Sophronia gummed it gratefully, eating slowly, in tiny bites, sipping the tea in between. It settled her tummy.
Mademoiselle Geraldine looked infinitely sad. “She was a fine intelligencer and a good friend, but she knew the risks. And she knew her duty. You can’t fault her for doing something you would have done in her place. She would have taken as many key agents with her as possible. And it’s likely she saw no possible extraction for herself. Death and glory rather than torture and ignominy. Much alike, you and she. You know, wicker chicken would be a good code name. Suitably innocuous and an ode to her.”
“You can’t rescue them all, miss,” added Handle.
Sophronia recovered enough to say, “Speaking of which, how did you get here, Handle?”
The sootie looked to the headmistress.
Mademoiselle Geraldine explained that Professor Braithwope had ejected two Picklemen out of the pilot’s bubble. Then she had taken a bullet to the leg during their squeak deck liberation. All four were now gone, thrown overboard with guns and ill intentions in tow.
Professor Braithwope had brought the injured headmistress to the rendezvous point and then left to find food, driven to hunger by her bleeding leg. He’d returned with Handle, whom he’d managed to rescue during a chaotic moment in the boiler room and fuzzily determined was necessary to their cause, although he mistakenly identified him as Lady Linette’s stuffed badger. Professor Braithwope safely asleep, Handle had fetched tea. They’d stayed holed up all day, waiting for Sophronia. Also, they needed the vampire’s help to do anything further.
Handle reported that the sooties were fine and in reasonably good spirits, having seen him rescued by the vampire. “None of us have much interaction with old fangs, but if we have anyone on our side, we’re grateful it’s him. After that first attack, we all assumed he’d been killed.”
“Handle,” ordered Mademoiselle Geraldine, “give Sophronia my grenadines. Keep some for yourself, of course, but I won’t be going anywhere soon and she’s got working legs and one good arm.”
Sophronia took a fortifying breath. The tea and food were helping, and Mademoiselle Geraldine was correct. There was work to do as soon as the sun set. Those attack mechanimals hadn’t yet been used. The Picklemen weren’t done. She had to gather her strength. She couldn’t stop now.
Handle handed over a stuffed reticule. Inside it were several of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s infamous fake pastries.
“What, what?” stuttered Sophronia, sounding not unlike Professor Braithwope.
“Small explosives,” replied the headmistress. “All of them. I used up several last night. These are the last. Handle has a few. He’ll show you how they deploy.”
“I don’t know about explosives, Headmistress. I haven’t had much luck with them, so far.” Sophronia was skeptical.
“Nonsense, young lady. You’ll do as you are instructed. Use these pastries as needed and do not be scared or ashamed of the necessity.”
“Yes, Headmistress.”
Handle showed her how they were activated, by depressing the decorative element on the top, be it cherry or icing twirl. Simple devices, in the end. And I always thought them merely beautiful representations of a very odd hobby. I should have known they were deadly as well as decorative. Everything at this school is both. It was practically the school’s unofficial motto. The official one being Ut acerbus terminus: To the bitter end. Madame Spetuna had taken that motto to heart.
“Tell me truthfully, Handle, how are the sooties, really?”
“Not bad, miss. We all know how to turn and shield the delicate bits. And, frankly, the whip-hand is not so good as he thinks he is.”
Sophronia searched his face, hoping he wasn’t making light of a bad situation.
Handle continued. “They need us to keep this boat afloat, so they feed us well enough. Won’t lie, it hasn’t been easy. We’re running her faster and harder than ever, and with a skeleton crew. Plus, we didn’t take on stores beforehand. They are pushing her. And us. But there are mechanicals to help with the heavy lifting—good ones, complex protocols.”
“Tonight,” promised Sophronia rashly. “I’ll get them all out tonight.”
“Even Smokey Bones?”
“Of course.”
“Who is Smokey Bones?” demanded Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“Our cat, my lady.” Handle poured more tea.
Mademoiselle Geraldine didn’t seem to know what to say to that.
Sophronia took another deep breath. “I can only think of one option at this point. We are too close to London. We have to crash the school and use the soldier mechanicals to do it.”
Handle and Mademoiselle Geraldine both gaped.