“Maybe things changed,” Sue says. “We should head out and meet the wagon master before we leave. Despite what Miss May says, I don’t know many men who are too comfortable with the idea of a woman working security. Might be a good idea to show him we ain’t a couple of withering roses.”
Sue is right. I wash my face, secure my weapons, and don a tasteful hat that contains only a handful of swallow feathers before following her down the stairs and out into the morning.
Sue had gotten directions to the staging area this morning, so she leads the way through the gray, misty landscape. The sun had finally deigned to grace us with its presence late yesterday afternoon, but it has hidden its face once more; the weather is cold and dreary, altogether damp, and while that may be typical for March in these parts, I am more acclimated to the heady temperatures of the southern climes after spending months making my way across Central America. I shiver and hug myself, wishing I had brought some sort of overcoat with me, and I make a note to see if there happens to be a dressmaker with some ready-made offerings in the vicinity. I can only imagine our trek into the mountains will be even cooler, and I have no intention of freezing my way across California.
The Negro sector of the city is mostly mud and sorrow. Miss May told us people had been leaving steadily since the most recent fire, especially since the fire brigade had not even bothered responding until long after the buildings that had been set ablaze were little more than smoldering ruins. “It doesn’t take a knock upside the head to let me know when I ain’t welcome,” she’d said. This exodus of which we are now a part has been weeks in the making, and I have no doubt that it was the Good Lord’s intention for us to escort them, defenseless as they are. It is true that there are fewer shamblers out west, but even one can wreak havoc on an underprepared group.
Not to mention the more human threat of bandits.
Upon arriving at the staging area, I am even more confident that Sue and I are doing the Lord’s work. Families pile belongings into a handful of rickety wagons. Children and the elderly stand by, and there are only a handful of capable-looking adults, all of them with the lean and hungry look of a people used to going without. There are a few fashionably dressed men, mostly closer to our age, but they have a soft look to them. Dandies.
No one I see moves like a fighter, like someone trained in the rhythms and patterns of survival. And the weaponry? There is no way this wagon train is going to make it two minutes fighting the undead with the hodgepodge I spy as we approach. A few rusty rifles, one or two knives, and a thin sword with a tassel at the end that I recognize from our weaponry courses at Miss Preston’s as being Japanese in origin. But it would not matter if they had freshly forged artillery; the people gathered here do not appear to have the slightest sense of how to wield these blades and firearms.
All of them, that is, with the exception of a Negro woman with a pair of overlong knives strapped to her waist. They are not Mollies, they are too short for that title, but there is something in the way that she moves that strikes me as familiar. I suspect that she is the lone person here that can handle themselves in a scuffle.
“That’s the wagon master with the red vest,” Sue says, pointing to a white woman with blond hair and a tight expression.
I cannot help but frown. “The wagon master is a woman?”
“I don’t see anyone else wearing a red vest, do you?”
This turn of events has me flummoxed to the point that I have to rearrange my talking points in my mind. I like to rehearse conversations in my head before they happen, because otherwise I get a feeling like being in an unmoored dinghy on a storm-tossed sea. And that usually results in me giving a polite smile and agreeing to all sorts of nonsense I have no intention of following through with.
I take a deep breath and stride over to the wagon master, who has her head down, inspecting some sort of list. As I approach, she begins to speak without looking up. “Juliet, I simply cannot make heads or tails of this chicken scratch. Either way, we are simply going to have to reorganize. This just will not do.” That is when she raises her head and frowns at me. “You are not Juliet. Who, may I ask, are you?”
Sue chuckles behind me. “You about to deal with some finery,” she murmurs, which is what the girls at Miss Preston’s used to call the rich white women who came through to engage an Attendant. And she is right. The woman’s bearing makes it clear that she is used to being in charge.
“No, I apologize, I am not Juliet. My name is Katherine Deveraux, and this is my associate, Sue—no last name. We are mistresses of the defensive arts, and we are joining your wagon train at the invitation of one Miss Mellie May, proprietress of Miss Mellie May’s boardinghouse. She has engaged us as additional security—”
“Thank you, Jesus,” the woman says, interrupting my speech, and I start. “Pardon my rudeness,” she continues with a warm smile. “I am Louisa Aiken and that woman over there with the blades and the braids is my business partner, Juliet. Also no last name, though Lord knows I have tried to convince her to adopt something for etiquette’s sake.”
Sue and I exchange a glance but say nothing. The woman’s accent is from somewhere in the Lost States, but my ear is not good enough to place it accurately. She waves to the aforementioned Negro woman, who strides over. Once again I get that sense of familiarity in the woman’s movements, but I am rather certain that I do not know her.
“Juliet, this is Katherine and Sue. Oh, you do not mind me calling you Katherine, do you?” At my headshake, she smiles. “Excellent. We tend to do away with formalities on the wagon train. Life out here on the frontier has done terrible things for my manners, and it is only getting worse. So why pretend otherwise? Juliet, these girls will be additional security for our trip.”
Juliet squints at us. “You Attendants?”
I straighten and give her my best smile. “Yes! Well, I am afraid we have not encountered any situations where an Attendant would be of use in ages . . . but we completed our training at Miss Preston’s School of Combat in Baltimore, the finest academy in all the nation, whatever might remain of it.”
Juliet gives us a slow smile, like dawn breaking over the land. “You don’t say. I’m a Miss Preston’s girl, too. Was that miserable Miss Anderson still there when you left, or did she have the good sense to be eaten by a shambler?”
“Oh, she was there—as sour as a bushel of lemons,” Sue breaks in, and Juliet laughs. Sue shifts to stand next to her, and the two trade stories of Miss Preston’s while I turn back to Louisa.
“If I may be so bold,” I say, “I take it from your previous declaration you may be interested in securing our services for the protection of the entire wagon train? Miss May had originally hinted that we might find employment as her personal protection.”
The woman nods. “My original count was twenty people heading to Sacramento, and now we’re up to well over a hundred and fifty. That’s likely twelve or fifteen wagons—more than Juliet can ably watch out for if we run into a group of stray shamblers. If you girls are going our way, I’d be much obliged if you might be willing to work the whole train. I pay four dollars a day plus vittles.”
“Make that five-fifty a day, each, and rations for our apprentice as well, and you have yourself a deal.”