The trip to Adreissel was largely uneventful, although it was enjoyable. Violetta and Cara sang in the back of the wagon, practicing one of the songs, and the music filled the air.

Music was how you passed the time away. Music and stories. Cara was a big believer in such things. And she found Violetta friendly, having a good voice and obviously a strong sense of rhythm and pitch—but she was shy, reluctant to contemplate singing in front of people.

Which was odd for someone who performed in front of her village each day in a solo act. But that was the job she was used to.

Indeed, Cara began to realize how much culture affected personality. For instance, they stopped for a bathroom break after two hours and Cara heard a shout.

“Father! Father—there’s an undead!”

Cara and Idelt spun around. Violetta emerged from the nearby copse of trees—not at a run, but a walk.

Idelt had his hammer in hand—Cara had a long knife she’d been given for self-defense.

“What kind?”

Idelt paused as he saw Violetta wasn’t so much fearful as anxious. The young woman pointed.

“It’s—it’s—”

An undead mouse. Actually, a family of undead mice. Six small, zombified baby ones and one mother or father. All dead, all slowly, slowly crawling towards them. All had bite marks; but the mother looked like her neck had been snapped.

There was a terrible story here. Cara stared at the children—and imagined the undead mother coming after them.

“That’s horrible.”

She felt sick. Idelt looked at Violetta. The young woman was clearly upset too. He sighed.

“Violetta. Why are you telling us? They’re undead.”

“But father, I don’t want to kill the baby mice!”

“You have your boots on.”

“You’re right here. Can’t you…?”

Cara realized that Violetta wasn’t so much horrified by the familicide so much as reluctant to stomp on the mice or use her knife. She had a whining tone in her voice. Idelt, on the other hand, folded his arms.

“I am not going to kill your undead for you, Violetta. You are a grown woman. And you’re embarrassing yourself in front of Miss Cara.”

Violetta blinked—then turned red as she remembered Cara’s presence. She hesitated—one of the mice nibbled on her boot heel.

“Fine.”

Cara saw her lift a boot and—

Violetta was a shy girl. Really, she was. But culture meant she whined about killing undead mice rather than, say, taking out the trash.

Did this affect the journey? Not much. Not at all. The wagon rolled on without any further stops. And nor were many more undead seen; the wildlife did know how to protect itself from most undead attacks. It was a fact of life.

The only change was, perhaps, that Cara turned down the snack for brunch. Also—she might skip lunch.

And dinner.

——