They continued the crossbow lesson until sunset, at which point they were allowed a short rest. It was one of those rare clear nights on the moor—a midwinter rain had washed the mist away. Soon the fog would be back. It was like table settings. The skies of Dartmoor were perpetually set for visitors, rarely bare of decoration.
The girls, tired from their physical exertions, leaned against the rails and watched the sun sink over the upland heath, gossiping quietly. There was some argument over an article in last week’s popular papers, retrieved for analysis by the teachers in Swiffle-on-Exe. Gossip columns were a vital part of training, as one had to read between the lines not only to understand the way society worked but also to puzzle out aristocratic machinations, determine the bias in the press, and look for encoded missives within the back promotionals. An advertisement for muffs was getting a great deal of attention. A few girls were contemplating essays on the subject. Sophronia thought it was simply an advertisement, but others believed there was an embedded message concerning Scandinavian infiltration into northern Scotland. Something about the muffs’ looking more like the hats favored by the Danish guard. Add to that the fact that the Scandinavians had been keeping an awful lot to themselves recently, and many were left wondering if they could be trusted. Pickled herring was, in the end, a hugely suspicious food.
Professor Braithwope joined them after sunset. He was dressed quite somberly, his dark burgundy cravat tied neatly in the waterfall style, his waistcoat, jacket, and trousers all charcoal gray. His eccentricity of mind sometimes reverberated in his attire, causing him to wear odd items like a stovepipe beaver hat or a satin cape, but he never wore them badly. He might have lost his mind, but never his fashion sense. Tonight, however, he looked more undertaker than vampire.
The girls were tentative about the assignment, but it became clear that Professor Braithwope, while batty enough to insist on dancing an Irish fling the entire time, still had all his reflexes in working order. It was impossible to shoot him. He either dodged or intercepted the dart with his wooden trencher.
“Do you see? Not so easy to kill a vampire, is it?” Professor Lefoux sounded smug.
Sophronia wondered if the vampire had noticed anything different about the pilot’s bubble recently. She decided to try to converse with him. She hoped Professor Lefoux would see this as an attempted diversion tactic for getting in a shot.
“Professor Braithwope, have you seen anything interesting dancing ’round the school recently?”
“Condiments are scarce in the skies, whot.” The vampire was serious on this subject.
“Not so much as you would think,” Sophronia contradicted, wondering if he was aware enough to actually be referring to the Pickleman break-in. “Lost your mustard powder, have you?” She loaded in a bolt, taking her time.
“No, relish.” The vampire twirled away. Preshea’s shot went wide.
“Thought as much,” said Sophronia.
The vampire’s eyes focused on her. “Why would I have lost anything? Not all wandering mechanicals are lost. Besides, often you’re left with a hold full of pets, whot.” He said this as though offering a special tidbit of information.
Sophronia took it as such. “I’ll keep that in mind, Professor.”
“Sooner your mind than mine, little miss. Mine seems to be full of holes, like a tea strainer.”
Professor Lefoux interrupted. “I don’t think your tactic is working, Miss Temminnick. Take your shot or try something else.”
“How about a variation on the fan and sprinkle?”
“For a vampire?” Professor Lefoux was skeptical, for that was a werewolf manipulation.
Sophronia produced a cream puff from within the confines of her pagoda sleeve. She broke it open to reveal the white filling. With her left hand she tossed this at the professor’s immaculate trouser leg. Occupied as he was, fending off crossbow bolts, he did not expect an attack of low-flying stickiness.
With a cry of distress, he registered the smear of cream on his shiny shoe.
When he bent to examine the carnage, Sophronia shot.
She was still not fast enough.
He got the trencher up and caught her bolt at its center with one hand while his other was occupied extracting a handkerchief to repair the damage.
It was Sophronia’s last bolt. But she followed her shot with a charge, whipping out her bladed fan into an arc of deadly metal, the leather guard off and fallen to the deck.
She had it in and against the vampire’s neck before he could straighten upright.
He let her, surprised.
Professor Lefoux tutted. “Did I say other weapons were allowable? Besides, what good is that fan? It’s not wood.”
Sophronia snapped the fan closed and backed off. “I wanted to see if I could get that close.”
Professor Braithwope gave her a funny look. Well, funnier than usual. “You know, pretty little miss, you could have simply offered me your carnet de bal. I would be delighted to dance with you.”
“Oh, really, Sophronia, now you’re in the way of everyone else,” Professor Lefoux reprimanded her.