Waistcoats & Weaponry (23 page)

Sophronia said, to lighten the mood, “I wonder if Monique has a brother?”

“Oh, really, Sophronia. Be serious. You must have something you
want
in a beau?”

Sophronia thought of Felix’s blue eyes and lazy ways. And then of Soap’s dark, cheerful gaze and jocularity. She thought that she wanted Soap’s gentle personality and Felix’s focused attention. She wanted Felix’s breezy, relaxed approach to high society and Soap’s easy infiltration of the lower orders. She wanted humor, and kind hands, and sweet smiles, and genuine longing looks. She wanted that expression she had caught between Captain Niall and Sidheag. She wanted trust.
I’m going to spend most of my life pretending to be other people, hiding
and skulking in shadows. I want someone who will remind me of who I am. Once I’ve figured that out.

What she said was “I want a man who stays out of my way.”

“Oh my, well then,” said Dimity with utter confidence, “you should marry my brother. You are still engaged, I believe.”

That caused both of them to laugh uproariously. The very idea of Pillover marrying anyone, let alone Sophronia! It took them a while to calm sufficiently to sleep after that. They would keep giggling. Things were always funnier when one was lying down.

S
oap was a silent figure sitting in the doorway of the cab as Sophronia approached, two hours later. He was smoking his awful cob pipe and staring into the moonlit night.

“My turn,” she said. “How’s everything been?”

“Quiet as a dry boiler.” Soap knocked out his pipe; he knew she disliked the habit.

“Bumbersnoot?”

“Sleeping it off.”

“Monique?” They turned to look at the blonde’s slumbering form.

“That one. Why’d we not dump her from the train when we had the chance?”

“There’s still time.”

Soap snorted. He jumped down from the cab. The crunch of his landing on the railway stones was awfully loud.

“Beautiful moon,” he said as it appeared from between rain
clouds. “Don’t see much of it down in engineering on the airship.”

“Hope any local werewolves are locked away.” Sophronia was thinking of Captain Niall and the dewan. Where were the two werewolves holed up while they battled moon-madness? She fervently hoped it was secure and silver coated. She’d encountered Captain Niall moon-mad once, and lost her best petticoat to salivating jaws. The dewan was stronger, bigger, and angrier; she could only imagine what he’d be like. More would be lost than undergarments.

“Must be tough, being a werewolf. Never to see full moon.”

“Better than being a vampire, never to see the sun, miss,” replied the sootie, his tone a warning.

Sophronia then did something quite daring. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps she was emboldened by the quiet stillness. Perhaps it was the freedom inherent in her masculine garb. But she shifted close to Soap, side by side and companionable, staring at the moon. She was terribly tempted to put her head on his shoulder. It was exactly the correct height.

“So long as you are doing it for all the right reasons, I can’t talk you out of it,” she said, realizing she could no more change Soap’s desires than she could Felix’s allegiance.

“But you aren’t going to help me make it happen, are you, miss?”

“No, I’m not.” Sophronia’s face burned and she knew he was looking at her. In the silvery light her blush wouldn’t show, thank heavens. She wanted to run from the inevitable conversation, from any confession of forbidden affection, from the mere possibility that she might have to break Soap’s heart.

“You don’t agree with Miss Sidheag, yet you are helping her.”

He had a point, so Sophronia held her tongue. She couldn’t articulate why she felt differently about Soap, more proprietary. But she did.

“You could talk me out of it, Sophronia.” He said her name carefully, cautiously, experimenting with the sound of it on his tongue. She was always “miss” to him. She was always his superior. Was he practicing for a future when they might be equals? Without werewolf status he’d never be able to call her that, not in public, not in the social world she was training to inhabit, not even as friends.

Which was why she couldn’t talk him out of it, not really. Sophronia wasn’t going to make promises she couldn’t keep, not to Soap.

She replied using his real name, saying only, “Perhaps I could, Phineas. But it’s not my place to do so. Any more than with Sidheag. You have as much a right as she to your own choices, even if I think you both foolish.”

She hoisted herself into the cab of the train without looking at him, remembering how warm and gentle his lips were against her own, and how the muscles in his arms felt wrapped about her.
I’m fickle
, she thought.
And I don’t deserve to be tinkering with anyone’s heart.

Soap’s hand caught her ankle. “I want to be worthy.”

She could hardly believe he would dare touch her, on the leg! But she kind of liked it. So she crouched and covered his hand with hers. “You already are, Soap.”

“Not in the eyes of the world.” His hand was as soft on the back as it was callused on the palm.

“And this is your best solution?”

“No. This is my only solution.”

Soap went to bed.

Sophronia’s heart hurt and she had no idea why. She sat looking out the cab windows, first one side, then the other. It was excessively dull. Lady Linette had warned them of this. “Try not to think it glamorous, ladies. Intelligencer work is nine-tenths discontented ennui, and one-tenth abject terror. Rather like falling in love.”
So far
, thought Sophronia,
love has been more a series of crushing discomforts. Perhaps I’m going about it the wrong way?

Monique shifted once or twice. She must be cold, for the cab was open to the night, and though the rain still wasn’t in earnest it had settled into a consistent drizzle. Sophronia checked Monique’s bonds, and the place where Dimity had lashed them to the train.
All secure.

Sophronia wasn’t so foolish as to think her enemy asleep. Still, when Monique spoke, it startled her.

“You’re a queer one, Sophronia. You had Lord Mersey on your string and let him go. Regardless of his political connection, that marriage could have been lucrative. And imagine, if you managed to turn him, you would have gone down in the record books as one of the best Mademoiselle Geraldine ever produced.”

“And lose the love of my husband by driving away his family?”

Monique scoffed. “Love, what has love to do with any of this? If you’re throwing over a peer in favor of that simpering, soot-covered savage, you’re more puerile than even I realized.”

Sophronia went hot about the ears. No one spoke about Soap that way, especially not Monique! Her temper got the better of her.

“How dare you say such a thing. You’re not even fit to lick his boots!” Sophronia hissed, afraid of waking the others.

“Boots! He’s too poor to have any. That boy wouldn’t know how to clean boots, let alone wear them. You’re barely class yourself, Sophronia. Who are your parents, after all? You can’t afford to marry down, and
no one
can afford to marry a sootie!”

This made Sophronia all the more upset, because it was true. Had she been rejecting Soap all along not because he was ruining their friendship but because of his station in life? “Clap your trap shut, Monique, or I’ll fill it with something disagreeable.” She lashed out, angrier with herself than Monique, but taking it out on her regardless.

Monique snorted. “I’m only offering you a bit of helpful advice.”

“Because we both know you’ve got my best interests at heart? You’re nothing more than a failure, Monique. You couldn’t finish properly, so you ride the coattails of a vampire hive because no decent family would take you for their son.”

Now it was Monique’s turn to gasp in outrage. “I
wanted
to become a drone! I’ll have a chance at immortality. What are you going to do the rest of your life? Cozy up with a sootie and pop out half-breed babies to muck in the coal dust like their father?”

Sophronia considered all the various ways she had learned to kill someone. She catalogued them in her brain and spent a satisfying few moments applying each to Monique in order.
Then she concentrated on her breathing, attempting to stopper up her anger and regain control of the situation. Then she stood and, casually, tore another strip off her much-abused shirt and gagged Monique with it. Tightly. Monique drooled a bit around the edges of the rag, which was satisfying to see.

The rest of the night was blissfully uneventful, outwardly at least. Sophronia was troubled by her own feelings of guilt. She was traumatized by the realization that she had never given Soap a fair chance because she was afraid of his lowly position. She tortured herself with imagining what-ifs. What if Soap were not a sootie? What if Soap were the same class or race? Would she have closed herself off to his feelings so brutally? Had she been cruel as well as snobbish? The speculation kept her wide eyed and staring out into the night the whole rest of her watch.

Everyone was awake at dawn. There was a sense of nervous urgency that drew them, uncomplaining, into the cab. They stoked the boiler, started the engine up, and got the train moving northward with silent efficiency. No one commented on Monique’s gag.

Sophronia felt awkward and uncomfortable around Soap. More aware of the way he stood, the set of his shoulders, the nuances of his expression. She tried to monitor her own reactions, to be friendly but not too friendly. She tried not to think about his affection for her, or their future apart.

They chugged along at a slow but steady pace. They learned more about the switches and how to operate them, neatly avoiding several collisions. They were getting cocky about the
whole proceeding. They were also running dangerously low on coal, not to mention food.

They stopped for lunch, ate the last of their reserves, and had to un-gag Monique to feed her. Which meant they had to listen to her. Which meant they had to gag her again right quick.

“She’s only a drone,” sneered Sidheag. “And she lost the operation, so Countess Nadasdy will not be happy with her. I say we dispose of her.”

“She is trained. If we let her go, she’s not without resources,” cautioned Dimity.

“She’s a rotten egg waiting to explode,” said Sophronia.

Soap said, “I’d rather we don’t actually kill her, I’d as soon not go down for murder.”

Dusty only looked embarrassed by the whole conversation.

In the end, they elected to push Monique out the door as the train crossed a small bridge over a goose pond. The water looked particularly dirty. Soap slowed the train while Dimity untied Monique’s wrists. The girl made a delightful squawking noise around the gag as she fell. She also made a decidedly satisfying splash. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be another train along for ages.

With Monique gone the mood lifted. They began to plan how to acquire more coal and food.

Then Dimity gave a holler. She’d spent most of the afternoon hanging by one arm out the doorway, while Sophronia took the same position behind Soap. This left room in the middle for Sidheag and Dusty to stoke.

Dimity explained her holler. “I see a dirigible on the horizon.”

“Flywaymen?”

“Hard to tell, they’re far off.”

Sophronia came over, shading her eyes. “I don’t
think
it’s the one we crashed into, how could they repair it that fast? Besides, this one looks armored.”

“Wonderful, does it have a cannon mount and recoil guard?” Sidheag asked.

“Looks like.”

“I guess the Picklemen decided we know too much,” said Dimity.
Rather calm
, Sophronia thought proudly,
under the circumstances
.

“Or your darling Lord Mersey ratted us out,” said Sidheag.

“Not my darling anything, Sidheag.” Sophronia was abruptly tired of that game. And she didn’t like the way Soap’s shoulders hunched at Sidheag’s words.

“If they know we’re Mademoiselle Geraldine’s girls and not Bunson’s boys…” Sidheag stressed her point. Bunson’s boys on the loose larking up to Scotland were one thing. Bunson’s boys were dangerous with exotic inventions but could be depended upon to come ’round to the Pickleman agenda eventually. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s girls, on the other hand, were dangerous with information and couldn’t be depended upon by anyone but their patrons.

That was the moment when Sophronia realized their safest course of action would have been to return to school. The Picklemen would never make a direct move against Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, for that would only get intelligencers investigating.
Plus, they couldn’t afford to make an outright enemy of Lady Linette.

The dirigible following them had a propeller spinning at high speed. It had also caught a stiff breeze and was gaining on them.

Nevertheless, a train was faster than most dirigibles, except those new high-flyers out of France. They could tell even at a distance that this was an older model, of the kind Queen Victoria once employed in the Royal Float Force, heavy and heavily armed.

They had only one choice.

“I guess we try to outrun it,” said Soap. “All hands to the boilers!”

By this point in the journey, most of the girls had given Dusty a hand with the boilers, breaking whenever he needed a rest. As a result, they had all developed some rudimentary shoveling savvy. They also had arms screaming from the unexpected activity. Sophronia had thought, before this journey, that she was rather fit. She was, after all, prone to climbing around airships and swinging from hurlies. But stoking was a whole different beast. It was awfully hard work, and explained Soap’s delightful muscles. There were only two shovels on the train, so they took turns going as fast as they could, working their way through what coal was left in the tender at an alarming rate. One girl, inside the tender, scooped it forward into range, then the stoker shoved it as fast as possible into the boiler.

The train screamed at the top of its pitch, engine taxed almost beyond capacity.

“Any more and we won’t make those turns,” Dusty cautioned Soap, who nodded his agreement.

The girls kept shoveling.

“We don’t want to blow her, and we don’t want to lose the rails!” yelled Soap.

So they had to relax their efforts, even though Dimity reported that the dirigible, while not gaining on them, was keeping pace.