The two girls linked arms and huddled in, so that anyone observing would think they were undertaking serious rumor-mongering.
“She probably has important information to impart. Wants us to go over,” suggested Sophronia.
“We can’t,” Dimity squeaked. “Sister Mattie is circulating.”
Agatha began winding her handkerchief around her third finger.
“What does that mean?” Sophronia asked Dimity.
“I am married.”
That was even more confusing. Sophronia lowered her fan again and shook her head at Agatha in an accusing way.
Agatha gave an obvious sigh and then said something firm to Pillover.
Pillover grabbed up Agatha’s handkerchief and began gesticulating at them with it.
“I am a… new bride?” Dimity tried.
Imagining Pillover dressed in white lace gave Sophronia a momentary attack of giggles.
Disgusted, Agatha and Pillover rose and moved through the tables. The settings were well conceived—tiered serving ware and low flower arrangements to encourage conversation. At the edge of the dance floor, Pillover took Agatha in his arms and began twirling her around, along with the other brave couples. Eventually, the set brought them close to Dimity and Sophronia. They swirled to a stop.
“Barred from attending, were you, Dim? How upsetting that must be. And how degrading to sneak into your own New Year’s party.” Pillover attacked his sister at her weakest point the moment they landed.
“Shut your cake hole, you revolting young blot,” responded Dimity affably.
Pillover did not look at all put out, but he did clamp his mouth shut.
“Now is not the time to rankle, you two.” Agatha sounded quite grown-up. “Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott was recently telling me something terribly important. There are strangers among the boys attending our festivities.”
They all turned to peruse the room, trying to spot enemies among them.
“Picklemen or their intelligencers.” Sophronia saw no one notably out of place.
Pillover scrunched up his face, upset that they already knew.
Agatha rolled her eyes. “How did you know? Goodness’ sake, you’ve been nannying a vampire. It’s really too bad. I thought I had the leg up for once.”
“I have been nannying a vampire.” Dimity wanted this to be quite clear. “Sophronia has been sneaking off kissing sooties.”
“Oh!” Pillover was almost cheerful. “Is Soap here? Bang-up chappy, that Soap.”
“No, he jolly well isn’t here. I sent him packing.” Sophronia frowned.
“Not for good, I hope? I rather like the blighter.” Pillover was remarkably egalitarian for a toff. This was possibly because he preferred Greek translations to evil inventions and had suffered under Piston recriminations as a result. Pillover, being disenfranchised, felt that the friendship of a dark-skinned member of the proletariat was solidarity, not stigma.
“Which ones are the infiltrators?” asked Sophronia before they could get distracted by her romantic entanglements.
Pillover turned to point to the far corner of the room, near the head table. “Over there, with Lord Mersey, of course. Oh, hold the horses. They’ve gone!”
“Of course they’ve gone.” Sophronia whirled to find out where.
“Now, wait a moment, young lady.” Dimity sounded like Mademoiselle Geraldine in her frustration. “We only just got here.”
“You stay,” said Sophronia magnanimously. “I’m going after.”
“But you don’t even know where they went!” objected Agatha.
“And you can’t possibly leave without saying good evening to me.” A new voice, warm as honey, joined the conversation.
“Gammon!” said Pillover, and then, “Come along, Miss Woosmoss. This is too rich for my blood.”
Dimity also suddenly seemed to feel she was wanted elsewhere. Face still protected by her lace fan, she wandered into the crowd in a manner guaranteed to make her entirely unremarkable. She really had been paying attention in lessons of late.
“Ah, good evening, Lord Mersey.” Sophronia’s voice was equally honeyed.
“Miss Temminnick. I understood you would not be joining us this evening.”
“Did you? How droll.”
“Of course, silly me. You go wherever you want, don’t you, Ria?” He seemed to be enjoying the fact that, this time, Sophronia was acting like Sophronia. Even if that meant she was sharp with him, or possibly because she was sharp with him.
“Not everywhere.”
“They trained you too well, didn’t they?”
Sophronia cocked her head. He was acting particularly combative. She shivered her fan slightly to expose something more of her neckline.
Felix paused, arrested, but it didn’t seem to lighten his mood. If anything, it made him glower. “Seen any nice werewolves lately?”
“There was a lovely dinner party while I was in London last week. You should have been there.”
“I probably should. But I was thinking, perhaps somewhat more recently.”
Sudden dread hit the pit of Sophronia’s stomach. He knows Soap is here. Does that mean the Picklemen know? Is Soap in danger? “What information do you think you have, Felix?” She lowered her voice.
Blow the dewan’s seduction plan, she thought. I’m going to strangle the little traitor right here. Where’s my garrote? Her free hand fisted around her carnet de bal. The long chains were strong enough to wrap around someone’s neck—she’d made certain of it.
Felix looked down at his fingernails and pursed his beautiful mouth. “Nothing of any consequence. But then, neither is he.”
Strangling is too good for him. Sophronia snapped the guard off her bladed fan with her thumb and stepped in a little closer. The razor edge gleamed.
“Now, now, Miss Temminnick, you wouldn’t want to ruin that stunning—really, quite stunning, and so mature—dress with blood, would you?”
Sophronia gave a cold smile. “This dress is red, my dear viscount, with a pattern designed to hide stains.”
Felix looked slightly uncomfortable. “Of course it is. And yet you can’t help him by threatening me.”
“Killing him once wasn’t enough for you?”
Felix grimaced. “What, bitter you can’t spawn tea-colored infants named Bubble and Suds?”
“Is that an attempt at humor? I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”
Felix spoke through gritted teeth. “You were mine and he stole you.”
“Poor boy, is that what you thought?” Sophronia considered the root of his anger. Was I some weird prize to him or did I actually break his heart? Terribly careless of me if I did. And either way, Soap suffers because of his bitterness? “You never had me, silly. Even if you had, you would have driven me away, in the end. I don’t like traitors.”
Felix’s beautiful blue eyes turned pleading. “I tried to warn you from the dirigible, remember? I tried to stop my father from shooting.”
“And yet you told him we were Geraldine’s girls, putting us all in danger in the first place.”
“You’ve been safe all this time, no attempts on your life. Not from my people, anyway.”
“Because we’ve been at school and you couldn’t get to us!”
“And what about when you were in London recently?”
“You think I didn’t know the werewolves had guards around my sister’s house every night? Felix.” Sophronia was frustrated. “Why are we always at dagger points?” Once, he had been a gentleman. She still remembered the prong incident fondly.
“Because you chose wrong.”
Sophronia wasn’t certain if he was talking about the Picklemen or Soap. “No, you did.”
Something gleamed in his pale eyes. “You sure about that? You don’t know everything, Ria. You only think you do.” There was something in his tone. Had his loyalties shifted?
“Actually, I know I don’t. So you tell me. The Picklemen on board, what do they want?”
“Not you.”
/>
“Someone else, then? Someone who knows something. Lady Linette, perhaps?” She looked up at the head table over the sharp edge of her fan. Lady Linette sat chatting animatedly next to Mademoiselle Geraldine. There was no one lurking in the shadows to kidnap her. As if that were possible with Lady Linette.
“Something? Some device of Professor Lefoux’s?” She pushed, teasing Felix with her ignorance. Pushing him to prove he knew more than she did, lord it over her.
“Poor Sophronia, you have no idea what is really going on, do you? No idea at all.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me, then?”
“Me? I’m only here for the tea.” With which he turned and glided off—his well-tailored coat swishing. Bother Felix for looking almost as pretty walking away as he does facing forward.
Sophronia actually cursed. Then she returned to the real world. Felix’s coyness was a hint that something more was afoot. Perhaps the Pickleman infiltrators included a key member of their infrastructure? The Chutney, even?
At which juncture, the school’s proximity alarm sounded.
The proximity alarm was a series of very loud bells throughout the airship. Officially, it meant balcony access was restricted and all students were to remain stationary and not involve themselves in whatever was wrong. Unofficially, it meant that the school was under attack and the soldier mechanicals were marshaling on the squeak decks with cannons at the ready.
In the dining hall, the flirting and dancing and swilling of hot beverages ceased. The young ladies turned to look expectantly at the high table, awaiting orders. The nascent evil geniuses were less composed. One dropped his tea cake in alarm, a few dashed about in search of their hats—corralling one’s hat is an instinctive response bred into all gentlemen. Eventually, they realized that they looked foolish, and settled into merely glancing nervously about. Verbal speculation, of course, was rife.
“Proximity alert, students. Remain calm and continue to enjoy your tea.” Mademoiselle Geraldine’s voice boomed out. “Geraldine’s girls are not overset by a little ringing. Gentlemen of quali-tay do not seek their hats at the drop of a hat.” She paused to grapple with her problematic metaphor, then soldiered on. “The teachers will investigate while I stay with you. Lady Linette, if you would be so kind?”
Lady Linette rose and nodded sharply to Professor Lefoux and Sister Mattie as well as a couple of the visiting Bunson’s professors. They all marched from the room. Lady Linette paused at the doorway and issued a protocol order to the nearest serving mechanical. In response, the surrounding clangermaids and buttlingers rolled along their tracks to block the various doorways. There they clamped down hard to the rail, making it difficult for any student to leave the room.
Sophronia’s mind was on the visiting infiltrators. Had the Picklemen activated the alarm for some reason? Or could they be sabotaging the airship’s defenses, making it easier for attackers?
There was no way she was staying trapped with tea at a time like this. Even knowing that watchful gazes were on the students, she inched toward the nearest door. She fished about inside Bumbersnoot for her obstructor. Throughout all of this, her little mechanimal remained quiet. At least she knew the Picklemen hadn’t activated their valves. She thought to use her obstructor on the mechanical blocking the door and then climb out over its head.
“You there!” snapped Mademoiselle Geraldine. “Young lady in red, at the back. No leaving!”
Sophronia twitched at being noticed. She whirled to find the headmistress’s eyes fixed on her.
Others turned to stare. Someone laughed, not nicely. Probably Felix Mersey. Or Preshea.
Sophronia kept her fan up, guarding her face, and made a neat curtsy of acknowledgment. Mademoiselle Geraldine looked like she might call her forward to reprimand her, but she was saved by a loud bang and a sad crunching noise.
The whole dirigible shuddered.
People screamed. Those still at tea rose from their seats. A few went for the doors. The mechanicals would not let them by. Sophronia’s transgression was forgotten in the hubbub.
“Back to your seats, everyone!” ordered one of the remaining Bunson’s teachers, rising to stand next to Mademoiselle Geraldine. Across the wide room, Sophronia could see he was pale and holding on to the head table in fear.
Dimity, Pillover, and Agatha used the panic to congregate around Sophronia.
Then the ship began to list to starboard.
Mademoiselle Geraldine looked less composed at this. “All will be well, young people of quali-tay. Stick to your tea.”
“One of the balloons must be down.” Agatha tried to console an unhappy-looking Pillover.
There was another boom and then a loud clanging sound. The ship shuddered again. The bells continued to peal.
Pillover said, “I hate adventure. Did I mention recently that I hate adventure? Well, I do. Sophronia, is this your fault? Have you arranged an unwarranted adventure for us?”
“I don’t think so.” Sophronia pretended to seriously consider the question. “Not this time.”
“We are definitely under fire.” Dimity ignored her brother.
Greatly daring, Agatha patted Pillover sympathetically on the arm.
The ship shook again.
Pillover turned green.
“Flywaymen or Picklemen?” wondered Agatha.
“Or both.” Sophronia searched the room for Felix’s dark head. She couldn’t find him. He couldn’t have gotten out—he hadn’t near enough sneaking ability for that. He must be under a table or something.
Come to think on it, Sophronia couldn’t see any of his ilk. “Where, oh where, have all the pretty Pistons gone?”
“Sophronia! You can’t be thinking about flirting now,” Dimity reprimanded.
“No.” Sophronia lurched slightly as the airship vibrated like a dog shaking off water. “I’m thinking about taking cover.”
The floor of the dining hall was now tilted to such an extreme, it was becoming impossible to hold one’s footing in a dignified manner. The tables were all slipping toward the starboard wall, as only the head table was bolted down.
The students, some of them still seated and attempting to take tea, play cards, and engage in polite conversation, gripped the edges of their tables as they slid. The whole thing felt as if it were happening underwater. Apparently even a major battle was slow moving when floating.
“Hold fast, young persons of quali-tay. Hold fast!” sang out Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“We’re sinking.” Dimity’s round face was pale and she clutched her tassel jet necklace as if it were a talisman she could wish upon.
“Come on.” Sophronia led them to the starboard side of the room, which was now a steep downhill jaunt. The four of them backed up against the wall in the corner furthest from the head table. “Brace yourselves. We’re going down.”
“How do you know?” Pillover quivered in apprehension.
Sophronia tilted her head to where the Pistons had flipped a table on its edge, legs toward the starboard wall, and arranged themselves behind it, barricaded. If the ship continued to tilt, they would be effectively protected from tea party fallout. Except, perhaps, liquid damage.
Part of her wanted to stay with the Pistons, since they obviously knew what was going on. But the rest of her knew that the safest place from falling objects was actually the hallway, if they could only get past the mechanicals. Then again, with gas lines running throughout, if they did crash, the hallways might explode.
The floor was almost at a forty-five-degree angle. Everything that could slide, did. Things upended, and crashed and tumbled about. Several of the young ladies and—it must be admitted—the young gentlemen screamed. The young ladies were more properly padded for sliding, but it made for an undignified sight—ruffled skirts and petticoats, legs kicking about. In a few cases undergarments were visible!
Pillover fainted.
They all ended up bumped and bruised, piled together and leaning up against one another i
n an extremely intimate crush. As the proximity alarm bells continued to clang, any attempt at politely awkward conversation was impossible.
Mademoiselle Geraldine was looking quite worried.
Sophronia suspected that they were the only ones who realized they were sinking. One of the things about dirigibles, as with all balloon travel, was that without seeing the ground, it was difficult to know when one was falling out of the sky.
That is, of course, until one crashed.
Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality crashed into the moor with an impossibly loud thud. It shuddered in a way that put all previous shakes to shame. Then it rocked back and forth a few times, before ending up beached like a whale on its starboard side.
It was, after all, not designed to land.
No one screamed this time, but there were a number of gasps. A few of the young ladies who were nested near gentlemen of interest fainted delicately in said gentlemen’s direction.
It was a very stately crash. Mademoiselle Geraldine had reason to be proud. True, tea was spilled, and cakes dropped, but general behavior could not be faulted. Even the debuts confined themselves to squeaks of alarm.
“Is anyone injured?” Mademoiselle Geraldine’s voice rang out.
One of the young men had sprained his wrist and a debut had managed to scratch her cheek on a flower arrangement, but otherwise nothing serious. Everyone breathed sighs of relief and began to extract themselves from the pile.
Dimity slapped her brother awake.
They were still trapped in the dining hall. The mechanicals were unaffected by the tilting, since they were hooked into tracks. They could stay blocking the doors no matter what the angle of repose. However, Lady Linette’s voice could be heard ordering them into movement.
Sophronia and her friends remained flattened against the wall, out of the way. Pillover, still pale and shaking, stuck close to Agatha, solicitous of her well-being, or more likely, she was solicitous of his.
Apart from Pillover, her little band was unperturbed by the fact that they had crashed. Except, of course, that they had no idea what exactly had caused the unexpected plummet. Falling out of the sky was one thing, but doing so for unknown reasons was quite unacceptable.
Manners & Mutiny Page 15
