Sophronia and Lady Linette flattened themselves on the floor, heedless of crushed dresses and flipped petticoats.
“My goodness,” said Lady Linette into the resulting silence. “What did you do?” She stood and walked to the oddgob, now tilted to one side as if it had a limp.
“Me? Nothing at all!” insisted Sophronia, sitting up.
Lady Linette tutted as she brushed ink spatter off her well-powdered cheek with a handkerchief. “Where’s the new valve gone?”
“What valve?” Sophronia blinked wide, confused eyes at her.
Lady Linette gave her a long look. “Probably rolled free during the explosion. I told Professor Lefoux it wasn’t tight enough in the cradle. And I said it wouldn’t work properly regardless.” Sophronia didn’t say anything. “I wish we could have tested it on a less valuable machine. Never mind, we’ve got your results.” Lady Linette waved the oddgob’s printed paper.
Sophronia stood and innocently offered her teacher the additional handkerchief she’d acquired during the test. Lady Linette took it absently, then paused, pondering it. She did not apply it to the remains of the ink on her face, instead handing it back with a little smile.
“Oh, very good, Miss Temminnick. Very good indeed!” She examined the printed sheet. Closely.
“Let us begin your review. The painting, time period?”
“Eighteen fourteen, by attire,” said Sophronia. “Give or take a year. Evening party.”
“Dress color?”
“Blue on the central subject, green and cream on those in the background.”
“Bonnet style and decoration?”
Trick question! “None of the ladies were wearing hats. The subject had cornflowers in her hair. As I said, it was an evening party.”
Lady Linette arched an eyebrow over her spectacles. “And have you any additional thoughts?”
Sophronia straightened. “A great many.”
“About the painting, Miss Temminnick. Don’t be coy.”
Sophronia forbore mentioning that Lady Linette had said only yesterday that there was always time for coyness in young ladies of quality. “The painting was well executed, but the artist was probably poor.”
Lady Linette looked nonplussed. “Why do you say that?”
“No expensive pigments, like red and gold, were used. Either that, or the painter feared toxicity. He did not sign it. There were approximately twelve people in the image.” Sophronia paused delicately for effect. “And one cat. The wallpaper was striped, and the garden through the window had a Roman feel.”
Lady Linette nodded, dislodging her spectacles. She reseated them on her nose with a sniff of annoyance. Lady Linette always dressed younger than she was. Spectacles, under such circumstances, might be considered a fate worse than knitwear.
“Moving on to the tea service, Miss Temminnick. The tea was cold. Why did you still serve it?”
Sophronia nibbled her lip. It was another habit her teachers were trying to eliminate. “If you must draw attention to the lips, a small lick is superior. It is too academic to nibble” was Lady Linette’s customary admonishment. “It’s all very well to be an intellectual, but one shouldn’t let others see. That’s embarrassing” was Mademoiselle Geraldine’s opinion.
Sophronia stopped nibbling. “I did consider dumping it entirely, but I thought the instructions indicated I was to be evaluated on the act of serving. Had there been other people present, I would have sent it back.”
“Milk first, the lower-class way?”
“But necessary if the cups were lined with an acid-based poison. The milk would curdle or discolor. Also, one of the cups smelled of lavender.”
Lady Linette said, unguardedly, “It did?”
“Yes. I don’t know of any poisons with that smell, but it might be used to cover over another scent or, of course, it might have been your cup, Lady Linette.”
“My cup?”
“You always smell of lavender.”