft, the woman who led the defense of Philadelphia after the undead first rose. Only the most elite of Miss Preston’s girls get to train with the short swords, no longer than a woman’s forearm, and my hands itch to pick them up and test their weight. I’ve gotten to use the swords twice, and I’m passable with them, though I need a lot more practice.
On a table behind Miss Preston is a beaded buckskin bag that she says was a gift to her family from a Sioux chief. From what I know about folks I think it’s more likely one of her ancestors stole it. Rumor is that Miss Preston’s people had gone west to the Minnesota Territory before the war but came back when the undead got the better of them. There were whispers that Miss Preston had taken a Sioux lover while out west and that she kept a single eagle feather in his memory, but I don’t believe any of that. Seems a little too much like the “True Tales of the West” stories printed every week in the paper. Plus, there ain’t a feather to be found on her desk anywhere. I would know; I spend a lot of time in the headmistress’s office.
Miss Preston occupies the chair behind the desk while Miss Anderson sits in the chair in front of the desk. My instructor wears her lemon-eating face, so I know this ain’t going to be a pleasant chat.
I inhale deeply and drop down into a curtsy. “Miss Anderson, Miss Preston, good evening.”
“Save the pretty manners, Jane McKeene. You know why you’re here.” Miss Anderson is a widow, and even though her husband died in the War between the States—fighting for the Confederacy, no doubt—she still wears her widow’s weeds. Personally I think all black suits her. With her pale skin, hatchet-sharp nose, and constantly down-turned mouth, I can’t imagine her in any other color.
“Miss Anderson, I’m afraid I am ignorant as to the reason of this visit. Honest Abe,” I add when she opens her mouth to call me a liar. Momma used to tell me, “Deny it until they’ve got you dead to rights, sugar. If they can’t prove it, it never happened.” It’s good advice, and it’s served me well.