“How do you know?” Sidheag demanded. “She realized that I’d had my fortune told before. She seemed genuine.”
Sophronia did not want to tell them about the bribe and Professor Shrimpdittle. Discrediting a man’s reputation was shabby work. They’d been taught a little of it, but it was considered dirty, even by Lady Linette. Character sabotage was morally hazardous to both parties. Sophronia was outside her depth with this operation, and her friends would take her to task for it. Especially as she was campaigning against an adult. Monique was one thing, but a teacher?
But there was something about the fortune-teller. A broach hidden among her scarves in the shape of an onion. The fact that she had come aboard in secret and while they were floating. Combined with something Sister Mattie had said about the intermediary, the one who missed the shipment of pillows. She had to take the opportunity to infiltrate the flywaymen. Flywaymen were supposed to be very superstitious, so fortune-teller would make a great cover for a spy.
HOW TO GRACIOUSLY RECEIVE A GIFT
The next morning at breakfast, there was a postal delivery waiting. Captain Niall was still gathering the mail diverted to inns along the way. The offerings consisted of flowery letters from beaux and the occasional familial missive. Sophronia watched Pillover carefully, pleased to see him receive a letter addressed in aggressive black script.
Their six-month review marks must have gone out, for the girls in Sophronia’s year all had correspondences from parents. Agatha was in tears over hers. Sidheag snorted at her missive and lit it on fire with a nearby candle.
Dimity nibbled her lip over a boldly scripted note. “Oh, dear, Mummy is disappointed.”
Her brother looked up from his own letter. “What did you do?”
“It’s more what I didn’t do.”
Pillover stared gloomily into his giblet pie. “I suggest you become accustomed to the sensation. I showed interest in their work, and they’re still critical.”
Dimity peeked over his shoulder. “Anything significant?”
Sophronia squinted at both of them. They were attracting attention with their sibling fussing. “Later!”
If Monique’s parents cared that she’d been sent down, she showed no sign. Instead, she said in a loud voice to Preshea, “See? Daddy has written to the trustees, questioning Lady Linette’s leadership. That should yield interesting results. Oh, look, and Mama has rented Walsingham House Hotel’s Tea Room for my coming-out ball! It is not quite so grand as I had hoped, but…”
“Oh, but it is pretty and centrally located.”
“True, true, dear Preshea. Mayfair is the height of fashion.”
Sophronia saw Monique stash away two other letters. Letters that had already been opened, their wax seals cracked. Monique’s hands trembled as she stuffed them into her reticule.
Sophronia had expected a message of congratulations from her own family, assuming that they had been told of her achievements in the matter of oddgob tests. But there was nothing.
They returned to their parlor after breakfast to find two large dress packages waiting.
Monique pounced with a squeal of pleasure. “My new ball gown, already! How exciting. Oh, no. They are addressed to Sophronia. Who would have guessed you ever got new clothes? I certainly should not.”
Nor, thought Sophronia, should I.
She pulled the ribbon and opened the top box. There was a note in her mother’s tidy handwriting. “Your father and I are thrilled with your results, and with your sudden interest in fashionable attire. We hope the measurements are still sound.”