Agatha helped Sophronia out of her day gown and petticoats. Sophronia pulled on the trousers, buttoning the front and tucking her chemise in at the top. They were scandalously tight about the derriere. She put on the shirt, pushing up the sleeves. For the first time in her life, she was finding it easy to dress herself. Vieve might have something in this garb. But then, she supposed, that was because she was wearing a rather pedestrian outfit. True gentlemen need a valet to help with the cravat.
Sidheag gave her a funny look. “You’re leaving on your stays?”
“Of course! I haven’t lost all sense of propriety!”
Sidheag snorted. “Corsets constrict movement. I always take mine off when I wear that outfit.”
Sophronia gasped. “Bare?”
“We’ve been over this before—raised by werewolves, remember? What do you think they do before they change shape?”
Agatha gasped, then whispered softly, “You’ve seen men with no clothing?”
Sophronia tried to stop herself from blushing, remembering her illicit observation of swimming sooties.
Sidheag did not look ashamed. “Of course, silly.”
Agatha took a deep breath and then blurted, “What’s it like… when they… you know…?”
“The shape-shift? Gruesome. All the bones break and then re-form into wolf shape. Most of them howl in pain. There’s a reason it’s called a curse.”
Sidheag was going to make Agatha say it out loud. The redhead whispered, “No, what’s a man like down there?”
“Oh.” Sidheag wrinkled her nose. “Unimpressive. They have,” she gestured toward her own nether regions with one hand, “a sort of dangly sausage—lacks tailoring.”
Sophronia blinked in surprise. That sounded worse than Sidheag’s description of a werewolf shift. She hadn’t seen any of the sooties that close up. “Really?”
“Yes, like it wasn’t fitted into its casing properly. And hairy.” Sidheag was enjoying shocking them.
Agatha thought Sidheag was pulling her leg. “I don’t believe you.”
Sophronia interrupted this fascinating subject. “Ladies, thank you very much for your help. But I really must be off.” She managed a creditable bow, scuttling away before Sidheag could say anything more licentious.
WIELDING A BALLISTIC EXPLODING STEAM MISSILE FIRE PRONG
It was much easier to climb about the airship in masculine garb; Sophronia regretted not trying it sooner. True, petticoats had saved her life once, but this! This was liberty. She resolved, once they reached London, to acquire gentleman’s dress, upper-and lower-class. Plus a fake mustache. Where does one purchase a mustache in London? Fleet Street? Not that she would ever wear such things in public, but for midnight jaunts to visit sooties, why be modest?
She skirted the outside of the residential areas, then the classrooms, and soon she was outside the tassel section. It was a bit challenging to climb surrounded by a cloud of dense white damp. Twice her foot slipped, and she thought fondly of gentleman’s riding boots and then wondered if that might be taking things too far. Footwear, after all, was a serious commitment.
She moved as quickly as she could; with all the white she wouldn’t know she’d found Monique until she was right on top of her. Then, as Sophronia was jumping from one balcony to another, she caught a flicker of skirts above her doing the same.
The blonde was heading toward the upper front starboard section of teacher residences. Sophronia knew the area well, even which balconies belonged to which teachers. She usually avoided them assiduously.