For Jane. We kid because we love.

It was a cry that hadn’t been heard in Hertfordshire for years. page 15

Their father was obviously unhappy with their limp grips and hesitant movements. page 37

As Elizabeth brought back the sword to try again, the zombie reached out and grabbed it. page 63

Side by side, Jane and Elizabeth stepped forward, weapons at the ready. page 85

By the time the unmentionable had helped Elizabeth to her feet, it was obvious he wasn’t an unmentionable at all. page 97

“Oh, Cuthbert! It is you! After all these years!” page 113

The thing flailed at her, wailing, yet it could come no closer. page 170

He hefted the blacksmith’s hammer and brought it down on the unmentionable’s crown. page 178

It humped its way toward Mary like a massive, rabid inchworm. page 191

“Grrrrruh!” Mr. Smith barked. “Grrrrrrruh!” page 233

Scattered here and there over the grounds were dozens of ragged, staggering figures—easily two hundred in all, if not three. page 255

By nightfall, however, the onslaught was once again relentless. page 263

Mr. Bennet gave each of his daughters a long look. “You will die warriors, all of you.” page 283

WALKING OUT in the middle of a funeral would be, of course, bad form. So attempting to walk out on one’s own was beyond the pale.

When the service began, Mr. Ford was as well behaved as any corpse could be expected to be. In fact, he lay stretched out on the bier looking almost as stiff and expressionless in death as he had in life, and Oscar Bennet, gazing upon his not-so-dearly departed neighbor, could but think to himself, You lucky sod.

It was Mr. Bennet who longed to escape the church then, and the black oblivion of death seemed infinitely preferable to the torments he was suffering. At the pulpit, the Reverend Mr. Cummings was reading (and reading and reading and reading) from the Book of Common Prayer with all the verve and passion of a man mumbling in his sleep, while the pews were filled with statues—the good people of Meryton, Hertfordshire, competing to see who could remain motionless the longest while wearing the most somber look of solemnity.

This contest had long since been forfeited by one party in particular: Mr. Bennet’s. Mrs. Bennet couldn’t resist sharing her (insufficiently) whispered appraisal of the casket’s handles and plaque. (“Brass? For shame! Why, Mrs. Morrison had gold last week, and her people don’t have two guineas to rub together.”) Lydia and Kitty, the youngest of the Bennets’ five daughters, were ever erupting into titters for reasons known only to themselves. Meanwhile, the middle daughter, fourteen-year-old Mary, insisted on loudly shushing her giggling sisters no matter how many times her reproaches were ignored, for she considered herself second only to the Reverend Mr. Cummings—and perhaps Christ Himself—as Meryton’s foremost arbiter of virtue.

At least the Bennets’ eldest, Jane, was as serene and sweet countenanced as ever, even if her dress was a trifle heavy on décolletage for a funeral. (“Display, my dear, display!” Mrs. Bennet had harped at her that morning. “Lord Lumpley might be there!”) And, of course, Mr. Bennet knew he need fear no embarrassment from Elizabeth, second to Jane in age and beauty but first in spirit and wit. He leaned forward to look down the pew at her, his favorite—and found her gaping at the front of the church, a look of horror on her face.

Mr. Bennet followed her line of sight. What he saw was a luxury, hard won and now so easily taken for granted: a man about to be buried with his head still on his shoulders.

That head, though—wasn’t there more of a loll to the left to it now? Weren’t the lips drawn more taut, and the eyelids less so? In fact, weren’t those eyes even now beginning to—

Yes. Yes, they were.

Mr. Bennet felt an icy cold inside him where there should have been fire, and his tingling fingers fumbled for the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there.

Mr. Ford sat up and opened his eyes.

The first person to leap into action was Mrs. Bennet. Unfortunately, the action she leapt to was shrieking loud enough to wake the dead (presuming any in the vicinity were still sleeping) and wrapping herself around her husband with force sufficient to snap a man with less backbone in two.

“Get a hold of yourself, woman!” Mr. Bennet said.

She merely maintained her hold on him, though, her redoubled howls sparking Kitty and Lydia to similar hysterics.

At the front of the church, Mrs. Ford staggered to her feet and started toward the bier.

“Martin!” she cried. “Martin, my beloved, you’re alive!”

“I think not, Madam!” Mr. Bennet called out (while placing a firm hand over his wife’s mouth). “If someone would restrain the lady, please!”

Most of the congregation was busy screeching or fleeing or both at once, yet a few hardy souls managed to grab Mrs. Ford before she could shower her newly returned husband with kisses.

“Thank you!” Mr. Bennet said.

He spent the next moments trying to disentangle himself from his wife’s clutches. When he found he couldn’t, he simply stepped sideways into the aisle, dragging her with him.

“I will be walking that way, Mrs. Bennet.” He jerked his head at Mr. Ford, who was struggling to haul himself out of his casket. “If you choose to join me, so be it.”

Mrs. Bennet let go and, after carefully checking to make sure Jane was still behind her, swooned backward into her eldest daughter’s arms.

“Get her out of here,” Mr. Bennet told Jane. “Lydia and Kitty, as well.”

He turned his attention then to the next two girls down the pew: Elizabeth and Mary. The latter was deep in conversation with her younger sisters.

“The dreadfuls have returned!” Kitty screamed.

“Calm yourself, sister,” Mary said, her voice dead. She was either keeping a cool head or had retreated into catatonia, it was hard to tell which. “We should not be hasty in our judgments.”

“Hasty? Hasty?” Lydia pointed at the very undead Mr. Ford. “He’s sitting up in his coffin!”

Mary stared back at her blankly. “We don’t know he’s a dreadful, though.”

But Elizabeth did know. Mr. Bennet could see it in her eyes—because now she was staring at him.

She didn’t grasp the whole truth of it. How could she, when he’d been forced to keep it from her for so long? Yet this much would be obvious to a clear-thinking, level-headed girl like her: The dreadfuls had returned, and there was more to be done about it than scream. More her father intended to do.

What she couldn’t have guessed—couldn’t have possibly dreamed—was that she herself would be part of the doing.

“Elizabeth,” Mr. Bennet said. “Mary. If you would come with me, please.”

And he turned away and started toward the altar.

Toward the zombie.