“That’ll teach you to question a lady’s wicker chicken!”
It was hard to know how much time she had while he was incapacitated—only a few seconds if she’d done her job right. She hadn’t wanted to cause permanent damage. He might work for the Picklemen, but he didn’t seem that bad.
Luckily, Lady Linette had a passion for lace drapes, gold cord, and velvet runners. Sophronia converted one of the runners into a gag. She tied the Pickleman’s hands over his head and to the leg of the grand piano. She had always thought it odd, not to mention a waste of weight, that Lady Linette insisted on a grand piano in her classroom. But in this instance it proved useful. With Bawkin’s wrists tied to one leg, and his feet to the leg kitty corner, he was efficiently immobilized. Sophronia found a large shawl and draped it over the piano, anchoring it with vases. Now, should anyone look into the room, it would appear empty, the young man well hidden behind the shawl.
Sophronia now suspected that Lady Linette had a piano on board for exactly this purpose. Feeling safe for the moment, and wanting to make certain he would wake up, Sophronia shut the door. Bumbersnoot reappeared from behind the coal scuttle, looking smug, as if he had found some loose coal. She scooped up the young man’s notebook and held it in the moonlight to examine it.
The first section was filled with notes in cypher, some mathematical equations, sketches of mechanical functions, and a rough map of something mysterious. In the middle there were newer notes—messy and smudged from a hasty closing of the book. Still in cypher, the style of the text suggested names and dates combined with other pertinent information. This must be from the record room, probably an account of active intelligencers. Sophronia tore those pages out of the book.
“Bumbersnoot, come here, please.”
The little mechanimal tick-tocked over to her.
Sophronia fed him the sheets of paper, one at a time, making certain they went into his boiler and were incinerated.
There was one page of additional notes after that, even more hastily written, in a different hand. The results of Deep Voice’s interrogation, Sophronia supposed.
The rest of the book was blank. She extracted her own stick of graphite and drew a hasty schematic of the ship, marking off the locations of Picklemen and flywaymen with dots. She took great satisfaction in then putting an X through the dot representing Spice Administrator Bawkin. One down, thirteen Picklemen, three runners, and five flywaymen to go. She tore out this map, folded it up, and put it in a pocket with her stick of graphite. Then she ripped out the rest of the notes, rolled them up tight, and secured them with a bit of ribbon. She removed Bumbersnoot’s coal reserves from her cleavage to a pocket of the leather smock, and stuffed the notes there instead. Most secure place for them.
Even though the remainder of the notebook was empty, she tucked it under some couch cushions for safety. One never knew with Picklemen.
She then examined the crossbow, delighted to have it in her possession. If she could activate the soldier mechanicals, she would have a real weapon on her side. But she’d probably need Professor Braithwope for that, and who knew what mental state he was in at this point. Sophronia cannibalized a length of curtain cord to be a belt and tied the tiny crossbow to it, using more hair ribbons. Geraldine’s girls carried extra hair ribbons at all times for exactly this kind of eventuality. She shoved the bolts into the biggest of the pinafore pockets. She practically jangled like a tinker with all the items she had hanging off her, but she felt much better about life in general. She took a moment to rearrange and redistribute so she wouldn’t make noise as she snuck about.
She ducked under the piano and checked on the Spice Administrator. He was awake and his pupils looked fine. He lay perfectly still as she loomed over him.
She grinned, unaware of the maniacal expression in her green eyes. “Love of music—it can drive a girl to distraction. Or do I mean destruction?”
She patted his cheek in what she hoped was a reassuring way and left him. Poor thing hadn’t even squirmed or groaned around the gag. She was certain he thought her quite mad. And should he somehow get free—and he would have to be a circus contortionist with supernatural strength to do so—he would have such a strange story to tell, it would make the other Picklemen think him drunk at best. “A girl wearing a wicker chicken and playing the harp bopped me with a book about buns and then stuffed me under a piano.” It sounded like a funny dream.
Sophronia chuckled to herself but quickly sobered. Professor Braithwope and Mademoiselle Geraldine needed rescuing, and she still had sooties to save. She headed back up the stairs for her next victim. Deep Voice, she felt, was going to be much harder to disable.