GARNERING INVITATIONS
The girls entered the breakfast room to find the postal steward calling names and passing out correspondences. Since they had gone to white, Captain Niall must have undertaken a run back to Swiffle-on-Exe to retrieve missives. The teachers were always saying that the captain was not an errand boy at the beck and call of young ladies’ whims, but on occasion he did perform groundside services made convenient by his land-bound state and supernatural speed.
There was nothing for Sophronia, who sat bleary-eyed and exhausted at the end of the table while the other girls exclaimed. Her fellows exhibited new trinkets to their male dining companions and shared the latest gossip from home. It was an orgy of batted eyelashes, and Sophronia was finding herself unable to cope with fluttering on only a few hours sleep.
Felix Mersey ostentatiously picked up his place setting and moved it next to hers. “What’s wrong, pretty Ria? You seem to have lost your customary aloofness.”
“Oh, do go away. I’m not up to dalliance this morning.”
He pouted at her. “Is that all I am to you? A plaything, a speck of dust on a sunbeam, a bit of dandelion fluff on the breeze?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.” Sophronia hid a smile at such silliness. No sense encouraging the blighter.
“Hard-hearted, that’s what you are.”
“You’re an imbecile, you do realize?”
Any further conversation was interrupted, as it was surely meant to be, by a squeal from Monique. It was emitted upon reading a gold-embossed letter and caught even Mademoiselle Geraldine’s attention from the head table.
Felix moved hastily out of indiscreet proximity to Sophronia.
“Miss Pelouse, have you something of note to share with the assembly?” wondered the headmistress.
The blonde girl stood gracefully, glancing over the entire room with a beneficent smile. She looked like a queen addressing her subjects, holding her gold missive in one hand as though an award received from on high. Her dress that morning was of royal blue with butter-lemon stripes, a row of gold pom-poms down the front in increasing size. It was almost as though it were intended to match the letter.
“Nothing of any consequence, Headmistress,” she said, blushing prettily. “It’s only that my dear mama has informed me that she intends to hold my coming-out ball when we arrive in town!”
Pandemonium reigned. The announcement of a trip to London had been one thing, and the presence of boys another, but this was the Thing to End All Things—a ball!
A breakfast selection of German sausage, broiled kidney, dried salmon, and muttonchops arrived, but few registered it. Some of the young ladies even ate the salmon without concern to vital humors—when everyone knew colored fish flesh could bring on an attack of hysteria.
Sophronia refused to be ruffled. She ate the same thing every morning: porridge.
Girls began to find excuses to call at Monique’s table to compliment the horrid girl on the cut of her dress or the size of her pom-poms, angling for an invitation.
“What lovely earrings, Monique.”
“Yes, aren’t they pretty? My father purchased them in Spain. Such an expense for little me!”
“Did you do your hair differently this morning, Monique?”
“No, but it is looking quite shiny, isn’t it?”
Pillover glanced up from his plate of sausage. “What a revolting spectacle.”
Sophronia privately agreed and contemplated breaking from her normal dietary routine and eating a sausage in order to cope.
Monique, mistress of the British Empire at that moment, seemed willing to gratify all sycophants. Most of the older girls, cronies of hers, were told right off that of course, she could not do without them in attendance. A few of the middle girls were told they might be allowed in, but the debuts—who shared her table and chambers—were left in suspense.
Preshea, at Monique’s right hand, smirked, anticipating an invite. “Can I pass you the butter, Monique? Would you care for a little more tea, Monique?”
Agatha looked terrified and Sidheag indifferent; they’d rather not be invited. Dimity kept glancing in Sophronia’s direction as if she wished they were on speaking terms so they could discuss this new kink in the workings of life.
Lord Dingleproops, Monique’s dining companion, paid her marked attention—to her evident enjoyment. Sophronia felt sorry for Dimity. Whatever false hopes he had once given her must now be crushed.
The ordeal of breakfast eventually ended. As they rose and made their way toward the exit, Sophronia snaked up behind her erstwhile best friend and whispered, “I shouldn’t be too upset. Lady Dimity Dingleproops sounds quite ridiculous, anyway.”
Dimity smothered a giggle and turned, eyes animated, prepared for a bit of a gossip—in that instant all ill feelings were forgotten. But Agatha, of all people, swooped in and linked arms with Dimity, practically dragging her away down the hall.
Through the course of that day, Monique became increasingly intolerable. She had Preshea and others running errands for her, bringing her little gifts. She would send one girl off and then make some snide comment about the poor thing’s appearance and lack of funds. Then she was all sugar when the girl returned, bearing a posy of violets or glass of barley water.
By the time Professor Braithwope’s etiquette class rolled around after sunset, everyone was beginning to show strain. The boys escorted the girls to the vampire’s door, but they had a lesson with Professor Shrimpdittle instead. Their presence made Monique worse. She latched herself onto Felix’s arm when he tried to leave her.
“Abandoning me to monsters, my lord?”
Felix chuckled. “Now, now, Miss Monique, I’m not so bad as all that. I never said they were monsters, only predators.”
“You’re so wise,” simpered Monique, still clutching.
Lady Linette paused in the hallway at the sight. “Miss Pelouse! How can you be so forward? Have you learned nothing? Lord Mersey, let go of her this instant!”
Felix lounged against the wall insolently, still attached to Monique. “I’m afraid, my lady, you must persuade her to let go of me.”
“It’s my ankle, Lady Linette. It’s feeling poorly,” professed Monique.
“Oh, is it? Should I send you to matron?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t trouble yourself. It isn’t that bad.”
“I’m certain it isn’t. Now, let go of the young viscount this moment and behave like a proper lady!”
Monique, pouting prettily, let go of Felix and marched into the vampire’s classroom with no sign of a limp. Felix made good his escape with a wink at Sophronia. Sophronia, smiling at both the rebuke and the wink, followed Monique.
Monique sat down on a fainting couch next to Preshea, and before anyone else could take the opportunity, Sophronia sat down on her other side. She wasn’t really planning anything; she only wanted to make the older girl uncomfortable.
Monique didn’t register Sophronia at first, engaged in an animated discussion with Preshea. The topic appeared to be Lord Dingleproops’s chin and whether its absence was all that important to the state of the Empire. When she turned to her left to find Sophronia sitting there primly, Monique twitched and made as if to rise.
But Professor Braithwope started class, so the blonde contented herself with turning her back on Sophronia. Sophronia had Bumbersnoot the reticule with her and placed him on the carpet behind her feet, well concealed by copious skirts.
If asked afterward, she would have explained, that there was no technical way to train a mechanical into any action outside its initial basic protocols. So it must have been without her knowledge that Bumbersnoot made his way from her skirts to Monique’s. She could never have known he would belch steam up the older girl’s drawers and deposit a pile of ash on her very expensive pink kid slippers. Never have known.
Monique got the most peculiar expression on her face and let out a muffled squawk.
She leapt to her feet and turned to glare at the obvious culprit. “Sophronia!”
Realizing that Bumbersnoot must have done something, Sophronia used her foot to shift him back to his starting position behind her own skirts and looked up innocently at the raging Monique.
Professor Braithwope whirled from where he was demonstrating entering and exiting a hive house with grace and concealed weaponry. He’d been using an arrangement of unstable top-hat boxes as steps and was not happy at being distracted. The act of whirling caused him to go through the side of one of the hatboxes in a manner most clumsy for a vampire.
“Sit down this moment, Miss Pelouse!” he barked.
“But Sophronia squirted steam up my drawers!”
Dimity let out an uncontrolled giggle. Everyone else in the class looked either surprised or amused, according to their nature.
“Whot, whot? I hardly see how she might have done that. She hasn’t moved.”
Monique sputtered. Then, knowing she could not defend herself to the teacher, she sat back down and hissed in Sophronia’s ear. “You certainly won’t be invited to my ball!”
Sophronia smiled. “My dear Monique, I never for one moment believed that I would.”
“Unnatural girl!” Monique turned to glare across the room at Dimity, who had one gloved hand pressed to her mouth and dancing eyes.
“And you! Why would I let you come either? Who are your parents? Nothing more than scientists who can’t decide which side they’re on. Not to mention the way you dress, like some market doxy!”
Dimity’s eyes instantly filled with tears, and she let out a whimper, mouth still hidden under her hand.
Sophronia sprung to Dimity’s defense. “As opposed to an eighteen-year-old girl who is only now having her coming-out ball, who failed to finish properly, and whose parents are quite probably in trade?”
All the girls in the room gasped. Even Professor Braithwope was rendered momentarily speechless by such cutting remarks.
The vampire recovered his power of speech. “Ladies! Manners, whot?”
Dimity mouthed “Thank you” at Sophronia, which earned her a harsh look from the vampire.
After that, class settled down, but something in the atmosphere had changed. As the class practiced walking up and down hatboxes, swinging skirts to conceal weapons in as elegant a manner as possible, Dimity came to stand firmly next to Sophronia.
Professor Braithwope noticed and was perturbed, but he continued the lesson. “Any vampire may be addressed properly as ‘venerable one.’ Alternatively, you may use his title, if an aristocrat. All queens have titles; they are given a baronetcy if not already holding, although that has not been necessary for centuries. Very few women survive being bitten, so rarely is there a new queen. This is why there are always fewer female drones than males.”
Sidheag raised her hand at that and asked, “Why bother?”
“Whot? Oh, to be a female drone? Well, the reward is unparalleled. Aside from immortality, if a woman survives metamorphosis, she is automatically a queen. But there are other reasons, before the bite. Drones are protected, fed, and cared for by their vampire. After a period of menial service, they are given patronage to pursue their own desires. Vampires tend to be wealthy and powerful, so they make very good friends, whot. There are drawbacks, of course.” The professor touched his own neck, hidden under the high collar.
After prancing up and down the stacked hatboxes several more times, Sophronia decided she could risk one more inquiry. “Could you tell us a little something about tethers, Professor?”
Professor Braithwope considered both Sophronia and her question. “Tethers, whot? Very well, I will indulge in a digression, but only because you’ll never understand vampire etiquette if you don’t understand our limitations. Queens cannot leave their hive house, and hive-bound vampires cannot leave the vicinity of their queen. How far they can go depends mainly on age, but it’s generally no more than a borough. Rove vampires usually have the range of an entire city, but they also remain tethered to their home. They will not stray into a hive’s territory unless invited and never enter a hive house unless they have petitioned for one of their drones to be bitten by its queen.”
Sophronia prodded further; she was wildly curious. “How does this work for you, Professor?”
“I am tethered to this ship, but I can leave it to walk around the moor.”
She pressed. “Are there other vampires tethered to airships?”
“No, we are social creatures, and mine is now such a solitary life. None have followed my example. Although you ladies make it interesting, whot.”
“What about your drones?”
“Ah, now, ladies. This brings us back to etiquette, and the purpose of this lesson. It is rude to ask after a vampire’s drones, either in courtesy or curiosity. Drones are a bit of an embarrassment. After all, you would not ask a lady about the nature and quality of her pantry, would you?”
All the girls in the class shook their heads emphatically.
The vampire turned cold eyes on Sophronia, his mustache stiff with accusation. “Anything else, Miss Temminnick?”
“What happens when a vampire goes beyond the limit of his tether?” Sophronia knew she was pushing the bounds of propriety.
Professor Braithwope paled and stilled. If a vampire could be said to go pale. Sophronia hoped never again to see a teacher whom she respected look so frightened.
The room hushed. Normally the vampire was such an easygoing teacher. Even Monique looked up, her coming-out ball forgotten for one brief moment.
Eventually he said, “Nothing good, Miss Temminnick.”
Class ended, and the girls gathered up their reticules, hats, parasols, and shawls in subdued silence. Dimity held back when the others left and waylaid Sophronia with a hand on her arm.
“Professor Braithwope, might I have a private word?” she asked their teacher once the room cleared. “Sophronia, please stay, this concerns you.”
“Yes, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott. How may I help?”
“It’s this matter of our orders from Lady Linette. You’re aware of them?”
The vampire looked back and forth between the two girls and then nodded.
“Well, I’m not going to do it anymore. Sophronia is my friend, and it isn’t fair.”
“Intelligencers don’t play fair, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott,” he replied.
“Well, then I’m no intelligencer of merit. You may send me down, if you like. I always felt I was ill suited to this lifestyle, despite my parents. I’d rather be loyal than right.”
Professor Braithwope smiled, showing fang. “Very interesting way of putting it, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, and commendable courage, whot. We had thought you were not capable of independent action. You have, thus far, been rather dragged along in Miss Temminnick’s shadow.”
Dimity brightened. “My speaking out is a good thing? You aren’t going to report me to Lady Linette?”
“I didn’t say that, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott.”
Dimity looked crestfallen. “Whatever you think is best, vulnerable one.”
The vampire only tilted his head at Dimity’s use of the recent lesson.
Sophronia put two and two together and looked at her friend. “You were instructed to ostracize me?”
Dimity nodded, clearly ashamed.
Sophronia narrowed her eyes at Professor Braithwope. Are you testing all the other debuts in the same way, or were instructions different for each girl? Is the ostracism also a test for me?
The vampire met her speculative gaze calmly. “Did you guess, Miss Temminnick?”
Sophronia knew better than to admit to anything. “I did think it interesting that they were all so eager to blame me for high marks and react in the same way. Even Dimity. And Sidheag, who doesn’t care for the machinations of girls.” A thought occurred to her. “Were my marks inflated in order to run this test?”
Professor Braithwope’s mustache fluffed in amusement. “You would think of that. No, they were not. But Professor Lefoux did emphasize your superiority in order to drive a wedge. Now, ladies, run along or you’ll be late for your next lesson.”
They exited into the hallway, and Dimity instantly linked arms with Sophronia. It felt good to have Dimity’s bubbling presence back at her side. They trotted down a hall crowded with fellow students. Agatha and Sidheag were waiting for them.
“Tell me,” instructed Sophronia, once they were all four gathered in one corner.
“It wasn’t our fault,” defended Dimity instantly.
Agatha nodded. She lowered her head, trying to hide her face under her bonnet. Sidheag was characteristically nonchalant. Sophronia could almost hear the taller girl’s thoughts: So we weren’t talking to Sophronia and now we are? Ho hum.
Dimity burbled, trying to explain. “You see, we were each taken aside individually, after our exams, and made to promise to ostracize whichever girl had the highest marks.”
Agatha whispered, “We all thought it would be Monique.”
Sidheag added, “She had taken the test before and had four more years training.”
“Exactly,” jumped in Dimity. “That’s what I thought, too. Lady Linette told each of us that this was the second half of our exam. That if we didn’t do as instructed our official records would be marked incomplete.”
“She said they’d send me down if I didn’t obey.” Agatha looked tortured. “I tried to keep Dimity in line, too.”
Dimity nodded. “Our continued presence at the school depended upon us not speaking to you.”
“Now we’ll probably all be dismissed,” said Sidheag brightly.
“Better than being disloyal! Besides, you two didn’t renege, I did.” Dimity had all the conviction of one who has taken uncertain action and now must justify the consequences. She fiddled with the glittery ruby-and-gold broach at her throat—paste and gilt, of course.
Sophronia chewed her lip. “What if I admitted you were with me last year for the record room break-in? What if they knew how well you did then? Do you think that would count in your favor?”
Dimity was skeptical. “You would have to confess to something that we got away with. And pinned on Monique. They might count an admission against both of us.”
“It’s all so convoluted,” said Sidheag, exasperated.
“It always is.” Agatha was philosophically despondent.
“I hated to do it,” admitted Dimity. “Well, right up until you scared off Dingleproops.”
“It wasn’t him, Dimity. Please believe me. I don’t know who it was or why they set you up, but it wasn’t him, I promise you that.”
Dimity looked nonplussed. “He said as much, but I thought I’d been the butt of some cruel joke. Who was it, then?”
Preshea came bustling up. “If you ladies are quite finished? Sister Mattie wants to know why you aren’t in class.”
The girls glanced around. The hallway was empty except for them.
Preshea said to Dimity, “I see you broke your word to Lady Linette.”
Dimity huffed. “It was going too far. We were going too far.”
“Far is where they will throw you.” Preshea turned away.
“I’ll take that over being mean to a friend,” said Dimity staunchly to the girl’s retreating back. “Not that you would ever understand that, Preshea.”
Sophronia let out a small breath of relief. She hadn’t realized until that moment how unhappy she’d been without Dimity’s friendship. She thought she’d been rattling along fine on her own, but now she noticed the knots in her stomach releasing and the undeniable sensation of wanting to cry from relief.
Sophronia’s little band had reunited just in time. Monique’s promises of ball invitations were causing social mayhem. Snide comments and sharp elbows abounded. It was all much easier to endure now that the four of them were together again. They heard nothing from the teachers as to the repercussions of Dimity’s staunch decision, and they avoided speculating on that, at least. Everything else was fair game.
Sophronia brought them up to speed on some of her private investigations.
Sidheag put it together without frills, as her werewolf-trained mind was prone. “I’ve been wondering about this. Captain Niall said the vampires might be involved with Giffard’s flight? Why?”
Sophronia said, “If Professor Braithwope can tether to an airship, so could other roves.”
“Yes, but why now? Presumably old Prof has been doing it for simply ages.”
“Perhaps this new ship of Giffard’s is more vampire-safe. Or perhaps it has to do with the new technology Giffard is employing. If it works, it’d be much faster than other airships. Perhaps the vampires want access to that speed. I don’t think they like to be limited.”
Dimity looked at her friend. “I thought you were a progressive.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know if it’s right. I mean to say, Professor Braithwope is nice, but vampires need to be kept in check, don’t you think?”
Sidheag nodded vigorously. Dimity shrugged. Agatha looked at the floor.
Dimity said, “Mummy and Daddy have arguments like this. When Daddy says something like that, Mummy calls him a Pickleman.”
Sophronia nodded. “Well, I haven’t taken sides yet.”
Agatha said, “Oh, dear, are there sides?”
“Very likely. Speaking of your parents, Dimity, they haven’t upset anyone recently, have they? Anyone important or powerful? On either side, perhaps?”
Dimity frowned. “I don’t think so, why? Oh, because of that odd thing with Lord Dingleproops’s letter? You think someone might be trying to influence my parents through me?”
“It’s one explanation.”
“I don’t know.” Dimity brightened. “I shall write and ask them directly. Or better, I’ll get Pillover to do it. They will be delighted he’s finally taken an interest in something besides Latin verse. They might even tell him something truthful. I think they gave up on me when I announced my ‘hankies for hackneys’ good works plan.”
“What?” Sophronia was distracted.
“London cabbies are so very often under the weather,” said Dimity with a sniff. “One does what one can.”
“Oh, well, yes. And getting Pillover to write, good idea.” Sophronia was determined to be nice and not to take Dimity for granted ever again. Especially with the possibility that Dimity’s time at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s was soon to end. Even if Dimity had some harebrained scheme about hankies.
Sophronia remembered last evening, when she and Vieve had spied on Professors Lefoux and Shrimpdittle. “I think Monique is somehow in on it, too. I know she’s been crowing about this ball of hers, but she’s at least involved in Professor Lefoux’s experiment as an errand girl. We should run an infiltration on her.”
Dimity nodded. They’d taken instruction recently from Lady Linette in the planning of provocational action. Time to put lessons to use.
“She’ll not believe it, if it were me,” said Dimity.
Sophronia agreed. “Nor Sidheag.” The taller girl looked up at her name. “You would never change your personality so drastically as to be interested in a ball. You might betray us, but not for an invitation.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Sidheag.
“It’ll have to be Agatha,” said Dimity.
Sophronia and Sidheag looked doubtful. Agatha was definitely their weakest link.
The redhead looked back and forth between them with dread in her eyes. “Oh, dear, scheming. I was afraid this would happen if we got chummy again.”
Sophronia hunkered down conspiratorially. “You’re the only possible choice, Agatha. You need to infiltrate Monique’s group.”
“Wait! What? Me?”
“Yes, simply pretend you really want an invitation to her blasted ball. Start lurking on the fringes. Keep an eye on her,” instructed Sophronia.
“Then report back to us with the details!” added Dimity triumphantly.
“Oh, I don’t know about this.” Agatha’s eyes were huge in distress.
“You don’t have to do anything, only watch.” Sidheag tried to be reassuring.
“It’ll be good for you, Agatha. Show the teachers you’ve got acumen.” Dimity was optimistic.
Agatha brightened. “Oh, do you think it might?” Unlike Sidheag and Dimity, Agatha actually wanted to stay at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s—to please her papa.
“And,” added Dimity brightly, “it might net you an invitation to the ball.”
That was not the right tactic. Agatha looked terrified at the possibility.
Sophronia said hurriedly, “Oh, I don’t think Monique would, no matter what you did. I shouldn’t worry about that, Agatha.”
“Oh, good.”
“So, are you game?” prodded Dimity, titillated at the prospect of gossip.
Agatha straightened and looked pugnacious. “I’ll do my best!”
Sophronia didn’t expect much to come of it, but Agatha did try. She began, with remarkable subtlety, to lurk among Monique’s followers. She inched her way down to that end of the table at meals. She offered to loan Monique her jewelry. Agatha had a great deal of nice jewelry, the real stuff, unlike Dimity.
Unfortunately, her reports were unsatisfactory. “The ball is all she talks of,” she kept saying, and, “When can I stop?”
Then a few evenings later, when Dimity and Sophronia were getting ready for sleep, a demure knock sounded at their door. Dimity, in her nightgown, squeaked and dove for her bed. Sophronia, still dressed, went to answer.
It was Agatha. “Sorry to disturb you so late, but… Monique’s gone.”
“What?”
“I did like you suggested and went to her room just now, pretending I wanted that necklace back. Preshea tried to hide the fact, but Monique’s not there. She’s definitely snuck off. I think it has something to do with a message she got earlier. One of the mechanicals delivered it and she went all red.”
“Oh, goodness. Thank you, Agatha!”
Agatha shuffled away. Sophronia closed the door and headed for her wardrobe.
“You’re going after her?” asked Dimity.
“Here I was, proud all this time that I was out regularly, climbing the hull, visiting sooties, and spying on teachers, not even thinking Monique might be doing the same! She had permission to be out the other night, but I never thought she was a sneak like me….”
“Be fair, she can hardly be visiting sooties.”
“Good point. Oh, none of this will work!” Sophronia slammed her wardrobe door. “I’m going to visit Sidheag. It’s time to follow Vieve’s example.”
“What…?”
Before Dimity could finish her question, Sophronia was away.
She knocked on Agatha and Sidheag’s door, hoping to be let in before Preshea noticed. When Sidheag opened it, Sophronia pushed past and closed the door quickly behind her.
“Sidheag, I need to borrow clothes.”
Sidheag blinked. “Now? It’s one in the morning.”
“So?”
“Nothing I have could possibly fit you. You’re shorter and curvier.”
“Not dresses, silly. I need boys’ clothes. I thought you might have some.”
“What?”
Agatha looked up from the vanity, where she was brushing her hair. “You’re going after her, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And if she’s climbing, I have to climb faster. It’s time to get rid of skirts. Now, Sidheag? Please hurry.”
Sidheag grinned. “How sensible of you.” She dove for her wardrobe, which was in an unholy state. The act of opening the door caused a straw bonnet, a parasol, and a patchwork goose to fall out on her head. The taller girl barely noticed, batting away hats, gloves, and a single red stocking like so many gnats. She ruffled through the contents, hurling items behind her in a deliciously enthusiastic way.
Agatha gave a whimper of distress. Her side of the room was neat as a new penny.
“Aha!” Sidheag resurfaced, triumphant, with a pair of tweed jodhpurs, of the type country squires use for hunting, and a wrinkled man’s shirt.
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.
She took out her grappling rope and swung it up onto a balcony above. It caught and hooked. She shimmied up—so much easier in trousers!—and retracted the hurlie, taking a moment to run her hand along the railing. There were little scrapes and nicks—some fresh, some ancient—indicating other grappling hooks had been used. Why should I be surprised? This is a school of espionage, after all. She swung, hurlied, and climbed up another level so that she was above Monique and could follow her from there.
Monique was not the most graceful climber. She was wearing an evening dress and was hindered by the length and fullness of her skirts. Even at her most prudish, Sophronia wore her shortest dress with only one or two petticoats when climbing. Nevertheless, Monique moved as if she did it regularly and was following a pattern. She did not look around to see if she was being pursued. Eventually, she stopped at a balcony, climbed over the railing, and knocked on the door. All the other quarters nearby had attractive French doors with stained glass. Professor Lefoux’s glass was all gears in grays and blues, Lady Linette’s was roses in reds and pinks, and Sister Mattie’s was vines and flowers in greens and yellows.
This door had no glass, and the porthole window to the room was blacked over—Professor Braithwope’s rooms. Vampires did not like sunlight, and floating high above cloud cover, the sun beat down on Mademoiselle Geraldine’s more than anywhere else in England.
The door swung open, and Monique entered the vampire’s nest.
Sophronia made her way over. It was a risk, but the only way to listen was via the cracks in that door. She’d have to be particularly quiet, given Professor Braithwope’s supernatural hearing. Hopefully, Monique would be talking loudly about herself, as usual.
Sophronia hooked her grapple over the railing, then unstrapped and lowered the wristband end of the hurlie, careful to let the excess come to rest without slapping. Then she swung herself over and by slow degrees climbed down.
Her weekly visits to the sooties and other extracurricular excursions had given her arm muscles no young lady of quality ought to have. She’d had to let out the seams on most of her sleeves. Thus far, no one had noticed. She was certain to get a lecture on her diet if Sister Mattie did. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s young ladies were not supposed to become portly.
Sophronia attained the balcony and padded to the door. Taking out her ear trumpet, she pressed it against the crack between the hinges.
“… there must be something you can do!” Monique’s tone was wheedling.
“I’m afraid not. She is not my queen, even were I hive bound, whot. The words of a rove hold little weight. It’s too bad you gave Lady Linette a reason to send you down. You pushed her too far with that prototype business, and then poor testing marks. They have a legitimate excuse that can be justified to the trustees, and your parents.”
“But I’ve given you years of my blood!”
Monique is Professor Braithwope’s drone, Sophronia realized. Somehow she wasn’t surprised. He would be a perfect advocate. It was a little creepy that he fed on a student. But then again, the very idea of him sticking those fangs into anyone’s neck was creepy.
“Nothing I can do about it, whot. You should have stayed in everyone’s good graces until this Giffard nonsense passed, as I instructed. I will have a better standing with all hives after. Now, you must leave the ship as soon as you come out. Our contract together ends the moment we land in London.”
I wonder if Professor Braithwope is the reason we’re called to town, Sophronia thought. It would make perfect sense. He is the only teacher who can’t travel there on his own. The whole school has to go with him. He is, after all, tethered to the airship.
Professor Braithwope’s tone became almost kindly. “You are more connected to her than I at this point, whot. After all, I did not authorize the redistribution of the prototype; you undertook that at her private request.”
“You thwarted me and them in that matter,” said Monique. “They aren’t happy with either of us.”
Sophronia rubbed at her forehead, trying to make her brain’s inner cogs tumble smoothly. Last autumn, when Monique tried to steal the prototype, Sophronia had thought she was working for the government. This conversation indicated that Monique was working for a vampire hive instead. If they wanted the prototype valve then, did they still want it? Goodness, I wish Vieve would tell me what that newer one from the oddgob was for. Is it still all about communication across distances? Or do the mini ones do something more sinister?
“Hence the reason I do this test with Giffard,” said Professor Braithwope.
Well, that cinches it. Professor Braithwope needs to meet with Giffard and his new dirigible; that’s why the school is going to London.
The vampire continued. “What will you do to get back in their good graces?”
Monique said nothing. Sophronia wished she could see their faces. Eavesdropping was difficult without a window.
Finally Monique muttered, “I don’t know.”
I’d wager she already has a plan, thought Sophronia.
“I wager you already have a plan,” said Professor Braithwope.
“And you’re hungry enough to let me get away with not telling you about it.”
Sophronia realized, for the first time, that Monique had always favored high-necked gowns. She also liked silk shawls and ribbon chokers. How could I have not realized it was to disguise feeding bites? I’m going to have to pay better attention to that part of fashion in the future.
“Oh, no, my dear, you forget, I no longer care,” said the vampire, sharper than Sophronia had ever heard him speak to a student. “Now, come here.”
Sophronia prepared to shimmy back up the rope.
After a long silence, Monique spoke, her voice weaker than before. “Since you are no longer looking after me, Professor, you must consider this our last meal together.”
Professor Braithwope said, “Of course, wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You have… alternative options?” Monique sounded jealous.
Sophronia began to make a mental list, trying to think of all forty-five students and which ones might be hiding the mark of Professor Braithwope’s favor.
The vampire did not answer Monique.
Sophronia considered offering herself. There would be quite an advantage to having a vampire’s help. But it smacked of cheating. Also, the idea made her squeamish. It was a mark of how far she had come during her time at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s that it didn’t make her more than squeamish.
“Well, Professor, will you be able to attend my ball?”
“I’m afraid not. That’s well within Lord Akeldama’s territory. I’ll stay with the ship around Hyde Park, neutral ground, whot.”
“Shame,” said Monique.
“I am certain you will catch London afire with your charm,” said the vampire gallantly. Professor Braithwope never forgot his manners, which was why he taught lessons on them.
“I’d rather do it with my looks,” snapped Monique.
Angry footsteps headed in Sophronia’s direction. She scrabbled backward, sacrificing silence for speed. She grabbed her rope at the edge of the balcony and shimmied up, coiling it behind her.
The door below burst open, and both Professor Braithwope and Monique walked out.
“I heard something!” said the professor.
“No one is here.” Monique glanced around but did not look up.
But Professor Braithwope did, just as Sophronia tumbled over the railing of the balcony above. Their eyes met for one startled instant.
The vampire winked at her. Actually winked, his mustache bristling conspiratorially. “Ah, perhaps you are right. Simply the wind, whot?”
There was no wind.
Monique had her own concerns and let the matter drop. It was one of the things that made her such a poor intelligencer. She was good at putting lessons to use, but only in the service of her own ends.
“I can’t believe it,” said Dimity over breakfast. Her objection was almost loud enough for Monique to hear at the other end of the table.
Monique, fortunately, was in deep council with Preshea, Lord Dingleproops, Lord Mersey, and several of the older girls on the subject of decorations. Who supplied the best fresh flowers in London? And did they want ribbons, rosettes, and streamers, or only two fluttering options?
“He’s her advocate on staff. Or he was. I suppose it makes sense, but I should never have believed it of him. I was certain Prof B. had better taste. And”—Dimity’s attention was caught by the end of the table—“why must Preshea flirt with him so outrageously?”
Sophronia was accustomed to her friend’s lightning-fast change of topics. “Lord Dingleproops?”
“Of course, Lord Dingleproops! I could hardly mean Lord Mersey. He’s obviously yours. And Pillover doesn’t count. Pillover never counts. They are the only three assigned to our table.”
“Not that Monique would ever flirt with me,” added Pillover, staring glumly into his bowl of porridge. Sister Mattie had put him on a diet. He was, if possible, even more morbid as a result.
“Lord Mersey is not mine,” Sophronia protested rather too vehemently.
Dimity got coy. “Does he know that?”
“Now, now, we were talking about Lord Dingleproops. I thought you had moved on. The lack of chin. The nasty joke missive.”
“Well, I genuinely think he didn’t know about that. I compared handwriting. It wasn’t his on that letter requesting the assignation.”
Sophronia nodded. “Still, I thought you were no longer tempted to partake.”
“I wasn’t, until Preshea came along and stole him away from me.”
“Dimity!”
“Well, it’s true. I’m a terribly, terribly shallow person.”
Pillover nodded into his gruel.
Dimity turned on him. “Speaking of which, have you heard back from the Parental Evils yet?”
Pillover shook his head even more glumly, practically sinking face-first into the porridge, he was hunching so low.
Dimity went back to commenting on the other end of the table. “Oh, simply look at Preshea, flashing that diamond necklace around! One shouldn’t wear diamonds to breakfast, so gauche. As if she came from real wealth!”
“Doesn’t she have money?” Pillover looked up. “She acts like she has money.”
“Which is the most certain indication that she does not. People with money never act like it. Take Agatha, for example.”
“Which one is Agatha?” wondered Pillover, in a tone of voice that said all girls looked the same.
“The redhead.”
Pillover glanced at Agatha, who was dutifully pretending to be part of Monique’s inner circle. Her bonnet had slid back, her hair was coming undone, and she’d forgotten her lace tuck—again.
Pillover looked understandably doubtful as to the girl’s substance.
Preshea’s tinkling laugh rippled down the table. The pretty brunette pressed a hand to Lord Dingleproops’s arm and looked up at him adoringly. Her diamonds sparkled almost as much as the avarice in her eyes.
Lord Dingleproops seemed stunned. His cravat was tied so nicely, one could almost, reflected Sophronia, forgive him the lack of chin.
Dimity said, “I wrote him poetry!”
Preshea let go of the young lord and continued on with her conversation. Dingleproops brushed at the spot where her hand had been, straightening his jacket.
“Dimity,” Sophronia said, horrified by such an admission, “you didn’t give him the poetry, did you?”
“Certainly not.”
Sidheag tilted back in her chair, grinning. “Well, let’s hear it.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.” But Dimity was already dipping into her reticule and pulling out a scrap of paper. She gave it to Sidheag, who read it with a perfectly straight face, her tawny eyes dancing, and then passed it to Sophronia.
“My love is like a red red rose
occasionally he has a red red nose
he could keep me warm in the snows
I wager he has very nice toes.”
Sophronia could think of nothing to say except, “Oh, Dimity.”
Things might have continued in this vein except a violent jerk shook the entire airship, accompanied by a rumbling clunk and then a sinking sensation.
The girls looked at one another.
Dimity glared suspiciously at Sophronia. “What did you do now?”
Sophronia widened her eyes. “Not me this time, I promise.”
“It’s always you,” accused Sidheag in an appreciative kind of way.
“Are we sinking? I do believe we are sinking,” said Lord Dingleproops a tad loudly.
“Falling, my dear Dingleproops,” corrected Lord Mersey. “We are not at sea.”
“Landing, perhaps?” suggested Dingleproops, obviously uncomfortable with the concept of falling out of the sky.
The girls were also discombobulated, but they were not so gauche as to talk about it. They looked to the head table to see how the teachers were behaving. Aside from Professor Shrimpdittle, none of them were reacting. Even Mademoiselle Geraldine was calmly consuming crumpets. Professor Braithwope, it being daylight, was still abed.
Sensing the shift in student mood, Lady Linette rose to address the masses.
“We are lowering for a refuel and groundside layover. Students will engage in various land-bound activities, including an al fresco luncheon during which time you will be expected to undertake consumption, courting, and conspiracy over calico cloth. After sunset, there will be a lesson with Captain Niall for the ladies, and badminton in the dark for the gentlemen. Be certain to gather all your necessities after breakfast; you will not be permitted back aboard until supper.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine added, “Ladies, be certain to wear your wide-brimmed hats. You know how I feel about freckles.”
This announcement was met with enthusiasm. Outside classes? All day and evening? How thrilling. Plus picnics were widely considered a wheeze.
Everyone attempted to finish breakfast posthaste, the better to have extra time to change into walking dresses and outside bonnets.
Shortly thereafter, they found themselves trotting down the steam-powered drop-staircase onto a grassy hilltop pasture near a diminutive forest. Sophronia spared a moment to wonder what locals might think of a random low-floating cloud. However, it was romantic to imagine being seen descending out of it.
“As if we were cloud princesses,” suggested Dimity. She’d chosen to branch out from her customary vibrant dresses for one of ruffled cream-and-dove-gray chiffon, looking very cloudlike herself.
As soon as all the students and most of the teachers were disgorged—Professor Braithwope and Mademoiselle Geraldine remaining on board—the airship cloud rose majestically back into the air and drifted out of sight behind the trees.
It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky—which made a random airship cloud all the more peculiar. The girls looked a picture. It was still cold for spring, but out had come pretty flowered muslins and striped seersucker walking dresses. There were parasols galore, and embroidered fringed shawls, not to mention shepherdess hats and Italian straw bonnets. Admittedly, the stylish dresses had been modified by belts with dangling gadgets, wrist attachments, suspiciously heavy chatelaines, and, in Sophronia’s case, a large reticule that looked like a metal sausage dog.
Lessons, it must be confessed, were not a resounding success. The students were distracted easily. Sophronia and the debuts joined with some of the middle-level girls and all of the visiting boys for a lesson with Lady Linette in how to stroll in Hyde Park. Much time was spent going over the different ways to cut an unwelcome suitor, how tightly a man’s arm might be grasped, and the best way to engage in espionage under direct sunlight. They also discussed the distribution, use, and application of stealth spy rocks.
There was a light picnic of broiled beef, roast duck, braised pork pie, cold poached chicken in cream sauce, pickles and relishes, crusty French bread, and stewed fruit, accompanied by punch, which was followed by tea with pear turnovers, cabinet pudding, and apricot macaroons. They learned how to sit on wet ground and still eat with delicacy. Conversation centered mainly on the various evil projects under the purview of their gentlemen visitors, with the young ladies inventing new uses and applications. It turned into a kind of game. Lord Dingleproops, for example, was working on mustache-curling and waxing technologies, and the girls wondered if his wax might be used to convey secret messages, or even if the curl of a man’s mustache might function in just such a manner. The discussion evolved to the interesting question of whether a gentleman could tattoo a secret message upon his chin, then grow out his beard, thus transporting said message into enemy territory with no one the wiser. Would a man want a message permanently upon his chin? That was the quandary. And could one legitimately ascribe nefarious intent to any many with a full beard as a result?
“I’ve always thought beards suspicious,” said Dimity with conviction.
Sophronia felt Lord Dingleproops might be improved by a beard. After all, no one would know his chin appeared to have eloped with, quite probably, Monique’s brain and Preshea’s sense of humor.
After the picnic, the ladies and gentlemen were permitted to socialize further. Flirting was cautiously encouraged, with Lord Dingleproops and Lord Mersey being instantly subsumed by Preshea and Monique respectively. Sophronia and Dimity linked arms and tootled around. Agatha trailed dutifully behind her mark, as ordered, along with a small gaggle of fellow sycophants. Sidheag mooched off with a stick to beat a tree or something. The teachers settled into a group near the hilltop to keep an eye on the mingling young people.
Sophronia and Dimity wandered into the small forest, where they found an empty patch of ground and put Bumbersnoot down to have a snuffle in the fallen leaves. He was given strict instructions not to catch anything on fire, although it was damp enough that he would have had to put considerable effort into the attempt.
He squeaked about, his stubby mechanical legs getting caught on twigs, his ears flapping with toots of smoke, and his tail wagging back and forth eagerly. Sophronia did not bother to remove the lace bits wrapped about him, so that he trailed ribbons and straps in his wake like an entirely disreputable bride.
They talked of nothing consequential and watched the mechanimal’s antics. Bumbersnoot was wrestling with a large stick, and Sophronia couldn’t tell whether he wanted to swallow it into his storage compartment or his boiler. Suddenly, the little creature sat back and whistled, pressing out steam forcefully in some kind of an alarm, like a teakettle.
Both girls were startled. They’d had no idea he could make any noise whatsoever, aside from the clang when he stumbled into furniture.
Moments later three slablike men materialized out of the trees. One of them grabbed Dimity, and another Sophronia. The third stood with arms akimbo, as if he intended to make a speech.
Sophronia found herself most indelicately confined. There was one beefy arm about her waist, trapping her arms against her side, and another over her mouth, preventing her from shouting for assistance.
“Where’s the boy?” demanded the third ruffian, looking around. “We need him as well.”
Sophronia tried to kick her captor, lashing out with one booted foot, but heavy skirts and copious petticoats prevented her from doing any damage.
Dimity was also struggling. Sophronia could see her friend’s wide hazel eyes above the other ruffian’s arm.
Bumbersnoot, ignored by their attackers, took temporary refuge behind a stump.
Sophronia really didn’t want to, but she did the only thing she could. She opened her mouth and bit down hard on the man’s sweaty arm.
The man howled in pain but didn’t let her go, only jerked her head back and tightened his grip into her mouth in a most uncomfortable manner.
“The boy should be with them; they are siblings, after all.”
Pillover. They want Pillover, too.
Bumbersnoot, not at all pleased with this treatment of his mistress, circled about and approached Sophronia’s captor.
Sophronia couldn’t give him any orders. Even if she were able to speak, he rarely obeyed verbal commands. She had no idea what he might do. She was terribly afraid he would get himself permanently damaged; one swift kick from the ruffian’s anvil-sized boot and he was done for.
Her mind cataloged lessons. They’d had nothing on freeing themselves from larger, stronger captors. Her elbows were tight to her waist, but she made an attempt to reach for her chatelaine—the Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification hung there. It was a weapon, of sorts. She couldn’t get hold of it, but she could reach her other wrist.
She still wore the hurlie. She rarely took it off except to bathe. She managed to use one hand to release the catch.
Bumbersnoot moved closer.
Sophronia couldn’t point the grapple at her own captor, and she daren’t risk hitting Dimity, but the man who had spoken was an easy target. She angled her wrist at him and fired. She got the grapple over the ruffian’s shoulder, jerking back to bring the hook into the flesh of his upper back. The man screamed and turned, scrabbling with his hands.
“Get it off, get it out!” he yelled. There was blood leaking down his shirt—he was without a jacket. All three of them were. So thuggish.
In the same instant, Bumbersnoot snuck up against Sophronia’s captor’s leg and blasted hot steam on the man’s bare ankle, scalding him badly. That’ll teach him not to wear hose, thought Sophronia.
The man yelled in surprise and let her go. Sophronia dove down, scooped up Bumbersnoot, and rolled out of reach. Lady Linette had made them practice that maneuver in full skirts. The extra material actually helped, cushioning the somersault. Sophronia couldn’t get very far, however, as her wrist was still attached to the other man via the hurlie.
At the sight of the blood, Dimity fainted, becoming a dead weight in her ruffian’s arms. He swore and tried to keep hold, but Dimity’s chiffon dress was slippery, and she hadn’t Sophronia’s propensity for covering herself with gadgets. Without handholds, the man lost his grip. Dimity collapsed to the forest floor.
The bleeding man managed to free himself from Sophronia’s hurlie, which she retracted. Momentarily unencumbered, Sophronia pulled out her letter opener. She’d begun to carry it right after they started knife-fighting lessons, as soon as she realized it would work just as well and be more innocuous. After all, a lady might expect a missive at any moment. It wouldn’t do to be without a letter opener. She made a mental note to start wearing and training with her hurlie in her left hand so she could use both as weapons in a fight.
With one ruffian trying to pick up a limp Dimity, another clutching his burned leg, and the third trying to grab his own bleeding back, it looked like Sophronia had the best of them. She was no fool, however. It was her and Bumbersnoot, whose ribbon strap she threw over her neck, against three fully grown men. She ought to run, but she wasn’t about to leave Dimity in their clutches!
The men were wary of coming at her again. She was, after all, armed with a projectile. She wished for a gun. If this kind of thing were to become a regular occurrence, munitions lessons really shouldn’t be left for older students. Then her training kicked in: get them talking.
“What do you want?” she asked, pleased with how steady her voice sounded.
“Oh, no, little miss, we know better then that,” said one.
Another said to his companions, “We can’t let her go. She’ll alert the others.”
“Good idea,” said Sophronia, at which juncture she threw her head back and screamed at the top of her lungs.
Instantly, not so very far away, she heard someone crashing through the trees. She screamed again.
Apparently, deciding it was most important to hush her, two ruffians charged. Sophronia took aim and fired with her hurlie a second time. It hit the burned man in the chest and bounced harmlessly off. The hooks were made to catch on the draw back, not the firing. I should get Vieve to mount a sharp point in the middle that pops out when I release the turtle. Still the man howled in surprise; the spring-loaded release was strong, so it would at least bruise. Then the other man was upon her.
Sophronia fell into Captain Niall’s best defensive stance for the smaller personage when faced with a large opponent and raised her letter opener. The ruffian moved in, no doubt relying on the fact that she was female and could not possibly know anything about fighting. Captain Niall had only taught them a single attack, but he had made them practice it over and over and over. Sophronia slashed out, opening up a long gash on the man’s arm.
He backed away warily.
The other ruffian stopped, grabbed at her grappling hook, and began tugging on it. Soon he would have Sophronia by a leash, and she had no time to undo the turtle from her wrist, focused as she was on fighting the first man. Sophronia prepared to kick. That was a dirty tactic, not taught by Captain Niall, but Soap had shown her a few tricks and she was prepared to use them if necessary.
It was not necessary, for a rescuer appeared out of the forest.
“You screamed, madam?”
“Why, Lord Mersey, what are you doing here?”
“Following you, of course. Spot of bother?”
“Little bit of one, yes.”
The young man looked with interest at Sophronia’s opponents, one holding a collapsed Dimity, one bleeding from a gash to the arm, and the third bleeding from a wound to the back.
“My dear Ria, you hardly need my help.”
“Hardly.”
“Have I told you recently how much I admire a capable woman?” As he spoke, the young lord reached inside his coat and produced the most remarkable gadget. It wasn’t very big and was rather flat, which explained how he could keep it in his coat without upsetting the lines, but it was extremely evil looking. It was long and sharp with multiple attachments and a nozzle blackened from extruding some toxic substance. It looked highly flammable and quite deadly. Vieve would have been enthralled.
The ruffians were suitably impressed. They stopped.
“Put down the young lady,” said Felix.
The man holding Dimity hesitated.
Felix was an aristocrat and accustomed to instant obedience. “This moment!” He swung the weapon to aim at the man and Dimity. “I assure you, I am a very good shot. I will most certainly hit you, not her.”
“What is that thing?” quavered the ruffian.
“Oh, this?” Felix was casual. “This is a ballistic exploding steam missile fire prong. It’s my latest invention, and it’s very, very good at being deadly.”
That did it. The ruffian holding Dimity dropped her once more, and she flopped becomingly, like a sleeping princess from a fairy story.
The man who had been hurlied said to the other two, “We ain’t paid enough for this.”
The others apparently agreed. “Leave it.”
With little more to-do, the three ruffians dashed away into the forest.
Sophronia and Felix looked at each other.
“Nice prong,” said Sophronia after a moment.
Felix grinned and waggled his eyebrows lasciviously. “Thank you for saying so.”
Sophronia was instantly suspicious. “You mean that isn’t a ballistic exploding steam missile fire prong?”
“No such thing, my dear Ria, but it certainly sounds wicked, doesn’t it?”
“Then what is it?”
He handed the evil-looking object over. “Ah, a portable boot-blackening apparatus with pressure-controlled particulate emissions, and attached accoutrement to achieve the highest possible shine. For the stylish gentleman on the go.” He presented his own well-turned-out leg, proving that his boots were as shiny as could be, despite exposure to the outside environment.
Sophronia looked down the barrel of the thing and, accidentally, pulled the trigger. A fine mist of boot black hit her in the face, making her squeak, sputter, and drop the object.
She pulled out her handkerchief to repair the damage but left the apparatus where it lay in the leaves. “Automated shoe-shining kit?”
“Shoe-shining prong.” Felix picked it up and moved closer to her. “You are unhurt?”
Sophronia nodded, still trying to clean her face.
After a moment, Felix took the handkerchief away from her and began to tenderly remove all trace of the black. Sophronia submitted to his ministrations in a momentary lapse of training. Her mind went blank, and she couldn’t determine how to extricate herself from the intimacy. She was not prepared for tenderness.
A small cough and rustle of leaves interrupted the tête-à-tête.
Dimity was awake.
Sophronia grabbed her blackened handkerchief from Felix and ran to kneel next to her friend.
“What happened?” wondered Dimity.
“You fainted.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And then Felix… uh… Lord Mersey came to our rescue with a shoe-shining kit.”
“Sophronia, have I told you recently that your explanations often lack a certain panache?”
“Well, you will keep fainting during the best bits.”
Felix ambled over. “How are you feeling, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott?”
“Oh, perfectly topping, Lord Mersey. I’m always topping. And you?”
“Tolerably well. Shall we rejoin the rest of the party?”
“Jolly good idea,” said Dimity, accepting his hand up and his offer of an arm.
He offered his other arm to Sophronia. “Ria?”
Sophronia took it, not wishing to be churlish.
“Now, ladies, do we say anything of this to anyone?” he asked, not being trained by Mademoiselle Geraldine’s into the custom of never saying anything unless instructed otherwise.
“Of what, exactly?” wondered Sophronia.
“I fainted. I’ve no idea what you are on about,” added Dimity.
“Ah,” said Lord Mersey, “quite. I see,” just as if he did quite see.
Dimity and Sophronia looked at each other. Dimity nodded. Now, they both knew for certain that someone was after Dimity and Pillover. I hope their parents can shed some light on this situation, thought Sophronia. Or Dimity and I are going to have to take some seriously restrictive precautions. She was already planning ways to booby-trap their room of an evening.