“No, I did not!” agreed the aggrieved Handle.
“Think of it as valuable experience for your prospective switch in professions.”
Handle was thoughtful. “Bloodletting?”
“Exactly.”
He was somewhat mollified.
Sophronia stood and tried to stretch. She ought to feel better after resting covered in Sister Mattie’s poultices, but every part of her still ached. Now all the little muscles, strained from hanging and climbing and falling, also hurt. She hobbled like an old lady.
“I’m going to check the lay of the land.” She headed onto the balcony.
They were flying quite low now, rooftops clearly visible although the moon was not yet up. At least with the moon no longer full, some werewolves are available this evening if Agatha manages to get ahold of them.
Ahead twinkled a vast number of lights. London.
Sophronia suppressed a shiver of apprehension. Tonight I crash an airship. On purpose.
She squinted into the lights. Was that…? Yes, a small dirigible was approaching them at speed, under cover of darkness, flying stealthily, a dark shape against the twinkling background.
Somehow, Sophronia knew that this was her friends. There was something about the way the ship weaved through the air—intent, stylish, almost a waltz. It stank of Geraldine’s training.
Sophronia unhitched the miniature crossbow from her belt. She took one of the valuable targeting bolts and created a satchel for it by weaving it through the lace edge of her red doily. Into this she stuffed a hastily scribbled note, torn off the corner of her map.
“Meet at soapy entrance. Bring this bolt back.”
Only her particular friends would know what that meant. Even if she was entirely wrong and that ship was full of enemy reinforcements, nothing bad would come of her message.
The crossbow was so small she only needed one hand to fire. But still, everything took twice as long as it ought. She’d have to remember that in her calculations. She took careful aim and fired the bolt at the side of the gondola section of the approaching dirigible, now clearly visible.
There was a distant shout, and then a pause, and then the ship dropped down and altered its approach. Success!
Sophronia limped back inside. “Change of plans! Handle, you are with me. We take out the propeller room and free the sooties there first. Headmistress, if you and the good professor would meet us outside engineering? He’ll help you get there.”
“What good could I possibly do?” protested Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“I believe we have a rescue incoming. If all works out as I hope, they will be meeting us just outside the boiler room hull.”
“Capital. How did you manage that, my dear girl?”
“I have capable friends,” replied Sophronia.
Handle said, “That our tea cake angel?”
“Dimity? Yes, I believe so. Or someone sent by her.”
“Good.” Handle went all cheerful. “She’s prime at pinching a tasty pastry.”
“Not quite certain how that skill set has any bearing on this situation,” objected Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“And yet how do we know it doesn’t?” reasoned Sophronia.
Handle only tossed one of the explosive fake pastries up into the air suggestively.
There was no one in the hallway outside their room. In all probability, the Picklemen were occupied with their invasion, in the storage room readying their attack mechanimals.
With no time to waste, Sophronia saw Mademoiselle Geraldine off, carried by a docile vampire in the direction of engineering. She and Handle headed toward the rear as fast as she could hobble.
Eerie and empty as the school had been before, it was more so now. All the mechanicals were gone, their tracks abandoned. Her obstructor remained unused. It was a worry, but also a relief, for it allowed them to move quickly. With the excitement of the hunt back on, Sophronia’s aches faded somewhat to the background. Or perhaps Sister Mattie’s poultices were finally taking effect.
They found the propeller room, which was much smaller than engineering, manned by six sooties with one Pickleman supervisor. The man in question sported a nasty expression and held a crop, rather than a whip, and a smallish gun.
Sophronia’s good arm was sound. Handle was enough of a boy to have hurled stones at random things in order to break them—as boys do. So when two fake pastries went flying, the world around that Pickleman exploded.
He collapsed, unconscious.
The sooties cheered, weakly but with real joy.
Sophronia trussed the Pickleman up with a strip of her shirt—she was running out of hair ribbons and curtain cords—and nabbed his gun. She gave his crop to a sootie with an equally nasty expression. He seemed delighted.