Deathless Divide (Dread Nation, #2)

by Justina Ireland

“It’s the American way,” she would say, watching from the porch as another family took up residence at Rose Hill. “You help as much as you can—but no more. You don’t think those founding fathers wrote all those pretty words about independence just to help the poor, do you? The books are right there in the library, Jane. They did it because they didn’t want to pay taxes, to have some king tell them the price of tea. And for that, they went to war, and hundreds of people died. If that ain’t capitalism, I don’t know what is.”

It was completely out of character for me, and I wholly blame my time with Jane McKeene for the lapse in decorum. Jane loved pointing bladed weapons at people. It was part of her charm.

The thing is people have always had a tendency to underestimate me. Which is fine. In fact, I even used to enjoy turning those expectations around on folks. But that was back when people were seeing the color of my skin and my girlish countenance and assuming I wasn’t worth more than the dress I was wearing. Now, though, their judgment is based on my missing an arm, and I can’t say I truly understand why. Just because I’m down a limb doesn’t mean I don’t have two perfectly good feet to plant in their rear end.

I am starting to realize how little time I have spent with anyone who is not white or colored.

I’d rather have the same respect that he gives any other guest in his hotel, but if I can’t have that, I’ll settle for fear.

I scoop my beans slowly, with a self-satisfied smirk, as the realization of the truth of my proclamation dawns on Jane’s face. I know this is a sin, but there are few things I enjoy more than being right. I have been praying to the Lord to be a bit more humble. He just has not seen fit to show me the way as of yet.

beef-witted.