“Pretty as a pineapple,” pronounced Mademoiselle Geraldine, waving them off with a lace handkerchief. Mademoiselle Geraldine never left the airship if she could avoid it. “An Englishwoman’s dirigible is her castle” was one of her favorite sayings.
The girls joined in the cheers of welcome. It was a magical event, for Giffard had managed the journey in under an hour. He’d come all the way from Paris, mostly inside the aetherosphere, higher up that any manned float-craft had ever been before. “He must have used the crystalline prototype guidance valve,” insisted Vieve. “He couldn’t have managed those currents any other way.” Then she vanished into the crowd.
Henri Giffard pranced down the gangplank of his wondrous machine with all the fanfare of a circus ringmaster. He was dressed in a suit of cream check with a turquoise cravat and boasted a mustache the likes of which Sophronia had never seen before. Had he been awake, Professor Braithwope and his sad excuse for a lip curtain would have trembled in humiliation. Henri Giffard’s mustache curled up and out like a corkscrew, waxed to within an inch of its life. It was too theatrical. Sophronia instantly stopped looking at him and looked about the crowd. He must be intentionally drawing attention away from someone?
The gathering was what one might expect of a Hyde Park afternoon. There were toffs in fancy carriages and on horseback. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s young ladies of quality were companioned by a number of other students from surrounding schools, all allowed to walk out for the momentous occasion. There were groups of boffins from the Royal Society, distinguished by slightly rumpled attire and a predilection for spectacles and oddball gadgetry. There were riffraff as well: some chimney sweeps, the occasional shop girl, greasers, and other representatives of the rougher orders. Before she had met Soap, Sophronia would have glanced over them, but now she examined all with interest. Intelligencers could be anyone, after all.
She wasn’t certain exactly what she was looking for—something out of the ordinary, she supposed. She noted a group of extraordinarily well-turned-out dandies to one side. They were a bit out of place. It was early in the day for that sort to be awake, and they were not the kind of men to be interested in dirigibles. She stared at them for a long moment, but then Giffard hailed the young men with a whoop, and they whooped back. Chums from the gambling circuit? Giffard was rumored to be a bounder. Several of the academics looked like they might be too well dressed; perhaps they were in disguise? Then again, they could be French scholars, over to observe the landing.
The Puffy Nimbus was locked down. Giffard gave a speech in broken English and was welcomed with all due honors by the queen’s daylight representatives. That was when Sophronia spotted them.
Off to the far side lurking under a weeping willow were three men, all dressed to the height of fashion, carrying canes and wearing top hats. Around those hats were bands of green. Picklemen. They, like Sophronia, acted aloof from the excitement—watchers. As she looked at them, one spotted her. He tipped his hat with his cane. Sophronia twirled her parasol at him and then turned pointedly to take Felix’s arm, smiling up at the startled boy.
“Are you unwell, Ria, my dove?” Sophronia never took his arm.
Let them guess at our relationship, she thought. Let them wonder. Son of a Pickleman, is he? How much does he know?
Sophronia said sweetly, “A little overstimulated, Lord Mersey, that is all. It’s unseasonably warm, don’t you feel?”
Felix patted her hand on his arm in a condescending way. “Well, little one, you hold on there. I’ll ensure you get back to the ship safely.”
Sophronia couldn’t resist. “That’s my big strong man.”
Felix’s eyes flashed at her suspiciously.
Sophronia only continued to smile, using her lashes to good effect.
Felix couldn’t help but smile back. She was, after all, on his arm. Why question such a sought-after eventuality?