The straps around her loosened, the net lifted away, and Dr. Keckilpenny bent down and offered Elizabeth his hand.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” he said, “but if you’ll recall, I wanted one of them alive . . . as it were.”

Elizabeth pushed herself up without the doctor’s help. When she was on her feet, she noticed at last the bear trap clamped around the dreadful’s ankle and the short length of chain staked to the log beyond. She saw, too, that the body from which the unmentionables had been feeding wasn’t a proper body at all: It was simply clothes stuffed with straw topped by a chamber pot “head.”

In the pot were the bloody, mashed remnants of a human brain.

Despite all she’d seen the past few weeks, Elizabeth blanched and looked away. She tried to hide her revulsion by pretending she was merely retrieving her katana.

No more than a minute before, she’d felt invincible. Yet now that seemed so long ago she could barely believe it ever happened, and all she could feel was disgust—as much for the pride that had momentarily blinded her as for the grotesque lumps of flesh clotting the chamber pot.

“Your bait, Doctor,” she said, careful to keep her voice from wavering. “Is it what I think it is?”

THE THING FLAILED AT HER, WAILING, YET IT COULD COME NO CLOSER.

Dr. Keckilpenny nodded. “Every zombie’s favorite delicacy. Nothing but the real thing would do, so I brought along my own supply. Don’t ask me where I got it. Suffice it to say, the first thing one learns in medical college is how to acquire one’s own specimens.”

“And now you have another.” Elizabeth turned to the slavering dreadful writhing on the ground nearby, its arms stretched out to paw uselessly at the muck and leaves between them. “What do you propose to do with it?”

“I propose,” Dr. Keckilpenny said, the old gleam firing up again in his eyes, “to turn ‘it’ back into a ‘him.’”

AFTER SOME QUICK (and, thanks again to Jane, courteous) debate, a subject was settled on for the experiment the Reverend Mr. Cummings had agreed to. Since it wouldn’t do to unduly disturb a respectable member of the community, the party would remove itself to a far corner of the parish grounds and pay a call on a connectionless pauper woman who’d been planted there three months before. This had the added benefit of seclusion, the gravesite being further removed from the road.

All the same, before a single spade bit into the earth, Mr. Bennet insisted that the tent canvases the troops had brought be strung up around the grave.

“It wouldn’t do to have our trial here observed,” he explained while the soldiers argued over the best spots to pound in their tent pegs. “We have been spared panic in Meryton, thanks to complacency and ignorance. It is to our advantage to preserve that just a little longer, if we can.”

“In my experience, complacency and ignorance usually do a fine job preserving themselves,” Lord Lumpley yawned, idly eyeing Jane as he leaned against a mausoleum nearby. “But if you feel you must put up your little dressing screens . . .”

“Why, though, Father?” Jane asked. “What advantage could come from hiding the truth?”

“He wishes to avoid another Birmingham,” Ensign Pratt chirped. The junior officer was doing his best to loom up over his men as they began hammering pegs into the ground, but given his size, looming over anything larger than a dachshund was an impossibility. “People fleeing in huge mobs, clogging the roads, falling prey to the dreadful swarms.”

“Not just falling prey to them. Feeding them.” Mr. Bennet gave Ensign Pratt an approving nod. “I’m glad to know you’re old enough to have at least read of The Troubles.”

“Might have a hard time putting up those tents, Sir,” one of the soldiers reported. He waved his hammer at a peg he’d just pummeled into the turf with one blow. “Ground here’s all marshy like.”

“I’m sure they’ll hold, Roper. Carry on.” The ensign looked over at Mr. Bennet. “At least it will make for quick digging.”

“That it will,” Mr. Bennet said, poking a toe into the spongy sod. “For everyone.”

He threw his daughter a somber glance that moved her hand to her sword.

Ensign Pratt frowned, but Mr. Cummings didn’t even seem to notice anything was amiss, for he’d been busy leafing through his Book of Common Prayer in search of something appropriate for such an uncommon occasion.

Lord Lumpley, on the other hand, couldn’t help but notice, given that his eyes rarely strayed from Jane. He straightened up and began backing away from the others.

“Well, now that we’ve got this under way, no doubt there are other matters I could be attending to around the village. Perhaps Miss Bennet and I might—”

“Hello,” Roper said, seemingly speaking to the tuft of grass he was kneeling over. “One of my pegs is coming back out.”

“What’s that you say?” Ensign Pratt asked, moving over to take a look.

“I would advise stepping back, gentlemen,” Mr. Bennet said.

“Yeah . . . right you are, sir,” Roper said—just as a hand burst from the earth, a tent peg piercing the palm. Gray fingers clamped themselves around the man’s ankle.

Roper shrieked immediately and with much enthusiasm.

“Fire! Fire!” Ensign Pratt squealed, leaping away pointing at the hand—and now wrist and forearm—jutting up from the ground.

Roper tried to flee, but the fingers remained locked on tightly. All he could do was limp in circles, screaming, as his fellow soldiers scrambled to collect their muskets, which had been propped up in a neat pyramid several yards away.

“There’s no time for that,” Mr. Bennet said. “Jane, your katana, quickly. Lord Lumpley, Mr. Cummings, if you would kindly help me steady Private Roper.”

“Ummm,” came the baron’s reply.

The vicar instinctively began reading aloud from the book in his hands.

“D-dearly b-b-beloved, we are g-gathered together here in sight of G-G-God, and in the face of this congregation, to j-join together this man and this woman in holy mmmmmatrimony . . .”

“Wrong verse, Mr. Cummings,” Jane said, and once her father stepped in to stop Roper—alone—she took out her sword and cut him free.

Mr. Bennet helped the soldier hobble away from the slime-oozing stump left sticking out of the ground, at which point a soldier ran up and shot it, to no discernible effect.

When Roper looked down and saw the rotten, ragged-fleshed hand still holding fast to his ankle, he began screaming all over again.

“There, there, lad. Pull yourself together.” Mr. Bennet patted him on the shoulder. “As long as you’re not attached to the part with the mouth, you’ve nothing to—”

“Papa!”

Another hand had thrust up from the ground to grab hold of Jane. It was directly behind her, clasping the hem of her gown, and there was no way she could turn to get a clean swing at it.

“Fire! Fire!” Ensign Pratt cried again.

Several of his men rushed over and pointed their muskets in the general vicinity of Jane’s feet.

“No!” Mr. Bennet bellowed.

“Fire! Fire!”

Up till now, Lord Lumpley had been too shocked to do more than gawk. Yet something—pure irritation with the unworthies around him, perhaps—broke through his horror.

“Oh, shut up, you poxy-faced git!” he roared. “You won’t help the lady by shooting her damned legs off!”

The soldiers froze. Not only did the nobleman have a point, they were unsure how to react when their commander was called a “poxy-faced git.” The situation, like so many they’d faced of late, hadn’t been covered in their training.

“His Lordship is quite right,” Mr. Bennet said, and he unsheathed his sword, waved the soldiers away, and cut off the hand grasping his daughter’s dress.