They were at an impasse, Sophronia and the chaise longue.
She feinted left and the sofa followed. She feinted right. It mirrored her on the ground. She made as if to throw the pillow, and it huffed out smoke in indignation and reared on its two stubby back legs, fighting the air with it forelegs like an angry horse.
Sophronia frowned. They had been taught various forms of secret communication—quilting, knitting, crocheting, and lacework code. Perhaps the embroidery on the pillows conveyed information from active intelligencers trained at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. If it contained communiqués from London, this would make for important cargo indeed.
Ignoring the enraged chaise, which was holding position, Sophronia squinted at the cushion she held. It was too dark to make out any of the crewelwork. The code was probably contained in the colors and numbers of threads as well as the details of each image. It’d be impossible to interpret the meaning without a companion cypher book. Perhaps Sister Mattie had the cypher memorized and that’s why she’d been along. Whatever the case, there was no point in Sophronia’s stealing a pillow, tempting as it may be. Sophronia suddenly remembered that Vieve had loaned her the obstructor. She wasn’t certain it would work on a mechanical without a track, but it was worth a try. She aimed at the perturbed furniture and let loose a silent blast. The sofa froze. It suffered this indignity with an aura of perturbation. Sophronia dropped the pillow, jumped down, and then leapt onto another couch before the chaise came back to life.
It whirred into animation, let out a puff of affronted smoke, and whirled to charge Sophronia at her new location.
Sophronia blasted it again and repeated the process until she perched precariously atop the tea trolley, which sat closest to the door.
She hit the chaise with one last obstructor blast before swinging herself around the jamb, crashing open the door with both feet, and landing on one knee in the warehouse beyond.
The sofa clattered back into motion and came after her but was confined to the shed. It stopped in the doorway, glaring at her and shaking threatening tassels—if an object without eyes can be said to glare. Sophronia felt sorry for the chaise longue, but she wasn’t going to risk being caught in order to mollify a gaudy piece of furniture.
The next morning Mademoiselle Geraldine’s left its Dartmoor home and began to float out over more populated areas. The students were reminded curtly at breakfast by Sister Mattie that “people who live in dirigibles should not throw chamber pots.” The remark was met with censure by Mademoiselle Geraldine but appeared to have been predicated on action taken by the visiting boys, who snickered knowingly.
The propeller could no longer be activated during the day, for it blew too much of their cover away. They lost speed and bobbed up most of the time, trying to catch breezes heading toward London. Suddenly, Sophronia understood the excitement over Giffard’s accomplishment. Riding those impossibly high-up aether currents would allow them to move with both speed and stealth. At present, only on cloudy days and at night could they could fire up the propeller and move with any kind of purpose.
That first day they had a lesson with Sister Mattie on the middle squeak deck on how to throw poison with greater accuracy. They were practicing with water in little perfume bottles. Sophronia asked if isinglass might be mixed with some of the poisons to turn them to jelly, allowing for less dispersal when hurled.
Sister Mattie went into a long diatribe about how different toxins changed when gelatinous, which had them all standing around dumbly staring at her for a quarter of an hour.