Jack found herself alive, and awake, and swaddled in bed like a newborn babe. This was how she knew that something was wrong.

As soon as she shot up, a dog barked at her.

Before her was a small room that smelt sharply of dust and spice. It must've been near a kitchen. There was a window with lacy curtains, a washstand with commode, a chamberpot in the corner. The walls were wood, a deep rusty shade of brown, and the bed frame was sturdy iron. All staunchly practical, save for the very large chest right beneath the window and the stack of moldering books at her elbow.

The dog then settled down. She was a mutt with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Hey, girlie…" said Jack, gripping tight onto the quilt. "You belong to anyone?"

When Jack pulled back the covers, it was as she had feared: her old clothes were gone, replaced with a flannel nightgown that hung like a tent from her small frame. She touched her stomach, where the knife had slipped, and found the wound still tender, dressed in gauze. Fuck.

Jack had to piss. She had to piss real bad. The pot was right there? If she could only stand, and do her business, then she could maybe get away. And then it would only be a matter of lightly robbing the place, getting a hold of Booker (who was dead) and Laz (who —)

Whoever had undressed her would not be getting a second look at her scrawny, stabbed body.

Jack swung her legs over the side of the bed. The dog let out a muffled bark, and she glared at it. Her feet touched the ground, and she stood — swayed, more like.

The pain caught up to her. It hurt so much. Goddamn, it hurt. Goddamn, she was tired. She managed to do the deed, and didn’t even make much noise, but she couldn’t even make it to the damn door.

Beside the books was a bottle of rum.

Well, she thought, ‘least I can steal something.

Jack drank as much as she could get into her rotting stomach, and collapsed back into the soft pillow, much to her muted chagrin. But once the booze rolled over, she felt no more pain, and all was well.

In her half-state, she heard voices that could’ve been a dream. There was stomping, and hissing, and a woman speaking with a petulant, imperious tone.

“...wanted the other one!”

The corner where the ceiling met the wall seemed to fold into darkness. Jack’s eyes were open, but she did not bother to move her head. The corner was entertainment enough for her. The room was dark. There were no lights, no candles. The air, where it brushed her body, was frozen as a tomb. The cold was good, even when it was bad. Jack was fevered the night through.

“I’ll make do.”

“Hm hm… la di da di da…”

When Jack next awoke, it was morning. It had been the smell that had brought her to life — beans, coffee, and freshly baked bread. An old woman, in a bonnet and apron, toddled into the room with a silver breakfast tray. She set it down on the covers, still humming.

The sight of it nearly sent Jack into a frenzy. The breakfast that lay before her was finer than anything she had ever eaten. And now it lay just under her nose while she sat in a state of extreme hunger.

The woman opened a tin of butter and began to spread it on a white roll. Jack lay, immobilized by humiliation and pain. A whine escaped her throat. But the woman only continued to lay out the breakfast with a single-minded, ditzy devotion. She had a long face, weathered with time, and a small, dimpled smile. Only after she had laid down the tin did she turn up her eyes.

“Are you hungry, sir?”

The woman’s name was Daphne, Jack learned between shoving pieces of buttered bread in her mouth. She was the housekeeper at Devil’s Bush Ranch, and had been so since its founding, quote: “All those many years ago.”

“Master found you in the barn,” she said, “on the brink of death! You’ve been asleep for three whole days.”

Jack could believe it, from how hearty her appetite had turned; it seemed no amount of breakfast could fill that pit. She went for the bottle of milk, but it proved just out of reach. A whimper escaped her dry lips.

Daphne stood at the foot of the bed with her hands folded. “Master is kind, of course. We brought you in, and Susan dressed your wounds — she is quite a useful girl, too — and now that you’ve awakened I shall go back and inform Ma—”

“Miss…?” Jack said weakly. “May I have some milk?”

“Oh!” Daphne started. “Oh, of course.”

Jack began to drink it with a fervor. The servant made no move to stop her, and even her consternation was chipper. “Now, don’t make yourself sick, dear.”

Jack wiped at her chin, a bit mortified. “You found me in the barn?”

“Master did. I was busy in the kitchen.”

“And did you find…” Jack paused. “Lazarus?”

“Who?”

Everything seemed to change color. Jack’s voice rose in sudden anger and fear. “Where is he?”

Daphne hardly seemed taken aback by the change in Jack’s tone. “Where’s who?”

“What did you do with him?” Jack struggled to escape the thick, soft bedcovers. They held her in like wet bread dough. “Where the fuck is Lazarus? Tell me! Tell me!”

And still, Daphne did not at once seem to understand what she wanted. Jack was hardly able to get the words out. “Lazarus,” she repeated. “My — my — he was with me. He was with me! I carried him. I carried him all this way. He was cold, and heavy, and getting heavier….”

“Your friend was buried out by the stream,” said the servant. “We had to do it right away.” She paused. “The smell, you see.”

Jack saw again his overturned face, his lips gaping and bloodied, those glass eyes. She should’ve known.

And yet she slumped back; her ravenous appetite had flown off. So too had her little strength. “No… no…”

“I’m really sorry, dearie.” Daphne laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please, let me know if you need anything, anything at all! You could use some meat on your bones.”

Jack said nothing.

A strident voice cut through the closed door. “Girl!”

“Oh, I must go! I’m needed.” Daphne gathered up her skirts, gave a half-curtsy and left, the tray still cooling on the covers.

Jack moved in a confluence of emotion. She overturned the whole thing; silver rattled, milk and soup and rice all over the woven carpet. When she stumbled out of bed, she was crying his name. Over and over, until the syllables were mushed beneath her tongue and became nothing but an unidentifiable moan. She banged her head against the walls. She tore down the lacy drapes.

It was snowing outside, a dusting across the silvery meadow. When Jack pressed her forehead against the glass she fathomed she could sense him, somewhere further out through the pane of white; could she smell the overturned clot of earth where he lay, like fire on the breeze? She needed her gun.

She needed her gun, her horse; she needed Laz! How could she go on alone? He had been part and parcel with her, half her soul and her body. She could not bear to sleep without his arms around her; and now he was gone and buried. Dead, dead — and all her own fault!

She was in the midst of lifting her chamberpot so that she might break it to pieces when a voice broke through these terrible thoughts.

“Will you piss on the floor?”

There was a girl in the room.

She wore a long dress of the latest fashion: a large hoop skirt and bolero jacket. Her voice was flat, and thick with an evident accent. It became obvious when she lifted her head, and the window light fell on her face. Her skin was brown, her nose a long, strong ridge like the edge of a cliff. Her black hair was braided in twin tails that trailed down her back.

The chamberpot began to slide through Jack’s arms; she scrambled to catch it. “I…”

“Molly.” The Indian girl clicked her tongue. “There you are. Come.”

The mutt rose from her corner. The girl looked over her shoulder, and her eyes fell on the mess that Jack had made of breakfast. And then she looked up, her expression unchanged. “You will be in bed for many days. Rest.”

The dog tried to dip her muzzle into the spilled milk. The girl kicked her away, to which the bitch whimpered. Still, once she opened the door, the dog went along without protest.

Jack returned to bed and remained, as predicted, for several days. She caught a cold which exacerbated the stab wound, which exacerbated the grief. Who knows which was most likely to do her in?

She was dutifully tended to by Daphne, who never lost her eager smile, and less-dutifully by Blackbird, the Indian maiden. Jack assumed she was a servant, despite her habit of wearing fine dresses. If she was a servant, she was a lousy one. She was always arriving late and leaving early, letting the leftovers rot on their silver tray. If she stayed in the room, she sat in the corner and said nothing, only stroked the dog or did some sort of idle knitting.

One time, when Jack was particularly pained and shaken by fever, Blackbird crawled into the bed. She spoon-fed Jack the broth, which Jack only allowed into her mouth passively. She was half-awake, having been yanked from a nightmare about Death riding on a pale horse. The spoon passed her lips, and when Jack swallowed, something wriggled down her throat.

“Ah— ah—”

On the spoon, struggling through the cloudy broth, was a black spider.

“Ah!”

“Oh no!” Blackbird covered her mouth. “How horrible!”

There were more of them on the tray, half a dozen, skittering and confused. How did they get there? Jack didn’t know. How had Blackbird not noticed? The girl picked them off and forced Jack to have some bread. Jack didn’t want it. She tried to lock her mouth, imagining the crumbs crawling against her lips. But Blackbird cooed and Jack was weak and she opened her mouth at last.

“They like to gather in the corner of the barn,” Blackbird said. “More than you can even imagine.”

Daphne was almost too good a servant, by contrast. She arrived with breakfast and dinner like clockwork (though Jack did not have a clock to confirm) and would stand with her hands folded and her face staring ahead until Jack had eaten her fill. She wasn’t much for conversation, either. Every question would invariably lead back to Daphne speaking of her master: how working for him was a blessing, how lucky she was to be allowed the honor, how Jack was going to love Master once they finally met.

Or something like that; Jack had a habit of tuning her out once the subject came up. Daphne would cater to every request Jack made, often without question.

"Could you…" Jack asked one day, with hesitation, "find me a game of some sort to pass the time?"

The only entertainment she had at her disposal were some books by a couple of dead old Greeks, and Jack considered them worse than her Mama's Bible. And yet she read through most of them; for if she wasn't reading, she was forced to reckon with her own thoughts. And those invariably lead to Lazarus.

Daphne brought Jack a deck of cards. She played solitaire over the covers until the sun disappeared; as the room lacked a proper lamp, this only accounted for a couple hours. Once it was dark, Jack could hardly do much of anything. The world was bitter cold around her, snow rising and falling day by day outside her window. Jack stared at the ceiling. She rattled off breaths and let her eyes grow sore with tears. What a horrible fate for a wayward soul such as herself: cared for like a troubled stray.

And what then? What did the purveyor of this ranch want with her, that he was willing to waste so much food? In the night she ached even fiercer for Laz. She wished she had died in his stead. Laz could go on without her. It would not be so easy the other way around.

What was she even doing, being alive now? What worth did she bring to the world? Jack could have died any moment and no one would have noticed. Jack ought to die, only she was too much of a chickenshit coward to do it herself, and there were these people that insisted on keeping her fed.

Jack was nothing but the grit at the bottom of Lazarus's boot. She wasn't even worth killing, let alone keeping alive. She should die. She envied Laz, longed to join him. They would be going to the same place, when all was said and done; so long as the endless tortures did not prevent their hands from clasping each other's, it would be better. There, they'd never be cold.

Jack woke on the fourth day to clanging metal. When she opened her eyes (with regret) (if only she could sleep forever) she found Daphne in the prison cell, having dragged in a basin and bucket of water.

“What…?”

“Forgive me for speaking so crudely to an honored guest,” said Daphne, “but you smell quite bad, and we can’t have that with Master coming to speak to you.”

“Huh?”

Clap! “Up!”

Blackbird was there as well.

"What? Up? I can't get —"

Blackbird pushed her. Jack, being as weak as she was, flopped over. She clung to the covers, but they only went with her onto the floor.

"Now, don't you worry. We'll take good care of you. It wouldn't do to have you strain yourself!" Daphne stood over Jack with that same sweet smile.

Jack groaned as she sat up; the thought of someone, anyone, being happy when her own life was over made her sick. If she had more strength, she would have cussed the old woman out just to make her unhappy, too.

But she wasn't strong. Blackbird hoisted Jack up without resistance. The only protest came when she was commanded to undress.

"What? No."

"It will be awful hard to bathe you, dear, with your clothes on."

"I don't — I don't know you…"

"It's nothing I haven't seen. Here —" And then Daphne merely drew forward, and with a surprisingly firm hand, removed Jack's shift. Of course Jack yelped, and attempted to cover herself. But neither of the women paid her protest much mind. Blackbird said, "Get in the bath."

Jack did.

Blackbird watched Jack with both her arms draped over the back of a wooden chair. She seemed bored to Jack, her eyes lowered, her head bent so that her braids dangled. She watched Jack idly, as if Jack were a fly on the wall in an otherwise unmoving room.

Still, the observation was uncanny. Jack wasn't used to anyone seeing her naked; even Laz mostly just felt her body. The last time a grown woman had seen Jack in such a state — well, it had probably been her Mama.

Daphne ladled the water onto the top of Jack's head. She was shocked to find that it was warm.

The tips of her ears were red, from the temperature and from embarrassment. Daphne poured the rest of the bucket into the basin as Jack stood, buck-naked but still endeavoring to cover herself. Daphne had some white soap and a sponge; she rolled up her sleeves and cooed at Jack like she was a troublesome animal.

“Come on now… we have to move quickly, we don’t want to leave Master waiting!”

Daphne’s fingers brushed at Jack’s bruised legs. The soap was softer than anything Jack had ever felt; like a downy feather, brushing the hairs on her legs. The pleasant, clean smell filled her nostrils, and before she consciously realized it, she was sinking down into the water. Her knife wound twinged; the bandage grew flimsy, and soon slaked off like old skin. Daphne rubbed circles into Jack's sore shoulder blades, and it was heavenly. Jack was torn inside, knowing this woman was a stranger, knowing she worked for this strange man, knowing that this was all for the purpose of presenting Jack to him.

But what did it matter? Jack didn't have anything else. Sure, she'd enjoy the bath, and she’d speak with the ranch's proprietor, and she would make herself very clear that she had no interest in staying, and what could he do? Kill her like a fattened pig?

Her body was very pink.

Blackbird had gone and brought a chair closer; she took a bristle brush and scraped it across Jack's cropped hair. What this did, aside from aggravating Jack, was not clear.

The memory of bathing Grace rose to the forefront: Grace would get naughty sometimes, and try to tease Jack in an attempt to get out of bathtime. She splashed Jack with the water even as Jack tended to the bruises Mama left. Grace would squeal and cry that the water was too cold. Jack would say that Grace had no idea how cold the water would be once Grace finished her crying, and Jack got her chance to wash up. Jack's own hands used to scrub and stroke in the same way this strange servant's did, now.

She stared down at her chest, and the dark hollow of her legs beneath the rippling, soapy water. Another ladle fell upon her head; the water streamed behind her ears, down the tip of her nose, off her jutted chin. She shivered when the warmth dropped into the basin, and the little hairs at the back of her neck stood up.

Daphne's hand snaked beneath Jack's armpit. That same soothing motion rubbed Jack's nipple; for several moments Jack, lost in a world long gone, didn’t notice.

And then, well. It was a bath. It was something that needed cleaning. Jack squirmed, and there might even have been a sound that slipped from her lips, but she didn’t say mum. She wasn’t a prissy girl who would make a fuss over a little accident.

She braced herself; she braced herself so well that she didn't consider how long Daphne's hands lingered on her breasts. It seemed endless to her, but of course it would. She was never one for washing there. Soft, steady fingers made soapy work of her skin. The woman murmured soothing words. It was only when she leaned closer, so close that Jack felt her breath upon her nape, that Jack could ascertain what she said.

“Good girl…”

They made Jack ill, those words. Still, she thought, she only means it as a kindness.

"Good girl, good girl…" The words bubbled, a sinuous stream of them, as Daphne's palm slid down the length of Jack's stomach. "That's right… let me make you feel…"

Gasping and splashing water all over the floor. Jack fled to the other side of the tub and found her arms reflexively covering herself. “What… what are you doing?”

Daphne only sat there, her hand still outstretched. She blinked her wide eyes, and she looked so strange — so much like a child — that Jack nearly felt guilty for the harsh tone.

"Oh dear," Daphne said. "Why are you so frightened? Did I pinch you?"

"You — you were tryin’ to fuck me!"

Daphne's brow furrowed in confusion. She glanced at Blackbird. "And what's the matter with that? I could have sworn you were…"

Blackbird finished the thought. "Like us."

This made Jack all the more confused, even as it explained some things.

“Even were that the case…” Jack swallowed. “...that doesn’t mean I’m welcome to have a stranger just touchin’ me willy-nilly!”

“Huh? Bu— but why not? We are all here, and we all serve —"

Blackbird interrupted her. “Finish up the bath.”

“Y-yes, Miss!”

So, the girl was not a servant. Or, if she was, she had a higher rank than the elder Daphne. And the both of them… preferred the company of other women.

I have to get out of here, Jack thought.

Jack could see, then, the sweaty old man who ran this place, peeling back the cowherd's clothes from her unconscious body, and salivating over what he saw.

"Another tribade," he must've said, "to add to my collection!"

The rest of Jack's bath was quiet. At one point, Daphne said she needed to clean between Jack's legs.

"No you don't," Jack said. "I didn't ever touch it for years on the range, and nothing bad happened."

Daphne did not push it. And even with the knowledge that the both of them were getting a kick out of watching her, Jack refused to show weakness. She held her head high as Daphne bandaged her wound back up again, and did not flinch when it stung (which it did).

It was only after that, upon turning back to the bed, that she saw the clothes laid out for her.

Daphne noted Jack's trepidation. "Oh, my apologies. We had assumed it was your preference, but if you would rather a nice dress, I'm sure Miss Blackbird will lend you one of hers!"

"I will not."

Jack swallowed. “It’s fine.”

On the bed lay a shirt and trousers, freshly laundered. Once that initial shock had passed, she hoisted up the shirt and gave it a long sniff — as if it were secretly spiked or altered. Was this shirt, somehow, hiding a corset?

How she itched, then, to pay another glance at the two women at her back. Was this not good? Was this not the best thing that could have happened, were her sex discovered by strangers?

And yet she remained uneasy.

Her strength was not enough to dress; even standing for those scant minutes had left her lightheaded. Blackbird brought Jack to the chair and bade her sit. Even as Jack insisted she could do the deed on her own, she found herself collapsing. Stars danced in her vision.

“Are you comfortable?” Daphne asked. “Would you like something to drink? I can bring you some coffee! Master loves coffee.”

Jack's stomach, the traitor, growled. She struggled to even shake her head.

“Master is waiting in the kitchen,” said Daphne, “but if you are still too weak we can bring—”

“I’ll go!” Jack sat straight up. Let me out of here.

As soon as Jack was presentable, Blackbird left without fanfare. Daphne then fretted over her: licking her fingers, running them through Jack's hair. She rubbed at Jack's cheeks and wondered if such pink was her natural complexion, or if she was becoming ill again.

"You can let me alone," Jack said, "there’s nothing you can do to make me pretty."

Daphne turned her head away, though her embarrassment was evident. Then, her expression flattened. She grasped Jack by the elbow — stronger than she seemed — and led her out.

Jack had been right — only a dozen straight steps, and they were in the kitchen. It was large and sparkling clean; there was a dark iron stove, and countless shelves of neatly-labeled bottles. The table was laid with dishes and a white pitcher of milk. There was a wide window with lace curtains, pulled back.

While Daphne looked about, confusion in her voice as she wondered at the location of her master, Jack looked out and saw the dead fields, grass flattened and white like a shaved field of hair. There was a mound of earth — not his, it couldn’t be his — that sent her staggering. The body moved before the mind, and she fell out of Daphne's grip.

“Oh! Yes, feel free to sit down, sir.”

A closer look at the kitchen table revealed that it was spattered with knife marks. Jack steadied her hands against it; her thoughts were all doom and blood. How could she stand it, getting warm baths and fancy clothes from some sick asshole when Lazarus was dead? She didn’t deserve this. She deserved nothing but death, sweet and fresh, and the cold embrace of the grave. She reached for a knife.

“No need to exert yourself, sir.” There was a clatter of dishes. “I’ll get it for you.”

Daphne cut a slice from a loaf of bread, fresh from the oven. And then she was buttering it and laying it on white china right under Jack’s nose. “Eat up, now.”

Jack hadn’t had much time to look upon her before. The woman was dressed so old-fashioned, with her hair in ringlets. Her clothes were worn and gray, also out of style (or, more accurately, never in style) and yet she held herself with such evident joy. Her smile was happy. Her frowns were happy. She was one neverending note where all others were a song.

Jack seized the bread.

Daphne laid out the rest of the breakfast, humming to herself all the while. The dog came in after a time and sniffed Jack's slippers.

“Molly’s a friendly one,” said Daphne.

“Uh huh.” Jack patted the mutt, her mouth full of bread.

"She's a loyal one, too," Daphne said. She was smiling again, her eyes sweet and dewy, and Jack suspected she was thinking of something other than dogs.

But it wasn't any of Jack's business. Daphne went on speaking, fretting. "Oh, I swore she was just here…"

And then: "Are you quite settled in, Miss Hawthorne?"

Jack reacted on impulse; her hackles raised, her frantic chewing halted. She looked at the roll in her hand, and finished it off slowly, like chewing cud. Her voice was dark. "I don't recall giving my name."

Daphne stood up straight. "Master!"

Jack faced the doorway and was met with a strange flush of embarrassment. I should’ve known.

For there stood the so-called “master” of Devil’s Bush Ranch: smoothly emerging from the shadows, dark-haired, copper-skinned. A black pinstripe vest, freshly pressed trousers, a pocket watch just in the process of being tucked away. A woman.

She held out her hand. “Ianthe Iordanes.”

“Jack Hawthorne.” She did not shake. “But you knew that, huh?”

“Blackbird goes into Loveday, sometimes.” Ianthe settled down into the chair across from Jack. “She heard word of you in the saloons.”

“And what do they say about me?”

“Oh, that you’re not allowed within fifty feet of Brennan’s establishment,” she said. “That you’re an upstart little shit who never grows a hair on his chin, and can’t shoot for shit.” Ianthe huffed. “I had a suspicion.”

“Now, I don’t appreciate you going on and tellin’ people about what I’ve got in my trousers—”

“I will do no such thing.” She snapped her fingers, and Daphne poured coffee into Ianthe’s cup. “Why would I? You have eyes, don’t you?”

Daphne went about laying out all the plates; it was a breakfast fit for a king. Eggs and milk, bread and butter, sausage and sauces and salt and pepper. Jack wasn't quite sure how even she, a starving man, could eat all of it.

Mostly though, she was still reeling. She had expected a perverted old man, older than the mountains themselves, sucking down the marrow of the earth as he sat on his hoard of naked women. But not only was this "Master" also a woman, she was shockingly young. Older than Jack, but not by much. Certainly less than forty.

“I see you have questions.” Ianthe eyed Jack over the rim of her mug.

“What… are you?”

“A lady with a dream, of course,” Ianthe said.

Daphne leaned over the table, ladle in hand, and served up a bowl of oatmeal to Jack. Ianthe did not so much as look at her; instead, she pulled out a gold pocket watch and checked the time. Jack caught a glimpse of jewels, encrusted on the ridge, and she felt sick and strange.

"I have spent far too long being hated for my nature. Too many so-called homes have cast me out," said Ianthe. "As I had a spot of money, and no ties to hold me down, I chose little piece of land. I built the largest ranch house I could manage. I intended it as a sort of safe haven, an oasis in the desert, for women like yourself."

“You don’t know me.”

Ianthe tilted her head. “Am I wrong?”

Jack did not speak, on account of the oatmeal in her mouth.

Ianthe had a strange smile on her face. She plucked up a scone, filled with dried berries, and for a moment held it towards the light as if admiring a fine piece of artistry. “I am the proprietor of this ranch. My girls pay their due by working the land. We are totally self-sustaining: we grow all the crops and raise all the livestock ourselves. We have no need of the outside world.”

“That sounds…” Too good to be true.

Ianthe bit down, spattering crumbs all over the table. “It is not all sunshine and roses, of course — oh, I wish.” She swallowed. “It’s hard work, and we’re subject to the whims of nature.”

"Aren't we all?"

Ianthe washed down her scone with coffee. Daphne handed her a plate of eggs and sausage and a dainty spoon. Then Daphne looked up and saw that Jack wasn't eating. She rushed over, and spooned something into Jack's bowl. “Try it with honey, Miss Hawthorne, you’ll like it better!”

“We are,” Ianthe said. “The weather, the land… they can be unkind. But it is certainly better than our lot with society."

Jack couldn't find it in herself to disagree. She watched in silence as Ianthe polished off the scone, then two, and then attacked her plate with vigor. Jack's head might have bobbed in such a way that could be read as agreement. Ianthe gestured, and Jack went on eating her oatmeal before poor Daphne had a fit.

Said Ianthe, “What do you like to be called?”

“Just Jack.”

"No sir or ma'am?"

"No."

That was all Jack said; Ianthe seemed to pause afterwards, as if expecting more. It was quick — hardly a breath — and then she was back to casual behavior, eating her breakfast.

Jack noticed, when Ianthe's spoon went into her mouth, a ring that rested upon the woman’s hand: the largest ruby Jack had ever seen. She hadn’t spent much time gawking at jewels, mind you. She just noticed it, and how strongly it glittered in the early morning light. It must've cost a fortune.

Jack's next words fell out without her realizing. "Why me?"

“Hm?”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Jack said. “For all you know, I could just turn around and sell you out.”

“Because we’re family, Jack.” Ianthe looked up. Her voice took on a weighty import. "Whatever you are, whatever you prefer, we are the same. It is beyond lucky you have ended up at my door; I did not heal you for no reason. This ranch is yours as well as mine," said Ianthe.  “I may be the proprietor, but it belongs to all of the girls.

“... who call you Master?”

“Oh.” Ianthe’s face flickered, a self-conscious smile. “Oh, that’s just a little game we all play. Don’t take it too seriously.”

Jack thought of the way 'sir' always slipped from her lips around Lazarus. She thought of the way her heart seemed pinned to him, when by all rights they should hate one another. Family.

Yes, in a sense, her and Laz had been family. Bound not by blood, but by something more.

She asked Ianthe, struggling not to let the trepidation show, about him.

"I don't know much," Ianthe said. "I only saw the body."

Jack couldn't help it — she trembled. The spoon rattled in her hand, and she had to put it down. Ianthe rose, then, before Daphne could, and poured Jack a cup of tea. She spoke clearly and calmly, sympathy in her voice. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Jack only shook her head, could say nothing. The saucer was pushed across the table; the steam blurred Jack's eyes.

"It's disgusting, all this violence. The things people will do to one another — under the guise of goodness, no less! — turns my stomach. They see someone different, and they only seek to destroy. If I were you —" Ianthe paused. "Well, I wouldn't think the culprit deserved to live."

“Where is he buried?”

“Down by the creek,” said Ianthe, without missing a beat. “It’s a lovely spot, with lots of shade, where birds nest in the spring. When your strength has returned, Blackbird can take you down there.”

“I want to go there now.”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but you can’t.”

The words were like a lance through Jack’s chest. She must’ve winced.

Ianthe laid her hand over Jack’s. Her skin was smooth and cold. “Please do not mistake me. I understand your loss. I have been through it before — it’s the place I buried a lover, too — but the snow is thick, and there will be more to come. The only thing you can do for now is rest. Pray, if that is your nature. When the weather clears, of course you can go.”

When the weather clears… “So, I will be here awhile?”

“If you’d like to be.”

“I can’t —” Jack shifted in her seat. “I can’t stand to be a drain on you, when you told me yourself that times are hard.”

“Of course!” said Ianthe. “You will earn your keep. There are always jobs needing to be done, and we have very few strong girls like you.”

“I…”

“Can you repair a fence?”

“Yes.”

“Milk a cow?”

“Of course.”

“Slaughter a pig?”

Jack nodded. “Yes’m.”

Ianthe laughed. “Call me Ianthe.”

“Yes, Ianthe,” Jack said, and she shook on it. The plates all around them were full of nothing but crumbs; Daphne wordlessly carted them away. Ianthe smelled like sugar and coffee.