As guests fled in every direction, Mr. Bennett’s voice cut through the commotion. “Girls! Pentagram of Death!”

Elizabeth immediately joined her four sisters, Jane, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia in the center of the dance floor. Each girl produced a dagger from her ankle and stood at the tip of an imaginary five-pointed star. From the center of the room, they began stepping outward in unison-each thrusting a razor-sharp dagger with one hand, the other hand modestly tucked into the small of her back.

From a corner of the room, Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth and her sisters work their way outward, beheading zombie after zombie as they went. He knew of only one other woman in all of Great Britain who wielded a dagger with such skill, such grace, and deadly accuracy.

By the time the girls reached the walls of the assembly hall, the last of the unmentionables lay still.

“MR. DARCY WATCHED ELIZABETH AND HER SISTERS WORK THEIR WAY OUTWARD, BEHEADING ZOMBIE AFTER ZOMBIE AS THEY WENT.”

Apart from the attack, the evening altogether passed off pleasantly for the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants.

WHEN JANE AND ELIZABETH WERE ALONE, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very much she admired him.

“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! So much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”

“Yes,” replied Elizabeth, “but in the heat of battle, neither he nor Mr. Darcy were to be found with blade or bludgeon.”

“Well, I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.”

“He certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him, despite his lack of gallantry. You have liked many a stupider person.”

“Dear Lizzy!”

“Oh! You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.”

“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone.”

“With your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! You like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.”

They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in the power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, but knew little of the deadly arts in which she and her own sisters had been so thoroughly trained-both in England, and during their trips to the Orient.

As for Mr. Bingley himself, between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offense.

But what no one-not even Mr. Bingley-knew, was the reason behind Darcy’s cold demeanor. For until recently, he had been the very picture of pleasantry; a young man of merry disposition and utmost attentiveness. But his nature had been forever altered by a betrayal he had not the stomache to speak of.

WITHIN A SHORT THOUGH PERILOUS WALK of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly a maker of fine burial gowns of such stately beauty that the King had seen fit to knight him. He had made a tolerable fortune, until the strange plague had rendered his services unnecessary. Few thought it worth the expense to dress the dead in finery when they would only soil it upon crawling out of their graves. He had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton.

Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.

“You began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.”

“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”

“Oh! You mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice, and because she fought so valiantly against the unmentionables.”

“Did not I mention what I heard between him and Mr. Robinson? Mr. Robinson’s asking Mr. Bingley how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the prettiest? And his answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.’”

“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed.”

“Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he,” said Charlotte. “Poor Eliza! To be called only tolerable.”

“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night…” Mrs. Bennet’s voice failed her at the thought of poor Mrs. Long, her skull crushed betwixt the teeth of those wretched creatures. The ladies sat in silent contemplation for a few moments.

“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, finally, “that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.”

“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.”

“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I dare say I would’ve cut his throat had not the unmentionables distracted me from doing so.”

“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed.”

Elizabeth could not help but roll her eyes as Mary continued.

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

At this point, Elizabeth let out a most palpable yawn. Though she admired Mary’s bravery in battle, she had always found her a trifle dull in relaxed company.