Louisa found Juliet outside near the well, hauling up buckets of water and dumping them over her head. For a moment Louisa paused, a curious warmth shifting low in her middle. There was something . . . appealing . . . about the way Juliet looked soaking wet, water running over her dark skin, the black blood of the undead rinsing away. Louisa grabbed the feeling and shoved it down violently. She’d heard stories of men, and women, who developed affections for Negroes, and she had no desire to do the same. Down that path lay ruin, and that was not for Louisa. She was respectable. Mostly.
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