Now Sophronia brought out her obstructor. She blasted the clangermaid into silent stillness—the alarm still sounded by dozens of others—and slipped past. She dashed through the kitchen, blasting those who seemed inclined to stop her and avoiding those who had other protocols in place. Afraid that if she ran into a teacher, she would be stopped, Sophronia took to the exterior of the dirigible. It was a less direct route, but it would be faster than having to explain herself.
Sophronia shot her hurlie and swung from one balcony to the next, moving at a dangerous pace. If it hadn’t been so low to the ground, even she wouldn’t have risked it. The hurlie was relatively new, with fancy modifications from Vieve—smaller and stealthier, faster to emit, and with an added winch to pull taut as needed. Excellent changes, all. Should be, as Vieve had made the design alterations based on Sophronia’s experience. There was also a marked dexterity to the fancy India rubber soles of Sophronia’s special walking boots that only a certain cobbler on Bond Street could attest to. Add to these tools the fact that Sophronia boasted muscles on her arms that no young lady ought to have, and the airship didn’t stand a chance at containing her. She increased her speed through the red-tassel section, aware that inside, the shadows rushing through the hallways were those of teachers awake and hunting.
Sophronia made it to the very front of the dirigible, hung on a protrusion, and tilted her head way back. There it was, above her—the pilot’s bubble. Sort of like a crow’s nest, only enclosed, it looked like two large bathtubs, one overturned on top of the other. It was held, suspended above and in front of the prow, by a set of struts and one long beam from the forward squeak deck.
The three Picklemen were better equipped than she, for they had managed to climb up the scaffolding and were now crawling over the outside of the bubble. One of them appeared to be already inside. The ship’s pilot was a mechanical comprised of a jumble of gears, levers, chains, and valves, many of which were probably valuable. Her only guess was that the Picklemen needed something for which they didn’t hold the patent. Some nefarious part of their scheme to take over England.
There was nothing she could do to stop the invaders. She’d once been stuck inside the pilot’s bubble precisely because of its precarious position jutting out on spindly supports into nothingness.
Where are the teachers? Distracted by something? Did the Picklemen plan for that, too?
The smallest of the three emerged, and they all began to climb down. Sophronia couldn’t see if the man’s satchel was bulging in any recognizable manner. She scuttled out of view, hiding behind a balcony support beam.
She peeked around in time to watch them rappel off the bubble, dropping rapidly, like spiders extending threads. She’d never done anything like this before, but someone had to do something. Not sure of her timing, she hooked her hurlie over a sturdy rail and with a deep breath kicked out off the side and swung out on an interception trajectory.
She was a little off. She didn’t exactly knock into the littlest Pickleman. But she did knock off his hat, which tumbled sadly to the moor below. In their desperate grapple, she also managed to rip the satchel off his back, before swinging back toward the ship. It was all done in a weird silence, because even startled by a flying female, the three men did not yell, intent on getting away as quickly and quietly as possible. They landed on the ground below, unsnapped themselves from their ropes, and took off at breakneck speed down the goat path.
Sophronia was left, dangling, clutching a sack. At which moment, Lady Linette, Professor Lefoux, and Sister Mattie finally emerged onto the front squeak deck. Lady Linette stuck her head over the edge.
“Sophronia Temminnick? Is that you? I might have known. Get up here this minute, young lady.”
Sophronia sighed. “It may take me more than a minute, Lady Linette.”
Sophronia tried to explain what had happened, but they focused on the fact that she had been caught. They thought she was concocting a wild story to explain triggering the alarm. They refused to believe there had been an attack. “We have people in place to warn us of such things,” dismissed Professor Lefoux. They thought she’d been off at Bunson’s trysting with a boy! That was the downside of training intelligencers—it was impossible to tell when they were fibbing.
Of course Sophronia couldn’t defend herself with, “I’ve been climbing around for years without triggering your infernal alarm!” That would only incriminate her further, and they’d likely confiscate her obstructor and her hurlie.
She showed them the satchel she’d managed to grab off the Pickleman.
Empty.
“How do we know it isn’t yours, young lady?” asked Professor Lefoux.
“But it’s so ugly!” objected Sophronia.
“Exactly, to throw us off.”
“This is ridiculous. Would one of you at least check the pilot’s bubble? See if anything is amiss.”
Lady Linette was firm. “We have wasted enough time on your shenanigans this evening, young lady. To bed with all of us. Tomorrow we will come up with a suitable punishment.”
Sophronia turned to a more sympathetic ear. “Sister Mattie?”