Now I was on chapter thirty of this semester’s text; Nora was still on chapter two.
Turning the pages of the digital book somewhat frantically, I started perusing a section detailing the science behind the new ice age, the many cataclysmic events that had led humanity to crowd around the Equator and form new tribes. Just holding a book, learning mundane facts, seemed oddly distant from my new reality. To think it had formed such an enormous part of my world before. Now, for all the time I put into my studies, they seemed so … pointless.
Issy’s punctilious knock sounded on the door. I jerked in my seat before realizing what it was. “Come in.”
My brother opened the door just wide enough to step inside, and bowed. I bobbed my head. Even now he insisted we genuflect to each other—though since dying he’d loosened up quite a bit. “You can’t come in unless you can curtsy like a big girl, Jenny,” he said, ducking his head around the door again. He was now frozen at fourteen, his brown hair forever short. His skin had taken on a purplish hue that almost hid the mole on his cheek. We were both of Indian descent, mostly through our mother’s side.
“I can curtsy!” she insisted.
“May she come in, Pam?”
“Of course.”
And thus in toddled the littlest zombie I’d yet met. Jenny Delgado had lost some grace and some words since the night I found her wandering the streets, but still had quite the personality. After making sure Isambard was watching her, she carefully spread out the skirt of her pink pinafore and curtsied. I couldn’t help but smile, and stood up to return the gesture, which made her wiggle with glee. She came running for me, and hugged me around the legs.
“Very good! What’s up, Issy?” I carefully combed my fingers through Jenny’s baby-fine, dirty blond hair. She’d shed some of it already; I didn’t want to pull any more out. It wouldn’t grow back.
“Mom’s starting dinner. She asked me to come get you.”
“Great.” So much for avoiding worry. I plucked a ribbon out of the display of them on my vanity and waggled it at Jenny to get her attention. It drew her white-speckled eyes like a lodestone, and her chapped lips parted. “Look after Issy-monster for me, okay, Jenny-bear?”
She let go of me and captured the ribbon, placing it over her head, as if it might stay there of its own volition. “Jenny-bear!” She turned on Issy and flexed her fingers like claws, laughing giddily. I left Issy to deal with her and made my way downstairs to the kitchen.
Mom was busy shaping scraps of leftover dough from my father’s bakery into dinner rolls. The sleeves of her cotton dress were pushed up, revealing her plump arms. She spotted my distorted reflection in the copper pans hanging from the ceiling as I entered, and glanced at me over her shoulder. “Ah, there you are! I could use your help.”
“Of course.” Without interrupting her, I slowly removed my apron from its hook by the door and took a look around.
Inwardly, I sighed at what I found.
She’d taken three chickens from the freezer and laid them out on the counter like headstones, one after another. She was doing it again.
“The potatoes are in the basket,” she said as she opened the oven door. “Lately it seems like pickings are growing slim at the market. Perhaps people are afraid to bring their wares to town? It worries me.”
I took a breath. “You know what worries me, Mother?”
She slid the rolls in. “What, pumpkin?”
There was no good way to put it. “Mom, you’re not going to cook all of these chickens, are you? There’re only three of us eating.”
Mom shut the oven door and turned to look at me, her eyes wounded. “Four. There are four of us eating. Five, if you count Jenny.”
“Mom …” I decided to just come out with it. “You have to stop cooking for Issy. He can’t eat it. His stomach doesn’t work anymore.” A few months ago when she’d done this, it was understandable—almost cute. Motherly overachievement. But now it was getting scary. She wouldn’t stop.
My mother stood up straight, marshalling her bulk around her. It was a posture I knew well from childhood, and it instinctively made me shrink down a bit. “Pamela Roe, Isambard is your brother. It would be heartless not to include him at the table.”
“He is included, Mom. Dad makes him his tofu every day—”
“That stuff?” Mom tossed her head. “No. I won’t hear of that being the only thing he’s given. They feed prisoners better.”
During the Siege, I’d been incredible. I rescued Vespertine Mink, got my parents to safety, and slew the evil dead. I even hit Michael Allister when it came out that he wasn’t interested in me, that he’d been using me, even after I put myself in danger to help him. I’d lashed out at someone out of anger. And I never wanted to have to do any of those things ever again. I just wanted everything to return to normal.
An even more selfish part of my brain wanted my mother to return to a place where she could take care of me, not the other way around.
“Mom …” I didn’t know what to do, but I was willing to try anything. “Why don’t you let me cook dinner tonight?”
Her eyes widened. “For all of us?”
“Yes.” My mind raced, hitching its wagon to this idea. Maybe I could just put one bird in, carve it up so it looked like more, and hide the others in the back of the freezer. “I mean, I should have more practice cooking, shouldn’t I? For whenever I … if I … do get married?” I iced the cake. “You can spend the time with Isambard.”
That got her. Mom immediately started picking at the knot in her apron strings. “Yes! That will be …” She shook her fingers free, apparently willing to forget about her apron, and moved to hug me. “What a good girl you are, Pamela. Always helping others.”
“My pleasure.”
Mom released me and almost flew to the door. She stopped in the hall, though, and turned back. “Oh, I meant to ask you—did you finish your studies?”
I turned my back to her, put on my apron, and began selecting potatoes from the basket on the counter. “Almost.”
“No problems?”
I lied. “No, Mom.”
“Really?” She started wiping her floury hands off against each other. As usual I couldn’t tell if she was relieved, unconvinced, or somewhat disappointed. “That’s good to hear.”
I had no real reply for this, so I found the peeler in the drawer and started removing the potato skins in long, thick strips. Anything to stay busy. My mother observed me for a few more pensive moments, taking her daily parental inventory, before moving down the hall. As I heard her call for Isambard, I berated myself for feeling any resentment toward her. I wondered what she was thinking, what she expected of me.
The more things change, the more things stay the same.
Despite my efforts and my good intentions, the chicken came out of the oven half burnt and half raw. Apparently, cooking ability was not genetic. I chopped the edible part of the chicken up and threw the pieces over a thick bed of vegetables in the biggest dish I could find. It would have to do.
When everything was finished and on the table, I sat with Isambard and Jenny in the parlor while we waited for Dad to close up the bakery. I was drained. The screen on the wall was tuned to a children’s show where a puppet was being made to sing a song about treating others as one wished to be treated, but an unending ticker ran across the bottom: We would like to remind our loyal viewers that the source of the new strain of infection IS STILL ISOLATED. If you are vaccinated, there is no need to fear any particular zombie. NORMAL PRECAUTIONS APPLY.
I messaged Nora on my cell phone but got no response. I wondered if she was busy with Mr. Griswold, and did my best to ignore the feeling of jealousy this idea stirred up. In theory, I liked Mr. Griswold—he’d saved our lives, and appeared to be quite honorable—but my last brush with romance hadn’t gone well, and I still wasn’t over it. Neither was I used to sharing my best friend.
A few minutes later my father came up from the bakery to join us, beari
ng with him two servings of jiggly, enzyme-laden tofu within the thinnest of braided crusts, a recipe he’d perfected for his undead son and now sold in the shop. My mother bustled through with a plate of butter. “Dinner, children! Turn off the screen!”
Once everyone was seated, my father led us in a prayer of thanks. Upon its conclusion Mom said, “Everyone should know that Pamela cooked dinner tonight.”
My father looked at my mother in bewilderment, before peering at the dish before him. “Really? Well, thank you, dear.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. I looked into his eyes, trying to telepathically tell him—if such a thing was even possible—why I had. I couldn’t tell if he understood. His face seemed almost devoid of emotion. He looked tired all the time now, his dusky, freckled skin rough.
“Did you get the mixer working again?” Mom said. “Oh, Isambard, mind your shirt.”
“Yes, dear. It was just the cord.” Dad took a bite of his meal and chewed it slowly. “This is actually very … good,” he offered, a cough mangling the final word. His eyes darted to mine and away again guiltily.
Review accepted. Glancing at my own food, I wondered if I even wanted to try it.
“Yet another reason to be proud of her. Here, Isambard, try a bite.”
“Mom, you know the rules,” Issy said, his nose wrinkling. “No meat.”
“Well, I honestly think those are more like guidelines, dear.”
My mind wandered as everyone engaged in the usual chatter, my fork twirling in my food.
It was only the sudden explosion outside that recalled my attention.
All conversation ceased. Even Jenny went silent and turned her face up to the ceiling. I wasn’t sure what we’d just heard—it sounded like muted cannon fire. My heart started picking up, and I laid my hand over it, as if it were a distressed baby animal I could comfort with my touch.
“What was that?” Issy asked.
“Nothing,” Dad said. He helped himself to the tiniest second helping of casserole. “Had quite a few party orders this week. Likely some fair assembly is enjoying fireworks. I can’t believe people are trying to carry on with the Season as if nothing’s happened.”
Yes. Yes, I could accept that. I’d make myself accept that.
“I want to see fireworks!” Jenny demanded.
Recovering, I rose and placed my napkin beside my plate. “May I take her?”
My father nodded. “Of course. You should be able to see from the front window. Don’t go outside.”
I released Jenny from her chair and picked her up. She weighed so close to nothing, it was heartbreaking. Isambard accompanied me as I carried her to the parlor and opened the window. “They’ll be up in the sky, Jenny-bear. Like stars come to visit us.”
We watched the sky expectantly. I didn’t see any fireworks, though, nor did I hear any further explosions. “Maybe they just sent up one,” Isambard said. I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “That’d be weird, though.”
“Noooo, want to see fireworks!” Jenny started pounding her fist on my shoulder, and I captured her hand in mine to prevent her from continuing.
My phone started to ring in my pocket, and I curved my hip out slightly. “Isambard, can you get that?”
He reached into the deep pocket of my dress as I struggled with Jenny, drawing out my pink cat-shaped cell phone and opening it. “It’s Nora. Hello, Miss Dearly,” he said as he lifted the phone to his ear. He suddenly pulled it back and made a face, and I could hear her shouting on the other end.
Letting go of Jenny, who curled her freed hand into my hair, I took the phone. “Nora?”
“Pamma! Did you hear that explosion?” She was out of breath.
“Yes, just now. What was it?”
“I have no idea! But someone just stole our bloody carriage! From us. As in, we were in it!”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Isambard gave me an inquisitive look.
“Go get Dad and tell him we need money for a cab,” I said, trying my best to sound authoritative and in control, like a big sister should. I moved to set Jenny on her feet before I dropped her. My arms were starting to shake uncontrollably.
Oh, God, not again.
I was grounded.
This shouldn’t have fazed me, after all the running for my life and shooting at things I’d been known to engage in, but still—grounded!
At first I was almost pleased that my most recent brush with death had been enough to get my father to talk to me like a civilized human being. We called the house once we were on our way there. When the Roes dropped us off, Papa was waiting in the foyer with Dr. Chase, and they both came forward at once. As Papa took me in his arms I could feel how hard he was fighting to keep his own dead weight upright, and I instantly forgave him for his earlier outburst.
While my father directed my head so he could look at my cheek, I trained my eyes on Pamela’s. “It’s okay,” I said, for about the twentieth time.
Pam gave me a reproachful look. She wasn’t buying what I was selling. She always could pick up on my lies, white or black. “I told you not to wander off without telling anybody,” she said. She sent Bram a frigid glance. “I thought you would listen.”
Before I could say anything, Papa took over. “I feel that I ought to be the one addressing that issue.” His voice reminded me of the few times in my childhood I’d managed to get myself into serious trouble—or what seemed like serious trouble at the time. The time I’d “run away,” getting as far as the train station with my doll and a pocketknife before being caught. The time I’d put a handprint in every lemon tart in Mr. Roe’s bakery after taking the “if you touch it, you must take it” rule of party food too far.
“I’m sorry,” I said, taking the Voice seriously. “I really am.”
Bram spoke up, moving to stand behind me. “I took her. It’s my fault. I’m sorry—for the carriage, everything. This guy in a mask broke the window, and I figured I could take him … but then his buddies showed up. There were four of them. I had a gun, but at that point I just didn’t want to get taken out and leave Nora to handle them. It all happened so fast.” I could hear the regret in his voice, and I knew it wasn’t just for the loss of the carriage. The hijackers had won without firing a shot. That didn’t just anger him, it angered me. Made me feel even more powerless.
My father shook his head. “No. You did the right thing in giving it up. A carriage is not worth shooting people over.”
Pamela’s gloves were fast becoming wrinkled rags, the way she kept tugging them back and forth. “Dr. Dearly, the horrid man who did it called Nora a nec—” I shot her the very best “I love you, but shut up” look I could muster. Pam got it and complied with a heavy sigh.
“Dr. Dearly, if I may,” Mr. Roe said. “From what the police told Mr. Griswold, it seems there’s a new wave of living people attempting to flee the city. The constables said it was likely the culprits wanted the carriage for that reason.”
“You’ve already reported it to the police?”
“We were a block away from a police station when it happened,” I said. “I only called the Roes because we were closer to them than the EF.”
Papa took off his glasses, his right hand shaking ever so slightly. His left remained gripped on my shoulder. “I assume this latest exodus is related to the news about Patient One?”
“Probably,” Bram said. “And the wireless news in the cab said someone set off a pipe bomb, too. Just left it in an empty alley. No one was hurt, thankfully.”
“Only a few doors down from us,” Mr. Roe added. “We heard it shortly before Miss Dearly called.”
“I see.” Papa’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “Mr. Roe, thank you for coming to my daughter’s aid. If you would send me a note telling me how much the cab cost, I’ll happily pay you back for it. Dr. Chase, if you could see Mr. Roe and his daughter out, I’d be much obliged.”
Mr. Roe offered a hand to Pamela. “Of course. My pleasure. Good e
vening, everyone.”
Pamela bit her lower lip and came forward to hug me. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”
I hugged her back tightly. “Promise.”
Once they were gone, my father turned me around where I stood. “We need to have a chat. Let’s go to my room, shall we?”
This was Not Good.
“Sir,” Bram interjected, “maybe before you do that we should get the whole house together, talk about what we’re going to do. What all of this means. At the very least, with Elpinoy gone, we’re down two carriages. We’ve only got two left for the household to use. Three, if Evola will let us keep his here.”
Papa leveled a look at Bram. “Yes. I’ll deal with that and you later. But right now, I need to speak to my daughter.”
I cast a beseeching look at Bram, but didn’t have time to say anything. Papa marched me in front of him, up the stairs and down the hall. He opened the door to his bedchamber for me, and I entered reluctantly, as if I could delay what was to come. Only a few times in my life had my father been truly angry with me—more often he had humored me in everything.
He shut the door and leaned on it. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Papa, we didn’t mean to find trouble. It sort of just … happened.”
He fumbled for the light switch on the wall beside the door. As he stood there before me, slightly bent over, his arm stabbing uselessly into the air behind him, I found myself seeing him for what he truly was—not a weary, scarred man, but a member of the living dead, reborn and different. So often I dealt with him as someone I’d never expected to have a few extra years with, all the while ignoring the fact that those years were going to be so short.
In the end I was going to lose him, too. Again.