So she said, “Why are you so upset? You are the one person whose loyalty I have never doubted.”
“That is not the same thing,” growled Soap.
Vieve was impatient. “Are you two having your first lovers’ spat? Right now? You realize your school is drifting?”
The dirigible had moved some distance away. Yet there was something impossible to resist about their disagreement. Sophronia had never before wanted so much to be right. How dare he expect me to simply tell him everything? It is my livelihood to be circumspect. Not to mention my nature. Does he want me to change? Does he want to limit me to his—or worse, the dewan’s—expectations of a woman’s place? Those thoughts refused to be separated from her other worry. How dangerous is it for him the night before full moon? And how much in danger is poor Vieve, forced into guarding him? There was also guilt. He had risked everything to bring her this information, and yet she played close and tight with her own knowledge. She should have told him about the pilot’s bubble. Shouldn’t she?
“Trust is a lot to ask of someone,” she said, finally.
“Exactly. I should think that I, at least, have earned your trust.” Soap hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. “Is that why you won’t let me court you?”
Sophronia couldn’t help her frustration. Why was he so willfully obtuse? “Oh, for goodness’ sake, be reasonable. How could I? You are a newly made werewolf loner, secret pawn for a political player.”
“And your soon-to-be patron.”
“And so we marry and what happens? What world do you think we live in, Soap? What of my family, my friends, my position in society? Are you asking me to give them up?”
“Of course not!”
“So what courting do you propose?”
“I could be discreet.”
“And you would be, what, my dirty little supernatural secret? I keep you boxed away and hidden along with my espionage activities?” Sophronia was moved to verbal indiscretion.
“Why not? You would be wonderful at it.”
“Because you’re better than that, Soap! We’re better than that!” Sophronia didn’t even know she felt it until she yelled it.
“So you do love me.”
Sophronia lost her anger on a breath of air and crumpled into sadness. “It doesn’t change the state of society.”
He reached for her and she jerked back. “No.”
Soap drew back. “I can wait.”
“Don’t.”
This time it was Soap’s turn to flinch.
There was something wrong about his mouth. As though he were trying to swallow his own teeth, or was that canines? Was he starting to shift? She’d read somewhere that excess of emotion could affect the control of young werewolves, and the moon was almost full.
Soap hunched forward a little more. He seemed to be shivering.
“Soap! Are you unwell?” Vieve lurched forward. Sophronia had almost forgotten she was there. How embarrassing.
Soap’s teeth were beginning to extend. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I think you both should run.” His hair was becoming very shaggy, as though it wanted to creep out of the tight curls and descend all over his body as fur. His ears looked like they were stretching slightly, and his eyes were turning from brown to gold.
Sophronia couldn’t help but back away.
Vieve, with casual grace, reached over one shoulder, pulled a blunderbuss from a strap on her back, pointed it at Soap, and shot.
“Wait, Vieve, what are you…?” Sophronia trailed off, for no massive silver bullet emerged. Instead the gun emitted a large mesh net, with weighted edges like a fisherman’s, that flew out into a wide arc, completely surrounding Soap.
“Ouch, that stings.” Soap looked like a disgruntled bride.
“Good.” Vieve was unsympathetic. “Now get ahold of yourself.”
“Yes, Captain.” Soap came over all meek.
Everything about him seemed to shiver and tighten, pulling in on itself. His hair went back to the tight black coils Sophronia was so fond of petting. His ears returned to their roundness, his eyes to their liquid brown.
“How do you feel?” Sophronia moved back to stand near, wanting to touch him through the net.
“Ashamed. Trapped.”
“Controlled, I hope.” Sophronia hid her worry.
“I think you should kiss him.” Vieve’s small face was grave.
“Thank you for the advice. It shall be recorded for posterity that you once encouraged public courtship.” Sophronia pretended outrage.
Vieve was offended. “No, silly. Wolves respond well to touch. His instinct for protection and preservation should kick in through concentrated affectionate exposure. This might limit his capacity for shift under constraints of emotional surety.”
Sophronia looked at Soap through the mesh veil. “I think she’s speaking English, but I’m not convinced.”
Soap laughed. “She thinks if we kiss it will control my desire to shift, convince my wolf side to see you as family, not food.”
Sophronia considered. “And what do you think?”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
“Opportunist.” Sophronia bent forward and kissed him, mostly because she wanted to. The cool metal of the mesh between their skin seemed to burn Soap, yet his lips were eager under the barrier.
Sophronia drew back.
“Also, you two need to make up.” Vieve began coiling in the net, moving toward them as she did so, but ostentatiously looking away from the region of their mouths.
“Is it working?” Sophronia asked.
Soap closed his eyes, as though running an inventory of his internal organs. “Feels like.”
Vieve looked to Sophronia. “Ready?”
Sophronia nodded.
Vieve whipped away the silver net and Sophronia stepped into Soap’s arms. She pressed her lips to his again—for medicinal purposes only, of course. They embraced, perhaps with more urgency than passion, but it was firm and good.
When they parted, the anger was gone—from both of them.
“See?” Vieve was unbearably smug.
Meanwhile, the massive dirigible had drifted farther, and there were shouting heads peeking out of the hatch of engineering.
Sophronia went red as a beet. They had been observed!
She grabbed Soap by the hand. “Come on.”
With Vieve following, they dashed after the airship. It probably looked ridiculous, the three small figures madly chasing a low-flying dirigible. Luckily, there wasn’t much breeze that evening, a rare thing indeed on the moor, so they caught up to it easily.
“Can you lift me up?” Sophronia asked Soap.
“I could as a wolf, but it’s too dangerous to shift now.” He shook his head regretfully. He whistled up three sharp toots and gave a birdlike caw and the sooties dropped down their old rope ladder.
“You coming too, old man?” Handle stuck his head out the hatch.
Soap smiled sadly. “Not anymore. I can’t float, even if I wanted to.”
“Gone on to bigger and fuzzier things, I hear.”
“So they tell me.”
“Don’t you forget us when you get all over covered in high-and-mighty werewolf-type business, you hear?” ordered one of the other sooties.
“Never,” replied Soap. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
Before she could protest, Soap kissed her fiercely one last time and then tossed her upward.
Sophronia caught the end of the rope ladder and hoisted herself up, climbing easily, even with her massive skirts. Below, there came another pop as Vieve shot out her net. Once more it draped over Soap, like a veil in a Greek tragedy.
He didn’t seem to be inclined to shift, but it was a sensible precaution.
“Come along,” Sophronia heard Vieve say. “Let’s get you to that bathhouse. This is getting ridiculous, you realize? What am I supposed to do with you tomorrow night? You’ll be a full-on wolf whether you like it or not. Net or no. How do I
hide a wolf in a bathhouse?” Sophronia was through the hatch at that point.
Vieve’s lecture faded away.
Sophronia could only hope the dewan guessed Soap’s location and came after. She was immensely grateful to Vieve—the small inventor had saved her and those she loved yet again.
The sooties were impressed by her dress. Sophronia put her humiliation aside to advocate for speedy travel to Professor Braithwope’s quarters—with their assistance. They were only too pleased to help. Handle returned her abandoned hurlie.
Sophronia was up and over the vampire’s balcony, brushing down her gown and patting her curls, less than an hour after she left. She’d made excellent time.
Dimity didn’t see it that way. She was playing backgammon with Professor Braithwope and sipping a small glass of some illicit beverage. “Where have you been?”
“Sorry, I was needed groundside. Is that sherry?”
“You were fraternizing,” accused Dimity.
Sophronia was amazed at her powers of deduction. “How can you tell?”
Dimity looked smug. “Slightly bruised lips, spots of color on the cheeks, hair mussed. Who was it? Has Lord Mersey won himself back into your good graces?” Dimity was being purposefully obtuse. She wanted to squeeze a confession out of Sophronia.
“Hardly.”
“Oh, no, you haven’t found yourself another inappropriate sootie, have you?”
“No, it’s the same one, as you very well know.”
Dimity rolled her eyes. “Sophronia, I mean this quite kindly, but there is no possible future there. Quite apart from anything else, he has eternity and you do not. One way or another, you’re going to break that boy’s heart.”
“I know, and I told him as much.”
“Wars have been fought for less, whot.” They had almost forgotten that Professor Braithwope was there.
Dimity waved a hand at the vampire. “Thank you. Exactly my point, Professor. You talk some sense into her.”
The vampire leaned forward over the backgammon board, a serious expression on his pale face. His mustache drooped. “Whatever you do, do not pickle gherkins. Onions, yes. Gherkins, never.”
Sophronia nodded, lips twitching. “Certainly, Professor, very sage advice.”
“So you have ended things?” Dimity knew from experience that Sophronia was attached to Soap in a manner Dimity could never comprehend.
“I tried.” Strangely enough, saying that made Sophronia’s eyes prick with tears. “Dimity, I am so afraid. I…” She took a shaky breath. “I find myself struggling to be sensible about matters of the heart.”
Dimity instantly shifted to put a warm comforting arm about her. “Of course you do, my dear. We all have that struggle. I mean to say, look at me! I was driven to poetry by a Dingleproops! You haven’t fallen that far, have you?”
Sophronia sniffed. “No.”
“Well, then, that’s something to be proud of, now, isn’t it?”
Sophronia gave a watery nod.
Professor Braithwope passed her a large purple handkerchief, his mustache dropping sympathetically. Sophronia took it gratefully and dabbed at her eyes, concentrating on controlling her breathing.
Dimity, with perfect understanding, returned to the game so that Sophronia might gather herself together without further embarrassment.
The game ended when Dimity realized that she had already been beaten four moves earlier. The vampire picked up more knitting. This time it was some fine lace-weight work—an elegant lady’s shawl.
“That’s quite lovely, Professor.” Sophronia was pleased to find that her voice did not wobble. “Does it say anything?” Knitted code was common parlance among Mademoiselle Geraldine’s girls.
The vampire was confused at the question. “Say? No. I don’t think so. The pattern is called dawn-light.” He turned the pretty thing about in his hands. “Ironic, really.” He focused on his task.
Dimity focused on Sophronia. “I think we could leave him for a bit, don’t you?”
“Why, Dimity, are you suggesting we sneak down to the tea?”
“The perfect thing to cheer you up.”
“How right you are. But we’d be in even more trouble if they discovered we abandoned our post. Then again, Soap came to tell me that we have Pickleman infiltrators among the guests. And I did say to the dewan I would try Felix.”
“It would be a shame to waste our dresses on only the professor here.”
The vampire looked up. “Whot, whot?”
“Nothing, Professor,” singsonged the two girls in unison.
Sophronia cocked her head at Dimity. “Are you certain?”
Dimity’s round face scrunched up as if she had eaten a sour lemon. “I hate missing everything. That’s why I want to marry well and be a grand lady. Then I can host all the parties, all the time, and see everything that is going on always. How can you stand not knowing?”
“For you, it’s gossip. For me, it’s action.”
Dimity blinked at this revelation. “I guess so.”
“Shall we, then?”
Dimity grinned. “Professor, you don’t mind if we step out for a few minutes, do you?”
“Certainly not. Bring some brandy, and some of those little cake thingies.”
“But, Professor, you don’t eat cake.”
“Don’t want to eat them. Want to toss them overboard at the wild ponies, whot.”
“Oh.”
“Man’s gotta have some kind of entertainment on this floating barge.”
“True, sir. Anything else?”
The vampire considered the question. “Well, if one of those young men is in the offing, I might like a snack in a half hour or so. Could hit the spot, if the stock is not too starched. Make sure to pick one of the sporty types. I loathe the taste of pasty dandies with delusions of intellectual grandeur and a propensity to lurk indoors. Spoils the flavor of the blood.”
Dimity and Sophronia exchanged looks.
“Does it really?” Sophronia made a mental note. Pillover was safe.
Then, before he could think of anything else, they left.
IN A PICKLE AT A TEA PARTY
The tea party was in full vibration when they arrived. What probably started as mild talk and meek encounters around set tables had descended into a proper rout. The young persons were now circulating, seeking preferred partners or more engaging conversation. In some cases, this was out of custom; in others, it was the quest for adventure. A few young ladies had assignments. A small group danced at the back, accompanied by Miss Perriwonks on her lap harp with amplification dongle. There was even one table at cards.
Certainly, it was not done to have dancing and card play at a tea party, but the hour was late and it was New Year’s Eve, so some laxness was permitted. Perhaps this had more to do with the fact that the professors had opted to break out the bubbly early. Professor Lefoux remained sober and glowering, but that was her lot in life. As yet she had not been driven to leave the head table and actually discipline anyone. Instead, she paid irritated attention to Mademoiselle Geraldine. Tea was the headmistress’s favorite event, and though she objected to the presence of boys, she was disposed to enjoy herself.
The tea was very good—not to mention the champagne. Cook had truly excelled, for there were Scotch seedcake, grapes in brandy, glazed apples, orange biscuits with medlar jelly, almond torte—without cyanide, everyone hoped—and Charlotte pudding with Milanese cream. The boys gorged themselves, as was their wont, and even a few of the girls ate with more enthusiasm than delicacy.
Sophronia and Dimity glided through one of the staff entrances behind a clangermaid. Sophronia eyed a bowlful of glazed apples and plotted how to kidnap it for the sooties. The girls kept their fans up, covering most of their faces. They did not skulk, but instead acted as if they belonged, moving in behind the dancers as though observing the couples while engaged in a protracted private gossip.
“Do you see that?” Sophronia nudged Dimity to look at a ta
ble near the back corner, where Pillover and Agatha conversed. Pillover was almost animated as he relayed something to their friend.
“Do you think that is a declaration?” wondered Sophronia.
Dimity was disgusted. “My revolting brother has never declared anything, except perhaps an inexcusable love of Plutarch. This smooching of sooties has gone to your head.”
“Smooching werewolves, please, Dimity.” Sophronia took mock offense.
Dimity continued her affronted stance. “Pill is less firm in his commitments than calf’s head jelly.”
However, Pillover’s face held a softness that Sophronia had never seen there before.
Agatha glanced up.
Sophronia flipped down her bladed fan for a brief moment, so Agatha could recognize her.
Agatha’s eyes widened and she immediately raised her handkerchief to her face, drawing it across her lips. It was code, but not one Sophronia knew.
“What’s she trying to say?” she asked Dimity.
Couples swirled between them. The debut blonde with the purple eyes was dancing with Lord Dingleproops. Dimity was entirely unruffled by this. So much for poetry.
“I desire your acquaintance,” interpreted Dimity. “It’s not espionage, it’s everyday ordinary flirtation.”
Fancy that. Accessory manipulation for normal young ladies. “Why didn’t Lady Linette teach us that?”
Dimity gave her a funny look. “You’re supposed to arrive here knowing it, of course. Doesn’t everyone? I was practically weaned on handkerchief manipulation. Not to mention the language of flowers. How on earth do you know if a man is interested without it?”
“Conversation?”
Dimity shook her head at Agatha to indicate they didn’t understand what she wanted. “Why does she desire our acquaintance? She knows us already.”
Manners & Mutiny Page 14
