Waistcoats & Weaponry (6 page)

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Soap, it’s only that I worry.”

Soap softened and put his hand close to hers where it rested on the coal pile—almost touching. “I know, miss, but it’s my choice in the end. And it’s not like I’d have a long, healthy life as a sootie.”

“No good options. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
When did Soap get so stubborn?
Sophronia was amazed to find she was shivering.

Soap dared to move his hand and cover her shaking one. Sophronia found the hard calluses on his palm oddly comforting. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the clangs and rattles of the boilers. Sophronia calmed, becoming quietly angry at herself for getting so emotional over a friend. A good friend, but only a friend. She extracted her hand from his, gently but firmly.

Finally Soap said, “I may know where Miss Maccon has gone.”

Sophronia brightened, more at the switch in topics than the information. “Oh, good. Where?”

“I think she and Captain Niall have gone to London.”

“Goodness, why?” Now her excitement was over the information itself.

“Because the captain is a strong werewolf loner. If Lord Maccon’s got control problems, Miss Maccon is the type to use Niall as a solution. She’ll do whatever she can to hold that pack of hers together.”

“Why London?”

“Rumor is, that’s where Lord Maccon was last headed.”

“A Scottish werewolf in London? That will make the local packs mad.” Sophronia shuddered. She’d seen Lord Vulkasin,
Alpha of Woolsey Pack, only once, and he’d terrified her. If Lord Maccon was anything like that, London might not survive their meeting.

Soap said, “That’s why the dewan works for the queen. Keeps the peace between Alphas.”

“But for Sidheag to leave with no word to us? No word to the teachers?”

Soap shrugged. “Bet she’ll try to send word, soon as she can. I’d keep an eye fixed.”

“On the other hand, could be she doesn’t trust someone here at school. In which case, she might try to reach me at home at that dratted ball of my brother’s.” Sophronia stood, brushing down her trousers. “It’s getting late, I should go to bed.”

Soap followed the movement of her hands; her legs were plainly visible without formal skirts and petticoats.

Sophronia stopped, self-conscious.

Soap looked away, muttered something to himself. Then abruptly he said, “You’ll be dancing with that Felix nobbin, won’t you? At this fool ball of your family’s?”

“I will.” Sophronia, surprised by the question, temporarily forgot her policy of evading all things romantic around Soap.

“He’s a snoot-airing toff.”

“He is.” Sophronia was at a loss to do anything but agree with Soap. She’d never seen him in such a tetchy mood, and they’d already argued once this evening. She didn’t want to push her luck.

“Dad’s a Pickleman, you recall that?”

“It’s part of the attraction, I suppose.”

Soap glared at her. “Never thought you would be one to steam in for naughty boys, miss.”

Sophronia stiffened, annoyed that Soap was pursuing this subject so doggedly. “There’s a certain level of appeal.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

“Soap, I can’t have this discussion with you!”

“Oh ho, why not? I wager you talk with the young miss projects about it.”

“They’re girls!”

“And I’m not.”

“I certainly hope not, or you’ve been acting a better hoax than Vieve ever pulled.”

Soap moved in close, quick as a supernatural; perhaps he was halfway to werewolf already. He certainly looked fiercer than she’d ever thought possible. “Happy to prove it by tossing that Felix blighter out the hatch anytime.”

Sophronia couldn’t help but giggle at the image—poor Felix would be so surprised, clutching his top hat and floating through the air. “Oh, Soap, you are droll.”

Soap blinked and slid back into familiar friend territory. “Well, then, miss, you tell that to the other sooties? Lately they been taking me seriously.”

“That’s ’cause you been all over moody,” barked one sootie, moving past them at a trot.

“Goodness, Soap, imagine taking
you
seriously!”

“Yes, imagine that?” said Soap, all smiles, but Sophronia detected an edge of bitterness.

Sophronia made good her escape, unsettled by the whole
conversation. Sidheag going to London. Soap becoming a claviger and then a werewolf! She wanted her old silly boyish Soap back. The one who didn’t care for the state of the world. The one who made no plans to be immortal, who took no grave risks. The one whose eyes merely twinkled with mischief and nothing else. She wanted things as they were.
And I thought it would be such fun to grow up. I can’t tell Dimity about it, either
. Dimity wouldn’t understand. Dimity would tell her to stop visiting engineering. But as much as Sophronia was unsettled by the new Soap, she felt a sharp pain at the very idea of not seeing him at all.
Oh, bother
, thought Sophronia,
why is he trying to ruin everything?

Next morning they told Lady Linette that Sidheag had disappeared. They said they thought she’d simply gone off to mope somewhere alone with her thoughts and her disturbing letter.

“You didn’t see her leave the ship?”

They all shook their heads.

Dimity twirled a lock of golden-brown hair.

Agatha looked at her feet.

“You’re quite certain? She wasn’t with anyone? This could be important.”

“Perhaps if we knew something of that letter?” replied Sophronia, knowing it wouldn’t work, but drawing a kind of battle line in the intelligencer sand.

“Indeed. Perhaps. But I’m afraid I don’t know myself.”

Sophronia narrowed her eyes. Lady Linette’s cornflower-blue ones were impassive. They both inclined their heads in
acknowledgment.
At least we both know where we stand
, thought Sophronia.

“Very well, ladies, off with you. Breakfast won’t wait.”

For a fortnight they learned nothing more. There was no mail delivered. With Captain Niall gone, there was no one capable of running to Swiffle-on-Exe for the pickup. They didn’t go groundside, either. Professor Lefoux took over their bladed fan lessons. They had never before realized how integral a land-bound werewolf was to their collective mental stability. Floating in the gray drizzle—the general aspect of Dartmoor in January—with nary a peep from the rest of the world gave them all a malaise of the emotional humors. Even Dimity, who might have held to her bubbly nature with a birthday and a ball in her immediate future, remained troubled by Sidheag’s absence and stayed quiet.

Sophronia did not visit engineering. She was uncomfortable with moody Soap. Perhaps they both needed some distance. She wasn’t sure if she was punishing him for the gripes and hungry looks, or scared that she might unwittingly apply some of her seduction lessons to him. And the last thing she wanted to do was encourage her friend in a hopeless cause. His intent to turn werewolf felt near to a betrayal.

Dimity noted Sophronia’s lack of evening jaunts, as her repository of filched sweets grew ever larger with no clandestine distribution. Dimity felt it her ladylike duty to dispense tea-cake charity unto boiler room unfortunates. “Had a falling-out with your sootie beau, have you?”

“No,” said Sophronia shortly. “Just overly busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“Mastering the fan—I think I want it to be my trademark weapon. All great intelligencers have a trademark weapon.”

“And you’re choosing the fan because it’s both sensible and cooling?” suggested Dimity.

Agatha, who was spending time in their room as her own was lonely, perked up. “I prefer the garrote myself.”

The others looked at her, startled. Aside from the theater, and sleeping, Agatha rarely expressed an interest in anything. Let alone something espionage related.

“You do?” Dimity encouraged.

Agatha nodded. “You can wear it as jewelry, it hides away easily, and it’s a nice clean death.”

“I hate to say it, but I’m with Preshea on dealing down, poison’s best.” Dimity was firm on the matter.

“No blood?” suggested Sophronia.

“Exactly!” Dimity twirled the bangles about her wrist and sighed. “Enough of this morbid talk.”

Agatha was looking at her small weekly planner. “Shouldn’t we be heading into Swiffle soon? Without Captain Niall to give you two a ride, the school will have to meet your transport itself.”

The two girls looked at each other. “Oh, dear me yes. Depending on where exactly we are right now, it could take weeks. I hope Lady Linette hasn’t forgotten about the fact that we are due at a masquerade in a few days.”

Sophronia agreed, “We’d best make sure.”

They shouldn’t have underestimated their teacher. Lady
Linette was, after all, a mistress of information. It was her business to keep track of details.

During breakfast, which, since Mademoiselle Geraldine’s kept town hours, fell at around noon, the girls heard the unmistakable repetitive thudding of the school’s propeller cranking rhythmically below them. This could only mean one thing: the airship had a focused direction in mind. They were no longer gliding idly about the moor.

Dimity and Sophronia exchanged excited glances. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s floating finishing school was heading into town.

T
he school arrived at Swiffle-on-Exe late the following evening. It floated in over the River Exe itself, to take on water for the massive boilers in engineering. Then it took up its customary position, moored outside town, the mismatched turrets of Bunson and Lacroix’s Boys’ Polytechnique in view down a goat path.

Sophronia and Dimity were to depart early the next morning. They were excused from their last lesson of the night with Professor Braithwope, the idea being that they should get to bed before midnight. They tried to explain this to the vampire, who regarded them with a sobering eye, almost like his old self. The effect was lost, however, by the fact that he had taken it into his addlepated head to shave off his mustache.

Professor Braithwope’s mustache, which he must have had as a mortal before he was metamorphosed into a vampire, was a tiny caterpillar-like object that perched upon his upper lip
with an air of great uncertainty, like an amateur diver. This seemed to trouble the professor of late, for he would sporadically attempt to rid himself of the fuzzy protuberance. Since he was immortal, this did not work, for the moment the razor was put away his mustache grew back to its exact former state.

Sometimes, like tonight, he’d only managed to shave halfway before getting distracted, so the mustache looked as if it had lost its purchase at last and slid dangerously to the side and was trying, before their very eyes, to claw its way back up. It was hypnotic and difficult not to stare because the facial hair grew as quickly as a vampire’s wounds might heal.

“Young ladies, why are you leaving my class so soon, whot? I believe we have not yet even started. Wait a moment there! Don’t I know you? Yes, I think I do, I believe you are dancers to perform this evening. Or, wait…”

Sophronia and Dimity curtsied apologetically.

“Sorry, sir,” said Sophronia, “we’re excused. There’s this masquerade, you see?”

Dimity added, “Her brother is engaged, very exciting. We have to catch transport tomorrow and we need our beauty rest.”

“Well, that is no lie,” said Preshea from her seat near the back of the room.

The vampire lost interest halfway through their explanation. “Oh, yes, well, if you insist. Don’t forget your sausage, whot.” His mustache had almost resumed full bushiness.

“Of course not, sir,” replied Sophronia with a perfectly straight face.

“I believe they are bringing Viscount Mersey, does he count as a sausage?” Preshea was inclined to be fresh.

Professor Braithwope turned on her. “Bratwurst or banger?” he snapped.

“Banger, most assuredly,” replied Preshea.

The vampire thus distracted, Sophronia and Dimity made their escape, trying not to giggle.

They had already packed, terrified that they would forget something. And once in their room, they were far too excited to sleep, particularly not earlier than usual.

So instead they lay in their nightgowns talking.

“Are you pleased Lord Mersey will be there?”

Sophronia sighed. “I suppose so.”

“He is very handsome. And very rich. And very titled.” Dimity’s tone gave nothing away.

“Yes, but you’re the one who really wants to marry those things, not me.”

“Then what
do
you want from a beau?”

Sophronia considered this question. It had been troubling her of late. Felix was good looking, but he rather knew that too much. And he was nicely mysterious. But as a Pickleman he would interfere with her espionage operations, and that really couldn’t be countenanced in a beau.
Perhaps I can train him out of it?

Before she could answer Dimity, a timid knock sounded at the door to the parlor. The two looked at each other. They were the only ones not in class; whoever was there must know this.

Sophronia climbed out of bed and pulled on a robe. She was less self-conscious about these things than Dimity. After her foray into dressing like a dandy, she’d given over most scruples concerning public appearances in impolite clothing. After all,
her nightgown nicely covered her climbing outfit, even if it was intended for the bedchamber.

“Oh, Sophronia,” said Dimity, “they can wait while you dress.”

Since dressing, at the best of times, took a quarter of an hour, this was probably not wise. That knock had definitely sounded clandestine; besides, appearing at the door in said nightgown might unsettle the visitor, thus giving her an initial conversational advantage.

So Sophronia disregarded Dimity and padded through the parlor to open the hall door. A tall, shrouded figure pushed in past her without ceremony.

“What?”

“Shut the door, quickly now!”

Sophronia did so, and the individual pushed back the shroud to reveal…

“Soap!” He’d never visited before. It was terribly dangerous for a sootie to be up top. If he were caught, he’d be summarily dismissed without references. Not to mention the fact that Sophronia and Dimity would be ruined.

“What ho, miss? Figured I’d catch you before you left.”

Sophronia wasn’t sure how she felt about this. She had, after all, been avoiding him.

“Sophronia, who is it?” peeped Dimity from the safe confines of their darkened sleeping chamber.

Sophronia went over and stuck her head in. “No one all that important; give me a few minutes, please?”

Dimity’s white face peeked out from under the covers, which she’d pulled up to her chin in case someone untoward tried to see her. “Must you receive callers in such a state of disrepair?”

“I’ll be quick.”

“Who is it, then?” Dimity pressed.

“Just a friend.” Sophronia wanted to avoiding explaining Soap to Dimity. Dimity was bound to come over with a surfeit of disapproval.

Dimity sighed, but there was no way she was leaving her bed to meet an unknown entity.

Sophronia shut the door, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and turned to face the sootie.

Soap was standing awkwardly in the middle of the parlor, the cowl pushed down to drape about his shoulders. It was made of ripped gunnysack.

“Do sit down?” said Sophronia politely, with an elegant gesture designed to disarm the intruder with politeness, as Lady Linette had once instructed.

“I won’t, miss, thank you kindly. I’ll only smudge up all your pretty little seatlings.”

Sophronia stayed where she was for a moment, on the far side of the room. Then decided she would risk proximity for greater privacy in speech, in case Dimity was listening at keyholes. So she went over and sat, looking up at him expectantly.

“Well?”

“I scared you off, miss, didn’t I? This last time. Should’ve known I was too blunt. Even you’ve got some finer feelings.”

Sophronia’s pride was stung. “You most certainly did not scare me! And I’ve plenty of finer feelings, thank you very much. I was ashamed of my behavior, shouldn’t have yelled.”

Soap grinned, wide and cheerful. “I’m glad you did. Shows you care.”

“Of course I do!”

“So you’re avoiding me because you came over all lily-livered, afraid I’ll chuck a little affection your way?”

Sophronia glared at him. “I’m not frightened of you, Soap. I simply don’t think of you that way, and I don’t want to.”

“I know.” The tall boy managed to look both hurt and shamefaced. “It’s just, miss, that I wish… I…”

He stammered, unsure for once, and Sophronia took it as an opportunity to leap hastily in. “And I wish you would please stop showing me so much affection.” If he said anything more,
she’d
have to say more, and then she was sure to lose his friendship forever. So she hurriedly switched the subject. “What are you doing outside of engineering?”

“Couldn’t let you go groundside smoldering like to choke with disapproval.”

“I am not smoldering!” she said, looking as if smoke might start to come out her ears, as it did Bumbersnoot’s when he was excited.

Soap smiled, but it was not his usual broad grin. “No, I can see that. You’re catching a train in the wee hours?”

“No, Mumsy is sending the cart. An undignified way to travel, but it’ll get us there. And Roger is an old chum.”

Soap’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, I’ll be off, then. Don’t go dancing more than three with that Felix blighter.”

Sophronia sniffed. “I’m not a complete idiot, to be trapped so easily. Nor, for that matter, is he. It’s most annoying of you to order me to do something I’m going to do anyway. Now it’ll look like I’m obeying you!”

Soap shifted the cowl back over his head and let himself out. “Wasn’t an order, miss, only a request.”

“You could have fooled me!”

“Now I’ve gone and offended you again.”

“You have. And things used to be so jolly between us.”

Soap looked down at her, his eyes bright sparkles from the depths of the gunnysack. “Even a crafty little thing like you can’t change the inevitable.”

Sophronia’s mouth firmed and she got a distinct glint of determination in her eye. It was an expression most had learned to be wary of. Not Soap, though. “We’ll see about that.”

Unexpectedly, Soap laughed. “Only you, miss, would try to stop us all from growing up.” With that he skulked off down the hallway.

Sophronia was left thinking the whole encounter very odd.

She made her way back to bed, fortunately not having to explain anything to Dimity—her friend was fast asleep.

Sophronia’s mother sent the pony cart with Roger and another stable hand to act as escort. It wasn’t a stylish means of transport. Preshea would tease them mercilessly if she found out. However, Dimity and Sophronia were off school grounds before Preshea was even awake. Most everyone on board was dead to the world at six a.m., at which entirely uncivilized hour Sophronia and Dimity caught the goods lift groundside. They clutched sandwich boxes and flasks of tea—necessary sustenance for the long journey ahead.

Bundled in oiled mackintoshes, with hatboxes and carpetbags full of ball gowns tucked under for protection, the two young ladies were the last to arrive.

Roger and compatriot sat on the front box. Both were shrouded head to toe against the bitter cold and ceaseless drizzle. Roger gave them a limp wave of greeting. He looked thoroughly miserable. He’d have driven half the night to collect them all so early. The other stable hand had his nose buried in a dirty handkerchief and didn’t even look up.

Inside the cart, nearest the driver’s box, sat Pillover, Dimity’s younger brother and escort to the ball. It was embarrassing to bring one’s brother for a dance partner, but it was the best she could do at short notice. Any finer feelings between her and Lord Dingleproops had been crushed under the weight of a Pickleman-driven misunderstanding.
All the better for it
, thought Sophronia, who didn’t like Lord Dingleproops, and not solely because of his reluctant chin and Pickleman leanings.

She did, however, like Pillover. He was a morose sort, a general failure at most aspects of life, particularly—to his great trial—at being both evil and a genius. Pillover could invent things, and he wasn’t stupid, he was simply too nice. This was a shortcoming he found depressing.

He grunted at them, having long since elected to treat Sophronia as he did his sister, with a lack of deference and mild splats of brotherly affection.

Sitting as far away from Pillover as possible was Felix Golborne, Viscount Mersey. There was no love lost between the two boys. Sophronia was under the impression that this was mainly because Pillover was younger, practically middle class, and not a member of the Pistons. Felix was the oldest son of a very prominent family, a full Piston in bad standing, and deliciously sinister. The Pistons were a club of sorts, members of
which distinguished themselves via fancy waistcoats, black eyeliner, and Pickleman politics. Although currently Lord Mersey looked more damp and disgruntled than anything else, the kohl about his eyes having run to form sad rivulets down his cheeks. His bronze-beribboned top hat was sagging. Sophronia could feel her cheeks flush. This transport was miles beneath his dignity, and to have him sit waiting in the rain… How would she ever live it down?

Piston or not, Viscount Mersey was still a gentleman. Noting their approach, he jumped down to assist them. His expensive black boots became all over splattered.

“Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, delightful to see you both. It has been too long.” He tipped his hat. The hat dripped on him.

Dimity blushed becomingly. Sophronia mastered her embarrassment enough to smile apologetically. “Good morning, Lord Mersey, terrible weather, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say!” His voice had dropped since she’d last seen him, and he was taller by a good few inches. He didn’t tower over her the way Soap did, but he was exactly the right height to dance well.

Lord Mersey assisted Dimity first.

“Good morning, Pustule,” she greeted her brother affectionately.

“Hoy up, Fatty?” was his gloomy response. Pillover was certain to be even more grumpish than usual. His customary occupation when traveling was to bury his nose in a book, but it was raining too much to read in the open cart.