“Oh, good, I’m already quite wary. Do your own fortune?”
“Everyone knows a girl can’t predict her own future.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sophronia watched Professor Lefoux return to her seat. Lady Linette stood and began to move from one tea table to the next. She was making an announcement, gesticulating at each student in turn, and moving on, leaving behind a much quieter and more thoughtful gaggle.
Dimity took Sophronia’s plate. The Chelsea bun atop it was untouched.
Agatha looked bright eyed and inquisitive. “What does it say about our Sophronia, Dimity?”
“That she has terrible taste, and should know when to stop telling fibs and simply eat her bun.”
Agatha and Sophronia were both startled into a laugh.
Dimity ate Sophronia’s bun, since it was clear her friend wasn’t going to accord it gastronomic respect. Then she turned the conversation onto her favorite topic, attire. “So, what will you wear to the ball, Agatha?”
The redhead looked doubtful. She had recently exchanged much of her tubbiness around the middle for endowments further up. Mademoiselle Geraldine was most impressed by what she referred to as Miss Woosmoss’s increased assets and aesthetic abilities. Agatha was mortified. Fortunately, or unfortunately from Agatha’s perspective, she had a father who took a keen interest in the latest fashions—more for what it said about his means than for what it might do for his daughter’s standing. As a result, Agatha had many gowns to choose from.
No one asked Sophronia what she would wear. Her own figure was decent enough and had not shifted substantially during her time at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality. Fortunate indeed, as she subsisted mainly on her sisters’ castoffs. Those sisters having married away, castoffs were increasingly rare. Sophronia had only one ball gown, and it was a transformation dress that served double duty as her best visiting dress.
Despite her many options, Agatha was a problem. “I’d like to wear the mustard.”
Sophronia suppressed a choke.
Dimity was gentle with their friend. “Oh, but the pale lemon is much more stylish.”
Not to mention more becoming to her complexion, thought Sophronia.
“But the lemon is so very fluffy.” Agatha did not understand that this was a good thing.
Sophronia and Dimity exchanged a look.
“It has a much nicer cut,” Dimity pressed.
“It’s too low!” Agatha fluttered her hands about her chest.
Dimity was wistful. “Exactly! What I wouldn’t give to…” Dimity had tried every remedy for bust improvement that Mademoiselle Geraldine suggested, from massage with a tincture of myrrh, pimpernel, elder-flower, and rectified spirits, to preparations of nux vomica mixed with Madeira, to a diet composed mainly of comforting, breast-pampering foodstuffs. Dimity did not find the diet challenging, as it emphasized pastry, milk, potatoes, and similarly farinaceous foods. However, she was also avoiding tea and refraining from indulging in anger, grief, worry, and jealousy. Emotions, everyone knew, affected the size and quality of one’s endowments. But despite her efforts, nothing had, so far, improved.
“I should give you my share if I could.” Agatha was nothing if not generous.
Dimity was exactly as perceptive as people never gave her credit for. So she stopped pressuring Agatha and said to Sophronia, “You’re very subdued this evening. Are you nervous?”
“About a ball?” Sophronia was mock offended.
“About Felix being at the ball.”
Images flashed through Sophronia’s mind. Felix’s beautiful pale eyes lined in kohl. His dark hair. His leg bleeding. His warning her, too late. And that fateful shot, and Soap falling. It was all so complicated—and to think he was originally nothing more than a means for practicing flirtation. “I can handle our dear Lord Mersey.”
Dimity was unconvinced. “Oh, yes? Then explain the melancholy.”
“Perhaps I’m bored.”
“With what?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, you know. Flirting, pretty dress, espionage… death.”
Dimity huffed. “La you! I seem to remember someone enjoying Professor Braithwope’s lesson on resourceful reticules this afternoon. Even if he is all over dotty.”
“True. Perhaps I’m restless.”
“School not exciting enough after stealing trains?” Agatha sounded sympathetic.
Dimity cocked her head. “Hogwash. Mention of the ball brought this on. If it’s not Felix, then—” She paused. “Oh. You miss Mr. Soap. It’s not like he could have actually escorted you, Sophronia.”
“I know.” Of its own accord, Sophronia’s hand delved into a secret pocket where Soap’s latest missive, months old, rested crumpled and well read. That she heard from him at all was a joy, but that someone else was teaching him to read and write was bittersweet. “He seems very far away.”