“We should be,” muttered Preshea. “We’ve been at it for ages.”
Preshea could hit the handkerchief well enough to knock it out of the soldier mechanical’s grip, but not to pin it against the wall. Agatha missed one out of every four shots. Dimity struggled to get the bolt loaded but after that did fine.
“Everyone, see how Miss Buss holds her bow?” Professor Lefoux instructed. “But her stance, too angled. Square up, Miss Buss.”
Agatha was staring off into space, fingering her Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification.
Sophronia caught her at it and couldn’t resist. “I suppose that could be considered a courting gift, from an evil genius.”
Agatha dropped the lens as if it burned.
Professor Lefoux focused on them. “Miss Temminnick, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate the draw?”
Sophronia hefted her crossbow, loading the bolt and pulling back on the string. Then, without much thought, she raised her arm, pointed, and fired—hitting a dead-on bull’s-eye through the handkerchief. This was a surprise to Sophronia. If she had known she would be that good, she might have purposefully failed. It seemed to be a surprise to the soldier mechanical as well, for it puffed out smoke from beneath its neck attachment in a little stutter of shock.
“There she goes,” sniffed Preshea under her breath.
Professor Lefoux approved, as much as her personality would allow. “Adequate, Miss Temminnick. But consistency is also vital. I want both accuracy and precision. Do it again.”
Sophronia loaded, pointed, and shot, casually, hoping she would miss but not willing to do it on purpose now that the teacher was watching her closely.
“Another bull’s-eye. Have you been practicing extra hours, Miss Temminnick?”
Sophronia shook her head.
Professor Lefoux grunted. “I suppose natural talent happens. I will move you up to a more weighty draw.”
Agatha dropped her bow with a clatter while Professor Lefoux was talking to Sophronia, then bent over to pick it up, spilling cleavage everywhere willy-nilly.
“Miss Woosmoss, act like a lady!” remonstrated the professor.
Agatha modified her bend into a crouch, stays creaking.
Professor Lefoux rummaged about in an immense carpetbag with six little wheels affixed to its bottom, producing a teakettle-like object, an embroidery roll of wrenches, and a few other tools. Eventually, she found another crossbow, larger and heavier than the others. She handed it to Sophronia.
“Now, class, note how much stiffer the string is on this one? That will yield a more forceful bolt. This is more deadly and more accurate at distances. Go ahead, Miss Temminnick.”
Sophronia gave it her best effort, but it was impossible to pull back the string. It snapped forward several times, nearly taking her fingertip with it. She finally managed it by bracing against the wall with her foot and using both arms. Shooting the higher-impact crossbow was fun—the bolt flew with satisfying force and fairly tore the handkerchief in half before hitting the wall behind with a loud thunk.
“Miss Temminnick, keep with that one. Now, class, after sunset prepare for a co-lesson with Professor Braithwope, at which point we will use a moving target.”
“What target?” Preshea looked wary.
Professor Lefoux looked at her as if the answer should be self-evident. “Professor Braithwope himself, of course. He’ll hold up a large wood trencher. We’ll use metal bolts so as not to do any permanent harm should you actually hit him.”
Dimity trembled in agitation. “We have to shoot directly at a living target?”
“Not exactly living, but yes.” Professor Lefoux was remarkably unperturbed.
Sophronia felt bound to object. “I, for one, should prefer not to shoot at someone I like.”
“Admirable scruples, Miss Temminnick. Get over them, for you will do it anyway.”
“Yes, Professor.” Sophronia wanted to object further. Professor Braithwope wasn’t in his right mind. It didn’t feel sporting to shoot at a crazy person, even if that person was a vampire who’d agreed to the job. Then again, mental fragility might make him unpredictable and harder to hit. Still, Sophronia would hate to add crossbow injury to her long list of transgressions against a teacher who, in the end, was nothing more offensive than undead with excellent taste in clothing and a curiously unstable mustache.
“I suppose she’d know if it weren’t a good idea.” Agatha was obliquely referring to the fact that Professor Lefoux, as the vampire’s drone, was responsible for his well-being. She was his food source.