The sign was still on the door saying RECORD ROOM—CONTAINING RECORDS OF IMPORT in big gold letters. Underneath, someone had pinned an embroidery sample that read DANGER, MISINTERPRETATION HAZARD. The two girls used every door exam in their repertoire, and there seemed to be no trap. Nevertheless, Sophronia picked the locks with a slow, steady caution that tried even Dimity’s patience.
Sophronia could take her time under some circumstances, it appeared.
They swung the door open but did not enter immediately, peering inside from a body length away, to be safe.
The room was entirely unchanged. Machines and rotary belts ran along the walls and filled the corners. Thousands of records dangled above, clipped to conveyors mounted on the ceiling, like laundry hanging from a clothesline. The three desks, accompanied by leather seats, oil lamps, and writing pads, stood in exactly the same place they had last time. This was more disturbing than an army of soldier mechanical guards. It made no sense that after the room had been broken into, the teachers would respond by removing all security entirely.
Sophronia entered first. Dimity followed. They moved slowly, hands held cupped forward and down, in the position of modesty. Their backs were straight, their posture pristine. They were model examples of Geraldine’s training—those hands were held in readiness, able to delve quickly into any one of a number of hidden pockets, to release wrist holsters, or to grab items dangling from chatelaines. The posture was one of anticipation, ready to move in any direction at the slightest provocation.
Sophronia’s instinct was to fire the obstructor or draw her bladed fan.
Dimity had taken recently to a pearl-handled muff-pistol. Not precisely deadly but, as she put it, terribly cute. It was half out of its holster as she took one more dainty step into the room.
Nothing happened. All the machinery remained still and silent, the steam supply asleep along with the boilers down below. It would be loud to activate, but there was no other way to get at the right record. It had taken them some twenty minutes to get to the record room, using the quickest routes and the obstructor. Sophronia guessed the teachers would take about the same to catch them once the noise started.
“Dimity,” she whispered. “I’m going to have to turn it on. Can you keep a twenty-minute time check? Warn me at five?”
“I don’t do well with timing.” Nevertheless, Dimity pulled up her necklace watch, getting ready to give the start signal.
Each desk boasted a brass knob with a lever sticking out the top, around the base of which was a large circular piece of parchment paper with writing on it. One could dial in a record using names at one desk, locations at another, and skill sets at the third.
Sophronia moved to the name desk. She did not know Madame Spetuna’s real name. She had to hope that the file could also be found under her alias.
At Dimity’s nod, she pushed the lever toward the letter S. The machinery of the record room came to life with an enormous clatter, made all the louder by the unnatural stillness that had preceded it. The whoosh of heat, the hiss of steam, and the great rattle of gears, pistons, and rotary mechanisms were enough to wake even Sister Mattie. They were sure to alert Professor Braithwope. Crazy he might be, but there was nothing wrong with his supernatural hearing. And he, at least, would still be up.
The records shifted from one part of the room to another, parting and regrouping. They whizzed around in a ballet of organization. A large cluster drifted in Sophronia’s direction, stopping directly above her desk. She pressed down hard on the brass nodule and, with a loud clunk, the records dropped to eye level.
She flipped through them quickly, but none was labeled with the name Madame Spetuna. She swore and racked her brain for a clue, a memory, anything that might indicate more about the intelligencer whom she had known only by disguise. In their brief acquaintance, Madame Spetuna had gone from elderly fortune-teller to flywayman to Pickleman associate. She had appeared shipboard, borrowed Bumbersnoot, and reappeared in the heart of a vampire hive. Hers had been the assignment to read the pillows embroidered by an intelligencer in Westminster Hive, a girl who had been killed because Madame Spetuna had neglected her in favor of infiltrating the Pickleman operation.
I wonder, thought Sophronia, what happens to those of us who disobey orders? I wonder what happens to young lady intelligencers who run away or join the enemy? There must be a record of sinners against the school. That would explain Lady Linette’s anger, if she thought Madame Spetuna had stopped communicating because she was a traitor.
She moved to the desk that dialed in locations. “Dimity, what would you label an intelligencer who turned bad? Or who went missing while under cover?”
Dimity ran to take her place and dialed in a name. While the records moved, she glanced at her necklace watch. “Ten minutes left. What would I label a traitor in code, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly. Traitor is for governments, deserter is for armies. What is it for us?”
“Carelessness.” Dimity unclipped and read a record. She grinned over it and then returned it to its spot and dialed in another name.
Our head teacher would indeed think it careless to have misplaced an intelligencer. Sophronia dialed in the word lost to the location desk.
Records sped toward her. There were more than Sophronia had expected—a dozen at least. It made her nervous. Lady Linette has indeed been careless.
“Seven minutes!” Dimity was dialing in another name furiously. Sophronia didn’t object—Dimity was entitled to her curiosity so long as she kept an eye to the time.
And then, there it was, the very last record, the most recent file.
Madame Spetuna was listed as an alias, and the intelligencer’s real name was at the top: Lavish Vivita. Two decades she’d been in service, indentured to the school and farmed out, occasionally, to the potentate. Her record was one of consistent results through established identities, and Madame Spetuna was considered her most successful guise. There was an entry about becoming a flywayman. After that came mention of her using initiative, in the form of a mechanimal, to break into the Picklemen’s inner circle.
There was a note at the bottom of her file, dated three months ago. Miss Vivita is missing, presumed lost. But there was no code, nothing that might help Sophronia persuade Lady Linette.
It was disappointing, and not only because it was of so little help. Something about it spoke to the disinterested nature of the use of intelligencers. As if we are disposable. Sophronia shuddered.
“Time!” Dimity ran over.
Sophronia flipped the file closed and pinned it back up. She dialed to a random location in the West Midlands, hoping Dimity had done the same with names. There was no way to disguise the fact that someone had broken in and activated the record room, but there was no need for anyone to know which files had been viewed.
“Scurry!” said Sophronia.
They ran out the door. Only to find Lady Linette, Professor Lefoux, and Professor Braithwope sitting in the hallway outside, playing cards.
“Ah, Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, what a surprise.” Lady Linette put down her cards. “Do come over.”
Professor Lefoux and Professor Braithwope continued playing, not glancing up. The vampire’s mustache was in place and intact for once, waxed slightly at the tips into points of discipline. He appeared smugly pleased with his hand and not dangerous at all.
Sophronia and Dimity exchanged a look and then submissively walked to stand before Lady Linette. They both bowed their heads and crossed hands before them in the simulated meek—but actually ready for anything—position.
Lady Linette turned in her chair and showed them her hand. “Not bad, no?”
The girls looked at her and then at the others in the game. They said nothing. Discuss someone’s cards? Never.
Lady Linette sighed. “Wait a moment, please, ladies, while we play through.”
The girls waited.
Lady Linette was an odd sort of person. She was theatricall
y pretty, with a nice figure, modulated voice, and propensity for lavender scent. Her hair was blonde by artifice, not nature, and curled by iron, not heritage. She favored the pastel-colored gowns of a girl in her first season. Yet her face paint was applied to such excess she looked older than she actually was. Everything about her was a trick of expectation, making the truth impossible to wheedle out. Given that manipulation was one of Lady Linette’s specialties, it was probably all by intelligent design in the end.
The game was some form of whist, except with three players. After another round, Lady Linette bowed out of the match. The other two continued.
Lady Linette piled her cards neatly, facedown. “You’ll have to be punished, of course. Imagine, allowing yourselves to be caught.”
Dimity’s eyes began to well with tears.
Sophronia stood firm. There was no point in defending herself. Lady Linette hadn’t believed her before and she wouldn’t now, not if she thought Madame Spetuna a traitor. Then, horribly, Sophronia wondered if Madame Spetuna was a traitor. Was all this some kind of setup? Was the dinner party at Lord Akeldama’s designed to lead them astray? Her mind whirred with the possibility.
“You’ll be forbidden to attend the upcoming New Year’s celebration.”
“Sent down?” wailed Dimity.
“No, I think not sent down. We will put you in charge of Professor Braithwope for the evening. That way Professor Lefoux can attend the festivities, for a change. We will make certain he is well fed beforehand, of course. You’ll be responsible for his entertainment and safety. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Professor?”
The vampire gave a glassy, disorientated fanged smile at the sound of his name.
Dimity looked scared.
Sophronia was resigned.
Professor Lefoux didn’t flinch at all, although Sophronia was tolerably certain she didn’t give two figs for attending the New Year’s party. Professor Braithwope returned to his hand, giving little indication of following the conversation.
“Report to his private chambers one hour before the event begins. Bring cards and snacks. Oh, and carnations. Of late, Professor Braithwope has developed a love of green carnations.”
Dimity and Sophronia flinched. Where would they find green carnations floating over Dartmoor?
However, they knew better than to question orders when being punished.
“Dismissed!” Lady Linette turned back to the game.
Sophronia and Dimity skittered away feeling foolish and disheartened.
Dimity cast herself dramatically on the couch in the parlor when they returned to their chambers. It was very late and they ought to be in bed, but such a calamity as this must be discussed immediately. “I told you we’d be tea party embargoed. Oh, the tragedy of it all!”
Sophronia said, “That was odd.”
“No, it wasn’t odd at all. It was exactly what I said would happen.” Dimity’s irritation presented itself as aggressively removing hairpins and then winding them together into a metallic nest. Her liberated curls developed wisps, making her look like a mad hermit—a sparkly mad hermit.
“No, not that. What’s odd was when Lady Linette asked us what we were looking for in the record room.”
“I missed that bit.”
“Exactly! Sometimes the most important piece of information is the chunk left out of the conversation.” Sophronia singsonged the sentence in a fine imitation of Professor Lefoux’s perfect elocution.
“Oh.” Dimity put down her hairpin nest, interested despite her annoyance. “You think she knew what we were looking for?”
“Or the school has some kind of new technology that allows them to track what files we examined. Invisible powder? Feel anything on your fingertips?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Then again…” Sophronia trailed off, biting her lip.
“Then again what?”
“It’s possible they knew what we were after and planted false information for us to find.”
“Could this be a lesson? Do they want us to figure that out?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t us they were expecting, not really.”
“Lady Linette said she wasn’t surprised.”
“Lady Linette is the mistress of misdirection, remember?”
Dimity flopped back. “Sometimes I hate this place. Wouldn’t you like it if just once everything was exactly as it seemed?”
“No, that’s a horrible idea.”
“You would say that. So what did you learn, misinformation or no?”
“Madame Spetuna’s real name, and that she is missing, presumed lost to evil. That Lady Linette may think her a traitor, which is why she won’t believe me. Or that she really is a traitor. In either case, I wager she is back with the Picklemen. And you? Whose files did you look at?”
Dimity sat up, gossip in the offing. “Yours, mine, Monique’s, and Agatha’s. You know Sidheag’s is gone? Vanished. Wonder where they file those ones—you know, the students who got away.”
“Possibly also with the lost. Anything juicy?”
“Not in mine, except they actually think I’m better than I think I am. Which is nice.”
“But not a surprise, Dimity. Most of us think that.”
Dimity blushed with pleasure. “Why, thank you. Monique’s says a lot about her hive. When the school punished her by not allowing her to finish, they removed her from the viable intelligencer roster but kept her record in play. I guess she has enough training to remain in the game.” Dimity knew Sophronia desperately wanted to hear about the Sophronia file. Of course, Dimity saved it purposefully for last.
Little drama-monger. Sophronia let her have her fun. After all, she felt guilty about getting them caught.
“Agatha’s was interesting.”
“How so?”
“Terribly fat. You know her father is in all sorts of pies?”
Sophronia had a vision of an older male version of Agatha with his head sticking out of a shepherd’s pie, as if he were bathing in it. She snorted a laugh.
Dimity corrected herself without pause. “Well, his fingers are. And Agatha has met Lord Akeldama before, several times. They’ve had dealings.”
“There was no indication of that at his dinner party.”
“I know. And there’s a note that says they think she’s running a long-form field operation.”
“Agatha? Really? On whom? Her family?”
“Didn’t specify. Could be on the school. Could be on us, I suppose. But there you have it.”
Sophronia frowned. She could hardly believe it. Agatha wasn’t that good. Or was she? Sophronia shook her head. She didn’t want to start mistrusting her dearest friends. Down that road lay a madness as horrible as Professor Braithwope’s. She was already doubting Madame Spetuna.
“Could we ask her about it?” Dimity was cautious.
“We could. But at what risk? Would we lose her friendship through suspicion? Or truth?”
Dimity stood up. “I’m for bed. This has been an eventful evening.”
“Dimity?”
“Yes, Sophronia?” Dimity’s tone was very arch indeed.
Sophronia made herself sound as humble as possible. “I apologize for getting you into trouble this evening.”
“Apology accepted. And?”
“You were right about the punishment being us missing the ball.”
“Very good. And?”
“I shouldn’t have been so impulsive as to plan this action without researching the target first.”
“True. And?”
“Will you please tell me what was in my file?”
“Since you ask so nicely. It was pretty much what might be expected. The fact that you are a covert recruit is at the top. There’s a note that you’d make a good independent intelligencer and they recommend against marriage right away—unless you net yourself one of the princes or a high-up Pickleman. A prince of the blood, said the note, seems unlikely. They know Lord Akeldama offered for patronage. Yo
ur seduction marks are low. I guess they don’t know about Soap, do they, Sophronia?”
Sophronia gasped. “Really, Dimity, I say.”
Dimity was smug. “That would make you similar to Madame Spetuna, as an operative, I guess.”
Sophronia was disappointed. She already knew all that—or at least suspected it. The recommendation for independent action in the field was nice. Most girls finished by coming out and being married into a position of power, the better to uncover information and manipulate society. Most would marry multiple times. It was an odd compliment to be thought capable of something different. It was also an insult to her seductive powers.
“That’s it?” Sophronia pressed.
“That’s about all.” Dimity was holding something significant in reserve.
“Dimity, please?” It was like convincing a cow to lay eggs.
Dimity relented at last. “They know you made a promise to indenture to the dewan.”
“What?”
“It says, right at the end of the file. No comment on how they know, who told them, or whether it’s considered a positive. But they do know.”
“I’m an idiot to think I have any secrets.”
Dimity only looked more smug.
“Go to bed, do,” ordered Sophronia.
Dimity laughed and went, but they both knew who had won that round.
Sophronia repaired to her room to find Bumbersnoot waiting for her.
Agatha had clearly been playing with him. He had one of her lace tucks tied about his head, like a jaunty tiara.
Sophronia picked him up for a cuddle. Not that a metal dog was the best cuddler, being hard, oily, ashy, and hot. But it made her feel better.
She put him on the foot of the bed, washed her face and hands, and slipped into her nightgown. She climbed under the covers, tucking her feet under her mechanimal for warmth, and tried to sleep. If it’s in my record that I promised the dewan, then Lady Linette has been told by someone. She listed the possibilities: Dimity, Agatha, Soap, Captain Niall, or the dewan himself. Of the five, she was absolutely certain of only one person’s loyalty—Soap.
Manners & Mutiny Page 12
