There were some ten young men in all and one teacher. The teacher was a boyish-faced blond gentleman, wearing a seriously scholarly expression.
Sophronia recognized a few of the boys. Dimity’s younger brother, Pillover, gave their table a glum nod from under the brim of his oversized bowler. There was the infamous Lord Dingleproops who, outrageously, tipped his hat at them. Dimity blushed and then stuck her nose in the air. Next to Lord Dingleproops walked a pale, dark-haired boy wearing a little kohl about his eyes and possessing a certain sullen restlessness. Sophronia and he had once danced together but had never been properly introduced. She’d had to cut him unkindly at the time, abandoning him alone in the middle of a dance. There had been prototypes and cheese pies to deal with, but he would probably never forgive her.
He caught her staring and held her gaze in a forward manner. Then he lowered long eyelashes, ridiculously long for boy, and gave her a small smile.
I know that trick. We learned it our first week here. Sophronia lowered her own lashes at him and glared. Some traitorous part of her was thinking, At least he doesn’t resent me for that dance.
The boy’s smile became genuine, and he gave her a little nod.
“Great,” muttered Sophronia. “We got us Pistons on board.”
“What’s wrong with Pistons, Miss Know-It-All?” Monique asked, driven to break her silence. “They come from some of the finest families in England.”
“And some of the wealthiest,” added Preshea, emphasizing the t at the end of the word like a bullet.
Agatha said to Dimity, “Imagine Lord Dingleproops tilting his hat at you! After what he did!”
Monique narrowed in on this. “What did he do?”
Dimity said, “Ask Sophronia, why don’t you?”
“Oh, it can’t be that important.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine interrupted further discussion. “Please welcome Mr. Algonquin Shrimpdittle and a selection of the top-ranked students from Bunson and Lacroix’s Boys’ Polytechnique. They will be joining us for the journey to London. I’m convinced you will make them welcome. Don’t fuss; you will get the opportunity to socialize after tea.”
The silence that met that remark practically wobbled with excitement, like aspic jelly.
“The young gentlemen will be joining you for some of your lessons. I expect you all to behave and conduct yourselves like the ladies of qualit-tay I know you are!”
Another thrilled gasp met this. Mademoiselle Geraldine narrowed her eyes at Lady Linette, as though this were all her idea, and continued, “Now, don’t you desire to know why we are headed into London?”
Truth be told, most of the girls had entirely forgotten that there need be a reason. Sophronia was interested to hear what excuse had been given to Mademoiselle Geraldine. Almost as interested as she was in the truth behind their trip. She turned her gaze away from the boys, now lined up at the front of the room. The abominable dark-haired one was staring at her. So rude.
“Henri Giffard is scheduled to float, from France, in the very first transcontinental dirigible!”
This was of little consequence. After all, they spent all day every day floating about in an overlarge dirigible. Sophronia waited to be impressed.
“And he has said he will do it in under an hour using aether currents.”
This was met with pure shock. Even some of the boys looked surprised.
Float inside the aetherosphere? Inside the currents that swirled above the air itself? Unheard of!
“Those with the scientific know-how”—Mademoiselle Geraldine gestured at Professors Shrimpdittle and Lefoux—“tell me that he is most likely to succeed due to some exciting new valve technology. It is deemed that such a monumental historical occurrence is worth uprooting our entire establishment to witness in person.”
Sophronia was caught up in the metaphor of uprooting a floating school.
“And now, if you gentlemen will take a seat,” the headmistress continued, gesturing to an unoccupied table laid with a damask tablecloth and fine china, “we can get on to breakfast at last.”
FLIRTING WITH CONSPIRACIES