Dead Willow by Joe Sharp Page A

office an hour ago?” she whispered accusingly. “If I have to teach punctuality as well, we will be here all day.”
    “Sorry,” Lacey muttered softly, fingering the ends of her bonnet strings. “My dress was not ready. The seamstress said another was wearing it. She gave me this.”
    The girl’s embarrassment hung on her face like a shroud. Paula took pity on her, and her pity didn’t come cheap. The meeting had already started, and Paula shoved a pad of paper and a pencil into her hands.
    “You’ll want to write down what I say,” Paula instructed her, “the first time that I say it.”
    The girl fumbled the paper and pencil in her lap like she had never seen them before. ‘God save me from infants and fools,’ thought Paula.
    The meeting was already progressing, and Paula struggled to catch up. Luckily, she had been able to seat them in the back where they could observe without being observed.
    A scratchy voice boomed from the front row. “Am I to understand, Madame, that the Hatchet are expected to guttle every scrap tossed from the Colonel’s table?”
    As he said the words, the tall, bearded man rose slowly from his seat. When he had reached his full height, it was as if a steel beam had been driven into the ground and his spine attached to it.
    “Who is that?” gasped Lacey, and then covered her mouth. She leaned into Paula and whispered, “He stands so … stately.”
    “He is Fenton Baybridge, and he is the leader of the Hatchet. The stiffness comes with the clan.” Paula glanced at a few men standing up against the walls, and frowned. “Some more than others.”
    Lacey scribbled furiously in her notepad as the debate flared to life. Fenton Baybridge was making his case for the entire assembly to hear, but Paula’s eyes were on Eunice, as the cobra readied to strike.
    Already looking older, Eunice pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose and let out a sigh which could be heard across the auditorium.
    “What you are to understand, Colonel Baybridge, is that any scraps tossed your way are coming from my table.”
    “Who is that woman?” asked Lacey, her eyes landing on Eunice as well.
    “That is Eunice Louise Pembry,” replied Paula, with a tone of reverence despite herself, “and that is a name you would do well to remember.”
    Lacey’s eyes went wide with awe. “Is she our leader?”
    “She is the leader of the Bellwether.”
    Lacey dropped her pencil as a gasp of astonishment escaped her rounded lips.
    “But … I am Bellwether, too!” Her hands went to her breast. “Does that mean …”
    “That means you watch your ass!” Paula cautioned, her eyes darting around to make certain they were not heard.
    The girl blushed at the expletive, but Paula felt no compulsion to apologize. Welcome to the 21st Century, she thought.
    “Do not expect Madame Pembry to cuddle you into her loving bosom,” warned Paula, lowering her voice to less than a whisper. “Some mothers have been known to eat their young.”
    Lacey’s wide eyes seemed on the verge of tears. Better she grow up now than later, or not at all. Paula decided that it was enough said, and time to move on.
    “You see the man at the end of the council table?” she inquired, as Lacey came up with her pencil. She followed Paula’s finger and then nodded. “That is Colonel William Morgan Davis, and he is the leader of the Paladin.”
    “Paladin, Hatchet,” murmured Lacey, obviously trying to take it all in. “They told me that I was Bellwether, but they did not tell me what that means.”
    Paula knew that Lacey wanted answers to all her questions, but she didn’t think there were enough days on the calendar. Still, she had to give the girl something.
    “There are three clans, the foundation of our community. They are separate and unique, each with infinite variation.”
    She laid a hand on Lacey’s, who looked up from her notepad.
    “You must observe the lines between, and never cross them. If you do, you