Waistcoats & Weaponry

by Gail Carriger

  “We have about a quarter of an hour before Mumsy realizes the boys are missing,” said Sophronia, consulting a pocket watch.

  Felix was glaring at Soap. Now that he knew who Soap really was, Felix was upset at being challenged during a dance by a sootie.

  Soap was focused on Sidheag. He considered her a friend—they had sparred on occasion. He liked her masculine ways and acerbic attitude. He respected her as a decent gambler. No icing on Miss Maccon, he was prone to saying. “Miss Maccon, I’ve never seen you upset afore. What’s happened?”

  Pillover sat cross-legged on the floor, Bumbersnoot in his lap, attitude mostly sympathetic. Although he did seem morosely pleased to be in the company of someone as unhappy as he.

  Dimity relayed Sidheag’s tale of woe, avoiding mention of the dewan. It was intelligencer instinct that caused her to withhold that bit of information, but Sophronia agreed with her decision. Felix didn’t need to know everything; his father was a Pickleman, after all. The Picklemen were probably elated by the werewolf crisis.

  During the telling, Lord Mersey, unaccustomed to all attention being on someone other than him, came timidly over and drew up a small hassock to sit on, joining the circle by the fire. He wisely held his tongue, but Sophronia could practically read his mind: Who cares what happens to a pack of werewolves? Good riddance to bad rubbish. But he knew himself to be in the minority. He was also, Sophronia hoped, a genuinely decent enough person to sympathize with Sidheag over the loss of a loved one—whether or not he approved of that loved one’s condition. Maybe seeing her distress would make him think that not all supernaturals were bad. Then again, Kingair had just tried to kill the queen. What a pickle this was.

  Sophronia wasn’t sure what to think. She wished, inexplicably, that she could get Lord Akeldama’s perspective. Vampires and werewolves were mainly uninterested in one another’s private affairs, except where they crossed into alliance with the Queen of England. They were protective of their unusual acceptance in British Government and guarded it jealously as the only supernaturals in the known world with legal status. Which explained the dewan’s involvement. He had to fix this. The stability of the nation depended on it. There you go, thought Sophronia, perhaps I don’t need to talk to Lord Akeldama to understand after all.

  They sat drinking tea and suggesting possible plans of action, consoling Sidheag with words and imagined deeds.

  Sidheag remained mainly monosyllabic but after her third cup took a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you all for being so kind. But I know what I have to do. It’s only… Sophronia, I’ll need your help.”

  “Of course.” Sophronia looked up, eager to be of assistance. She hated the feeling of helplessness her friend’s misery engendered.

  “I have to go home to Kingair. Now. Right away.” Sidheag’s expression pleaded with her not to argue.

  Sophronia nodded. Her mind was already on it.

  “You want to follow Captain Niall?” Dimity had seen that intimate look exchanged between their tall, angular friend and the handsome werewolf.

  “My pack needs me. Kingair needs me.”

  The train is probably fastest, Sophronia was thinking. “You can help them?” was what she said. The right train and we might even beat them there, as the werewolves have to lock down tomorrow night. She did some quick calculations in her head.

  “I am the Lady of Kingair, after all. There is power in the title.” Sidheag sounded confident.

  “What good could you possibly do?” Felix asked. The others would have simply supported Sidheag, however illogical or emotional her choice. She was their friend and they would do what was needed.

  Sidheag spoke, peer to peer. “You don’t understand. Pack is more than a group; it is a container. Like a jug of water that can hold a great deal if it is intact. Without an Alpha, the jug fractures and the water drains away.”

  “You think you can patch the leak?” Felix’s lip curled slightly in genuine disbelief.

  Sidheag snorted. “Bad analogy. But, yes, in a way I do. I think I am more than a little Alpha by nature. My uncles, they trust me.”

  “To become a kind of Alpha yourself? Or help one of your uncles take the position?” Sophronia was confused as to what Sidheag thought she could do.

  “Either, both, I don’t know, something. Just offering emotional support I’m sure would help.”

  Sophronia thought this was foolhardy. But she had no better plan. She didn’t know werewolf dynamics well enough to predict their reaction to Sidheag’s interloping. But if this was what would make Sidheag feel better, to commit a mad dash across England to Scotland, then Sophronia would arrange a mad dash or die trying.

  Sophronia had made her decision before she’d even finished that thought. “We’ll need to get to a train station. Mumsy will have all the horses tied down, but I have an idea that I think will work.”

  Sidheag looked relieved. She herself was a decent leader, but under current conditions she trusted Sophronia to get the details sorted. “Good, I like trains.”

  Sophronia continued to scheme. “I think it’d work best if we went as young men, fewer questions.”

  “We?”

  “I’m coming with you, of course.”

  Dimity said, instantly, “Then I’m coming, too!”

  Felix Mersey added, “I as well. Sounds like a lark. Besides, can’t have you ladies running around the countryside without some kind of supervision. Especially not if werewolves are involved.”

  “If he’s going, I’m going.” Soap’s tone of voice brooked no argument.

  Sophronia did weight sums in her head.

  Everyone else turned to look at Pillover, the only one still silent.

  “No, thank you,” said Pillover primly. “I loathe adventures. I’m sure Bumbersnoot will join you, though.”

  Bumbersnoot blew smoke out his ears in agreement.

  Sophronia said, “That’s good, because I don’t think it can take six.”

  “You don’t think what can take six?” Sidheag seemed to be perking up now that the others had agreed so readily to her need to head north.

  “The airdinghy, of course.”

  Dimity knew exactly what Sophronia was talking about. “The one we stole and stashed? It still works?”

  “Don’t see why not. Mumsy hasn’t lit her floating lanterns yet; we could steal the helium meant for those.”

  She was interrupted by a rattling at the door.

  “Sophronia! Let me in this instant,” said an autocratic female voice.

  “Oh, dear,” said Sophronia. There was nowhere for the boys to hide; they were about to get in serious trouble.

  The knob rattled again. Then the door crashed open with a splintering sound, overturning the chair Dimity had wedged against.

  In strode Mrs. Barnaclegoose.

  Mrs. Barnaclegoose was a dear friend of Mrs. Temminnick’s. A country lady much feared by gentlemen of all ages because she was decided in her ways, firm in her opinions, and interested in impressing both upon everyone around her. She was an inveterate gossip who favored stylish gowns designed with far less substantial figures in mind. Tonight’s ensemble was a blue-and-white-plaid dress with a wide collar from which dangled an impressive quantity of fringe. The fringe shook much in the way a finger of reprimand might.

  Everyone was terrified by the intrusion. Mrs. Barnaclegoose had an aura of imminent discipline. She was the type of female who would report to Sophronia’s mother on the situation in the family parlor in such vibrant terms as to make it seem a veritable orgy.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said calmly to Sophronia, completely ignoring the others.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Barnaclegoose. I did not see you arrive at the ball, or I would have tendered my regards immediately.”

  “Very prettily said, dear. As you can tell, I’m not dressed for a masquerade. I hadn’t intended to come. I’m only here to deliver something. Oh, there’s the nice little doggie! Good evening, Bumbersnoot, how do you do?”
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br />   Bumbersnoot submitted good-naturedly to having his leather ears scratched. Mrs. Barnaclegoose loomed over him, breasts heaving, stays creaking alarmingly.

  “Such a good little man,” said Mrs. Barnaclegoose to Bumbersnoot. She straightened and handed Sophronia a long, thin package. “Just this once, mind you. A similar request from anyone of less standing and I should have considered it an insult. Imagine asking me to deliver a gift as if I were a messenger boy.”

  She turned to leave the room, trailing a strong scent of lavender in her wake. At the door she paused to say, “Now, dear, you will be careful with that one? He’s too old for his own good.”

  It must be from Lord Akeldama. Sophronia seized the opportunity. “You would recommend against his offer of patronage?”

  “Gone as far as that, has it?”

  “Not formally. I’m still in school, after all, but I think he might ask.”

  Mrs. Barnaclegoose hinted darkly, “I expect other contenders.”

  “Oh?” Sophronia looked at her hard. Mrs. Barnaclegoose had guided her into espionage. And despite her once having covered Mrs. Barnaclegoose with trifle, Sophronia liked her. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  Mrs. Barnaclegoose glanced about at the assembled party as if only just noticing them all. “Interesting collection, Miss Temminnick. Is that Golborne’s get? I was engaged to him once, you know? Before we found out about his political leanings. The duke, I mean, not the get. Now, dears, I’d scatter if I were you. Mrs. Temminnick is soon to send one of her other spawn to check up on Lady Kingair’s condition, and they aren’t as”—she paused, knowingly—“discreet as I.”

  Sophronia could imagine the delight in Petunia’s eyes. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Barnaclegoose.” She curtsied deeply.

  Mrs. Barnaclegoose left, closing the door behind her.

  The room erupted into confused questions. Dimity’s higher tones resolved into the only one Sophronia felt like addressing.

  “Who was she?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Barnaclegoose? She’s the one who recruited me.”

  “I forgot you were a covert. I never would have guessed that woman a product of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s.”

  “I believe that’s the idea,” said Sidheag, sounding almost like her old self.

  “Who is her patron, do you think?” Dimity seemed particularly curious; perhaps she saw Mrs. Barnaclegoose as a model for her own future lifestyle.

  Sophronia answered because she wanted Felix to know she had options. She wanted Felix to know he had options. “Queen Victoria, I suspect. She acted as if this delivery was a favor to a friend, and the same when she recruited me to the school. I’ve never asked her outright, but I think her patron must be someone very important. The queen matches her personality.

  “Speaking of which, I find it’s generally best to follow her advice. Ladies, we should go down directly. Gentlemen, in about fifteen minutes Lady Kingair will have a fainting fit that will result in our needing to retire from the ball early.” Sidheag nodded her willingness to participate. “Dimity, are you ready with the assist?”

  “Of course.”

  Sophronia looked to Soap. “If the gentlemen would meet us in the gazebo in a quarter of an hour? Pillover will show you where. Soap, can I trust you to requisition sufficient supplies from the kitchen?”

  Soap nodded.

  “Lord Mersey, you’re on clothing. The nursery is four doors down on the left. There are masses of Gresham’s old things stashed there. Mumsy is keeping them for when the twins are big enough. Bring enough for all of us, lots of sizes and such. I trust you have a good eye for the figures of ladies?”

  Felix’s kohl-rimmed eyes were mellow behind the slim jester mask. “I’ve seen you in trousers before, both of you. Although not Miss Dimity, of course.”

  Dimity blushed. “Must I?”

  Sophronia said firmly, “I think it best. Then we’re only a bunch of lads—ladding it about. Young ladies on the loose get noticed.”

  Dimity winced in anticipated humiliation.

  Sophronia gave her team a quick look-over. They all seemed prepared for action. Sidheag had bucked up, less worried about life now that Sophronia had a scheme in play. Pillover looked like Pillover, the weight of the world oppressing him. Nothing to be done about that. She worried about Soap. Would he be sacked for being away from engineering for so long? Would he refrain from popping Felix in the snoot?

  Sophronia reached down and scooped up her mechanimal. She fed Bumbersnoot the gift from Lord Akeldama. It was almost too long to fit into Bumbersnoot’s storage compartment, but he managed it. She marched from the room, clutching Bumbersnoot under one arm. Dimity and Sidheag trailed after.

  They reentered the ballroom.

  Just in time, as it turned out. The grandfather clock in the hallway behind them was striking midnight. Speeches were soon to commence, then more nibbles, then more dancing. Ephraim was leading his cupcake lady up to the dais in front of the quartet, for some concentrated adoration and praise. The mechanicals circled in a pattern, herding people to stand on the dance floor, passing out glasses of bubbly. Sophronia, Sidheag, and Dimity hustled to the front, in prominent position to be seen by Sophronia’s mother and cause a maximum amount of distraction with sudden illnesses. They each took a glass of champagne, knowing that flying crystal and spilled drinks could be almost as bad as the faint itself.

  The clock finished its final gong. The musicians stopped playing and everyone stilled, turning expectantly to face the dais crowded with proud parents and the happy couple.

  All was in readiness.

  Sophronia prepared to give Sidheag the signal.

  Then every mechanical in the house went completely and utterly unhinged.

  A CRISIS OF OPERATIC PROPORTIONS

  There was no other way to put it—they went bonkers. One moment, mechanicals were passing out the champagne. The next, they were engaged in a high-speed romp along their tracks. Those that had the bearings to do so twirled in place. Those that were less dexterous twirled only their heads, like owls. It was a synchronized ballet of sophisticated engineering. A feast of mad pirouetting, as much as conical metal contraptions attached to tracks could be said to pirouette. Such a ramp-up in action, so different from their ordinary sedate trundling, caused internal engines to crank. The lower part of the ballroom became steamy. Sophronia closed her mouth on a hysterical giggle. No one had any feet. The masqueraders looked to be bobbing gently in a white sea.

  The mechanicals stopped as suddenly as they had started, going perfectly still as if hit by a blast from Vieve’s obstructor. Everyone relaxed, thinking it some strange glitch, now ended. But before the guests could completely recover, the mechanicals began to sing, all together, in perfect unison. Sophronia hadn’t even known one could instill such complex group protocols into mechanicals.

  The mechanicals sang as loudly as their voice boxes allowed. The tune was startlingly patriotic. Although, afterward, no one would claim that “Rule, Britannia!” sung in such high, tinny tones was particularly stirring. The fancy new models, on loan, threw themselves into their dramatic roles. Even Frowbritcher, at the top of the stairs, the most sophisticated mechanical in the Temminnick household, was participating. Such nonsense ought, by rights, to be far beneath his dignity!

  Bumbersnoot, dangling from his lacy cord over Sophronia’s shoulder, looked as if he’d like to join. But he had no voice box and no track. So he beat out time to the tune with his tail, slapping the side of Sophronia’s hip rhythmically. The mechanicals sang the full length of the song, drawing out the chorus at the end on a long “slaves!” Longer than any human could hold the note.

  Then they stopped.

  Instead of going back about their duties, they stayed stopped. All their little steam engines cycled down, as if they were dying in their tracks. Silence descended. Only the tick-tock of Bumbersnoot’s tail continued. He seemed the only one immune to a massive turn-off.

  There was a moment’s stunned sil
ence, and then pandemonium reigned. Only this time, it was humans. No one there had ever seen anything like it. Mrs. Temminnick’s amazing hostess abilities were praised by all. Imagine the exorbitant expense in mechanics’ commissions alone! But Mrs. Temminnick was no Sophronia; she could not hide her surprise and claim credit where none was due. Thus the shock and awe, initially translated into delight, quickly changed to fear that such a spectacle was uncontrolled.

  This, soon, was the least of their problems, as it became patently clear that every mechanical in the house was dead without possibility of revival.

  There was no one to serve the food. No one to respond to the bell rope. No one to open the doors. No one to clip the wicks and replace the candles. No one to turn down the gas. No one to carry the wood and lay the fires against nighttime chill. Worst of all, there was no one to refill the champagne glasses. The party was ruined. The evening was considered a loss. The whole week was looking pretty bad. How on earth would they function? What were they to do? No one could imagine life without servants. Of course, there were a few human staff; everyone kept some. But they were intended for complicated tasks. It was beneath one’s human staff to do the work of a mechanical, not to mention the fact that there was simply too much of that work!

  The gentry at the ball spiraled into panic. What if it was not just the Temminnicks’ mechanicals malfunctioning? What if their own servants were broken? Who would make the tea in the morning? Several of the ladies began to have hysterics. Even a few gentlemen succumbed to overwrought nerves.

  Sophronia, Dimity, and Sidheag participated briefly in the confusion. After all, they also had never seen anything like it. But it only took them a moment to realize they should take advantage of the situation. Such a crisis as this, mass mechanical revolt of an incomprehensibly passive variety, would occupy the adults long enough for them to make good their escape.

  Thus, without any fainting necessary, they left the ball and made for the gazebo.