It could not be denied. The students ambling across the moor were clearly enjoying themselves.
“Point taken, Miss Temminnick. Very well, but do it quietly, and leave your particular friends out of it. All of them stay with me. If you get yourself killed, I’ll deny everything and report it as a horseback riding accident to your family.”
Sophronia arched an eyebrow, wondering how Lady Linette would finagle that, but not doubting her for a second. “Agreed.”
Of course, Sophronia could have faded off into the shadows of the moor right then, but she had to talk to Dimity and Agatha first.
“So?” asked Dimity the moment she rejoined them.
“I’m going back.”
“Very well.” Dimity did not even flinch. “What are we waiting for?”
“No,” Sophronia hated to say it. “This time, only me.”
“That’s not on. We’re a team,” protested Dimity, “like tea and milk, or cake and custard, or pork and apple.”
“Yes, we get the point,” interjected her brother.
“I agree. You can’t do it alone.” Agatha showed unexpected pluck.
This caused Pillover to emit an agonized grumble. He’d come along if Agatha insisted, but he knew Sophronia of old, and following her always got messy. Once, he’d ended up in a petticoat.
Sophronia explained. “It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s that I was recently thinking: if only there were more of me. One to stay and another to go to Bunson’s. Then I realized that there kind of is more. I have you lot. The Pistons know about Soap. They know he’s hiding at Bunson’s. He’s vulnerable tonight, so close to full moon. He only has Vieve to protect him. You know she’s not a fighter. You have to go take care of him for me. Please. I’ll find out what’s happening with the airship. And I’ll have Bumbersnoot with me.”
“Oh, yes, Bumbersnoot, heaps of good he’ll do.” Dimity didn’t like it at all. “One of us could still go with you.”
“I’m sorry. I’d want to come in your shoes, but there’s something bigger going on. Someone has to get word to the dewan as well. One of you should ride to London while the other stays with Soap. I won’t ask Pillover. He hasn’t the training, apart from his general… reticence.” Pillover looked like he felt he ought to protest, as a gentleman, but preferred to be relieved.
“Sophronia sending to London for help? I never thought I’d see the day,” mocked Dimity.
“I don’t like it, but the dewan has to come for Soap. And he has to know that the flywaymen brought down the school. Although how to get him the message—”
Agatha interrupted, her voice cool with confidence. “I can get to him.”
Sophronia turned to her in surprise. “You can?”
Agatha looked at all three of them. Her face was suffused with mixed guilt and pride. “You never guessed did you? Not even you, Sophronia?”
Sophronia’s stomach sank. “Guessed what, exactly, Agatha?”
Dimity put her hand over her mouth, preparing to be shocked. Something awful was about to happen.
Agatha drew herself upright and took a deep breath.
Pillover ogled. Poor boy couldn’t help himself. Dimity was too carried away by the drama to box his ears.
Agatha said, “I’ve been working for someone, all along.”
“You mean the entire time you’ve been at the school you’ve already had a patron?” Sophronia struggled to understand the specifics.
Agatha nodded. “My papa’s not all that rich.”
Dimity squeaked. “Oh, Agatha!”
Sophronia’s brow wrinkled. She felt hurt and betrayed, but she was also impressed. “All along? Gosh. Were you assigned to infiltrate the school from the start, or were you sent here for training?”
Agatha tilted her head. “Bit of both.” The redhead glanced at Pillover then, as if she’d been afraid to do so before. She was still the same person—there was her awkwardness leaking through. Still, Sophronia couldn’t help but admit that Agatha was an excellent choice to infiltrate a school for spies.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Agatha said to Pillover, voice soft.
Pillover shrugged, dour as ever. “I always figured you were special. Lack of chatter.”
Dimity was on the edge of tears. “Oh, Agatha, how could you? You aren’t…” She trailed off, took a small breath, and then whispered, “You aren’t working for them, are you?”
“Them who?”
“The flywaymen?”
“No.”
“The Picklemen?”
“Certainly not!”
“The Westminster Hive? Alongside Monique?”
“Not quite.”
Sophronia’s mind whirled. She was calculating all the times Agatha had been in the right place at the right time, or absent when she might have been caught. She thought over all the strange glances she had interpreted as social awkwardness. All those gifts from Agatha’s wealthy, but absent, father. All those dresses, so fine and fashionable, so exactly wrong for Agatha’s coloring and figure. Almost too exactly wrong.
“Lord Akeldama,” Sophronia stated rather than asked.