Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls

CHAPTER 19

MASTER HAWKSWORTH PACED slowly around Elizabeth as she did her dand-baithaks, and though he kept his observations to her technique—“Back straight, Elizabeth Bennet!” . . . “Nose to the floor, Elizabeth Bennet!” . . . “I can hear you breathing, Elizabeth Bennet!”—she couldn’t help but wonder how much he was simply observing her. This was, after all, the first time the two of them had been alone in the dojo, and she, for one, was keenly aware that the flush to her cheeks and the tightness in her chest weren’t entirely due to the exercise.

The Master had been worried about her, that much had been obvious back in the house. And despite all his bluster, it wasn’t the cold, calculating, utilitarian worry of a warrior who needed every sword he could muster against The Enemy.

He cared. Elizabeth was sure of it.

What she wasn’t so sure of was what—if anything—she should do about it.

When Master Hawksworth finally let her get up off the floor, he kept circling, looking her over. She knew she was supposed to keep her gaze straight ahead, “piercing infinity” as the Master called it when drilling the girls on their warrior scowls. Yet her self-consciousness grew so acute Elizabeth couldn’t keep her eyes up, and soon her gaze was piercing nothing save her own toes.

Master Hawksworth stopped directly before her, his chest mere inches from hers.

“What’s this? Staring at the floor? Have I mistakenly brought Jane Bennet to the dojo?”

Elizabeth forced herself to look up and meet the Master’s stare.

He nodded once, brusquely. “There. Now I know I am looking at Elizabeth Bennet.”

“And you are grateful to see her?”

Master Hawksworth’s face took on the look of pained astonishment Elizabeth imagined he wore when he first felt the Fulcrum of Doom, and as he whirled away, putting his back to her, she cursed her own reckless presumption. It wasn’t Jane anyone would mistake her for now; it was foolish, imprudent Lydia.

“A student doesn’t—!” the Master began. “I am . . . I should . . .!”

Then he slumped and sighed and was silent. When he went on again a moment later, he sounded not outraged but resigned.

“Why should I be surprised that you would speak so boldly? You, who are the very model of . . .”

Whatever his last word was, it came out so softly Elizabeth couldn’t even hear it.

He turned toward her again, straightening his back and setting his legs apart as if facing a foe. Yet his expression remained wounded, torn.

“Yes,” he said, “I am grateful to see you. Grateful catastrophe did not befall you today. Very grateful to have you back in my dojo. Do you know why?”

Elizabeth fought to swallow a lump in her throat. It felt like it was the size of a baked potato, or perhaps even a smallish ham.

“No,” she croaked.

“You should know. You should feel it. For it was obvious to me the first time I laid eyes on you. You are special, Elizabeth Bennet.”

Master Hawksworth stepped up close to her again—so close, in fact, Elizabeth worried parts of their bodies she blushed to even think of would soon be rubbing up against each other.

The Master stopped just in time.

“At the lake. With the unmentionable. Your father ordered your sister to attack, yet it was you who took action. You, who are as much the lady as she, you could lay that aside and charge in and fight. Without much competence, perhaps, but with all the courage any warrior could hope for. The skills will come with time. That is why I push you so hard. The courage, though . . . at times I think it is something one must be born with. As you were.”

Elizabeth wondered if she should say “Thank you,” but found herself too flustered to speak at all. Before, the highest praise the Master had doled out to anyone was “Not bad,” a phrase that implied no matter how well one had done, he could do better blindfolded. Yet now it almost sounded as though he admired her.

“Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I need you to teach me—”

And somewhere in that moment, as he either searched for the right word or the nerve to say it, it ended. Elizabeth saw it in his eyes. They went distant again. Dead.

“—how to fillet a spider!” Master Hawksworth barked, and he leapt aside, arm stretched out toward a fresh-spun cobweb in the corner.

“HAAAAAAAA-IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Elizabeth cried, grateful for the excuse to move, scream, give her heart something to thump over other than feelings she didn’t understand.

She charged the web, unsheathed her blade and, with a few quick cuts, diced the spider. It was as close to “fillet” as she could get.

“Not bad . . . not bad,” Master Hawksworth mused as he leaned in to inspect the spider. He was careful to keep his distance now, and his hands were clasped behind his back. “Tell me, how is it you failed in the forest?”

Elizabeth kept her eyes on his as she told him of her brief battle with the zombie that afternoon. She was looking for some hint of the vulnerability, the humanity he’d allowed her to see just a minute before. But his armor was firmly back in place now, and she could see nothing beyond it.

“So, this doctor. He is a good shot?” he said when she was done.

“I very much doubt it. He was simply too close to miss.”

The Master shook his head. “An inelegant solution. A warrior prefers to deal death with his own hands.”

“Dr. Keckilpenny is not a warrior. He puts his faith in the sciences rather than the deadly arts.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of such men. They believe we can think our enemies away. Fools!”

“Is it not to a warrior’s advantage to understand his enemy?”

Hawksworth gave Elizabeth a long, hard look, and for a moment she feared she’d let this new, disconcerting informality between them loosen her tongue overmuch yet again. She had caught a glimpse of the real Geoffrey Hawksworth, yes, but it wasn’t to him she was speaking now. It was the Master.

She almost started shaking out her aching arms in preparation for the inevitable dand-baithaks.

“Do you truly think there is anything about the unmentionables one could understand?” Master Hawksworth finally said.

“That is what the ‘fools’ intend to discover,” Elizabeth might have replied, but she felt weary and wary now, and she said nothing.

The Master stared at her for a painfully long time before shrugging his own question away.

“No. Understanding didn’t stop the dreadfuls the last time. This—” He launched himself into the air, grabbed hold of a post, swung around it, then landed in a perfect Hour Glass Stance, fists up. “—is what stopped them.”

A Leaping Leopard brought him across the room, and he set down with surprising lightness inches from Elizabeth again.

“Yes, you are special, Elizabeth Bennet. Yet clearly you are not ready to face what awaits unaided. So we must focus, for the moment, on moves you can use in tandem with a more skillful ally. Pas de deux, you might call them—though these are dances of death. Natural stance!”

Elizabeth assumed the position, and Master Hawksworth took a step back and did the same.

“These moves will require us to act in unison, in harmony, as one,” he said. “So . . . no Fulcrum of Doom or Axis of Calamity from you. And I will not again allow myself to become careless or distracted. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Elizabeth said, though it wasn’t entirely true.

“Good. Then take my hands.” Master Hawksworth reached out toward Elizabeth. “This move is called the Hawk and the Dove. It begins like this. . . .”