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.
The 7th test
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 w
ill 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.
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