FINDING FORTUNE
How will you infiltrate Bunson’s without being found out as you get older?” Sophronia asked Vieve, gesticulating elegantly at the front part of her own corset.
“I come from a long line of bony women, so I shouldn’t think that will be a problem. And I managed to fool even you, until you were told.”
“True, but I was more thinking about the fact that some of them must already know you as you at Bunson’s.”
“Only Shrimpdittle and if you can deal with him, I should be in form. So long as my aunt keeps mum, I don’t see as there should be any real difficulty.”
“If you say so.”
“I know so. And I have a wonderful fake mustache I shall begin sporting in a few years time. That will fool most anyone. Mustaches are like that.”
“You’d make a terrible intelligencer,” said Sophronia at that outrageous statement.
“I know. Hence the reason I want to infiltrate Bunson’s, which is far more amenable to my personality.”
“And contact between the schools? How will you handle that?”
“It is more amicable now than it has been before. But…” she trailed off, her small face thoughtful.
“You don’t think good relations will last?”
“You serve different masters.”
Sophronia sat up. “Do you know who is the patron of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s?”
Vieve shook her head. “No, but I know it isn’t the Picklemen, and they’re the backbone of Bunson’s. Those who aren’t Picklemen don’t get along with them, so…” She shrugged her conclusion.
Sophronia didn’t think much of the Picklemen herself. “In that case, are you certain you want to go there? There must be other evil genius schools.”
“None as good as Bunson’s. It’s a feeder to école des Arts et Métiers, the best university. Besides, I don’t mind a Pickleman or two. They have the funds and an interest in technology. Do you think it’s them Professor Braithwope was referencing the other night in the shed as wanting the technology?”
“Must be. Sister Mattie said the intermediary had gone to infiltrate flywaymen, we know the Picklemen are mixed up with them, and… wait a moment, what will I do about Bumbersnoot with you gone? Who will look after him?”
Vieve shrugged. “It’s time you learned mechanimal maintenance, if you will insist on carrying him everywhere like he’s a toy.”
Sophronia grinned at her pet, who was lounging on the end of the couch wearing lace and ruffles. “Oh, he doesn’t mind, do you, Bumbersnoot?”
Tick-tock, tick-tock went Bumbersnoot’s tail in apparent agreement.
“Come here, you charmer,” said Vieve, scooping up the mechanimal and removing his reticule attire. “I’ll show you how to clean and oil him and leave a few tools. You should try it before I relocate, in case you have questions.”
Sophronia prepared to be instructed. If Vieve was set on leaving, she had better learn to fend for herself in the matter of technology. Funny, she thought, I used to love to take things apart.
“Oh, ho ho, looks who’s all chummy.” Monique came into the room and cast herself in an unladylike manner into an arm chair.
“I thought you had a terrible headache, Sophronia. You don’t look like you’re ill,” accused Preshea, following Monique.
Sidheag, Agatha, and Dimity trailed into the parlor after them.
“Oh, Preshea, what do you care? You had Lord Mersey all to yourself at luncheon,” said Dimity.
Vieve looked at the fashionable young ladies surrounding her. She issued an ironic little bow, packed up her things, and made good her escape.
“I don’t know why you associate with that brat,” said Monique. “Older girls shouldn’t patronize younger ones.”
No one replied, but there was a collective arching of eyebrows. After all, Monique was forced to spend most of her time associating with them, and even Sophronia—the eldest of the bunch—was three years her junior.
Monique wrinkled her nose, as if smelling the absurdity in her own words. She quickly moved the subject on. “Preshea, darling, is it only I who have noticed, or has this whole trip to London become excessively dull?”
“Don’t fret, dear Monique. You still have your party to plan.” Preshea was all optimism.
Monique brightened. “Oh, yes, the party. How droll of me to forget. Should we consider refreshments?”
Preshea and Monique then spent a quarter of an hour discussing the delights of the upcoming ball. They listed all the diversions and delicacies in a manner that emphasized the fact that no one else in the room would get to sample any.
Agatha played her role painfully well, pretending interest. Really, thought Sophronia, she is a better intelligencer than the school gives her credit.
Sophronia and her friends remained unaffected by the barbs. She and Sidheag played tiddlywinks while Dimity knitted. Dimity was fond of knitting and was currently attempting to craft small yellow booties for Bumbersnoot. She claimed this was practice for her future as a charitable lady of means. Sophronia secretly worried that the mechanimal would slide all over the floor—not to mention, why did a metal dog need warm feet?—but the act was kindly meant.
Then, in a twist of topic, Preshea and Monique began to discuss boys. “Lord Mersey, of course, is the cream on the cake. Getting him to attend can only be to the betterment of all concerned.”
Monique was confident. “I’m assured he will come. As will Lord Dingleproops. Of course, we can’t have young Vullrink, not after last night’s supper. Imagine using a knife for fish? And Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott is right out.”
Preshea nodded sagely. “Too young?”
“Too ill connected.” Monique looked pointedly at Dimity.
Dimity glanced up from her needles. “He’ll only thank you for it. Pillover hates parties.”
“Oh, wonderful. It’s always so nice to know the unwelcome are also uncaring of their social standing,” sneered Monique. She probably would have gone on with her commentary until their next lesson, but the perimeter alarm trumpeted.
Dimity put down her knitting.
The girls stayed in their parlor, as they had been instructed. Even Sophronia, who was inclined to take to the hull to investigate, remained seated. With all the manufactured fog it would be impossible to see who approached, a fact that was worrying in and of itself. If someone had managed to spot and attack the school despite their cloud disguise, that someone had superior technology.
They waited with bated breath for the ship to shake with cannon fire, for the fateful lean and sway of a balloon collapsing. Nothing happened. They listened for the sound of timber splitting. Still nothing. In short order, the trumpeting stopped with no apparent reaction from ship, mechanicals, or staff.
“Must have been a false alarm,” said Dimity into the ensuing silence.
The girls, with nothing better to do, prepared for their next lesson. Even Monique was sobered by the strange experience.
They had foreign languages and lipreading with Lady Linette next. None of the boys were present. Apparently, gentlemen didn’t require foreign tongues. They moved from there on to tea and subterfuge with Mademoiselle Geraldine. Since the headmistress had no idea of the true nature of her own school, the exact kind of subterfuge was always assigned by one of the other teachers. Today, however, Lady Linette informed them that this time they should know what to do when they arrived.
Excited by the mystery, the girls hurried through the hallways to be met in the tassel section by Professor Shrimpdittle, trailing a sullen-looking Lord Dingleproops, Lord Mersey, and Pillover Plumleigh-Teignmott. The ten of them entered Mademoiselle Geraldine’s quarters together.
As ever, the walls were lined with shelves of fake pastries, and the headmistress rose to welcome them from behind a large table set with a full tea service. She had known to expect a larger than normal gathering, for there were twelve place settings. Her décolletage heaved with appreciation. Mademoiselle Geraldine loved company.
Sitting next to her, in the place of honor, was an elderly female. She wore eccentric dress for a woman in the later part of life. Her wild gray hair was loose and her forehead bound over with a colorful scarf, like a sky pirate. Her jewelry was bronze and gold and more prevalent than Dimity’s at her most sparkly. The stranger’s complexion was tan in a manner that young ladies of quality were cautioned against. Her eyes were lined thickly with kohl. Her attire seem to be composed utterly of brightly colored scarves tied in layers.
Dimity gasped in appreciation. “A fortune-teller!”
“How very esoteric, Madam G.!” crowed Lord Dingleproops, striding up to the headmistress to clap her on the shoulder, rather as a man would approach a fellow at his club. Mademoiselle Geraldine looked at him as though he were a collapsed soufflé, and he backed away hastily.
The girls tittered in elation. Even Pillover looked pleased, and he was rarely pleased by anything.
We didn’t go down low to retrieve her, thought Sophronia. How did she get on board?
“Very good, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott. We have indeed been graced with the presence of a fortune-teller.”
Sophronia wondered, “Did you set off the alarm?”
The fortune-teller’s eyes sharpened on her.
Sophronia realized she had revealed more of her personality with that one question than was healthy. She was, after all, the only one who’d jumped straight to logistics rather than the exciting possibility of having her palm read.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Madame Spetuna has been retained for the evening to tell your fortunes.” Mademoiselle Geraldine was wearing a lightweight muslin gown of chartreuse with cream stripes. It was a dress that better suited one of her students. Each stripe was patterned with pink roses. There was fringe all up the length of the sleeves and about the low square neckline that displayed the headmistress’s assets to great effect. Said assets heaved as she inhaled, and Professor Shrimpdittle looked as though he might faint.
She continued, “Given that there are ten of you, we must keep the readings brief. So tuck in quickly to the nibbly bits while we do so, and don’t stand on ceremony. If Miss Pelouse would pour the tea? Miss Buss, why don’t you sit first?”
Preshea took the seat closest to the fortune-teller with alacrity.
Madame Spetuna looked her over. “Ze cards, I think, for you, dark child.”
Preshea was made to pick five cards from a deck and lay them out carefully on the damask tablecloth. Madame Spetuna rearranged them a few times before settling on a pattern she liked.
This must be today’s subterfuge challenge. We are to ensure the fortune-teller doesn’t reveal anything to Mademoiselle Geraldine about our real training. Sophronia, nibbling a biscuit, sat back to watch. She wondered about the fortune-teller. Does she know what we do here? Or does she, like Mademoiselle Geraldine, think it is a normal, albeit floating, finishing school?
“Ah,” breathed Madame Spetuna, “this is most interesting. Most interesting indeed. You, my child, will marry well. More than once. A charmed life, so long as you weave a tight net, little spider.” The lady retrieved the cards and shuffled them back together into one stack in an attitude of dismissal.
Taking this as a sign her fortune was complete, Preshea stood. Looking particularly pleased with life, she passed over a few coins and gave Madame Spetuna a nice curtsy.
Mademoiselle Geraldine was fanning herself. “Oh, dear, oh, dear, Miss Buss. Let us hope it is widowhood and not”—she whispered the next word—“divorce that leads to your multiple marriages.”
Preshea sat and sipped from a china cup. “I shouldn’t worry, Headmistress. I am tolerably certain it will be widowhood.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine was reassured by this. Preshea’s future husbands probably wouldn’t have been. Even Lord Dingleproops, ordinarily unconcerned by those around him, looked apprehensively at the beautiful dark-haired girl. She gave him a wicked smile and a coy lowering of the lashes.
Reel it in, Preshea. Sophronia glanced nervously at the headmistress. But Mademoiselle Geraldine was waving the next victim forward.
Dimity took the danger seat. “I admire your fashion sense,” she told the fortune-teller with absolute sincerity.
Madame Spetuna tucked a lock of hair behind her ear—in which there were three earrings!
Dimity’s eyes sparkled.
“For you, the palm,” said Madame Spetuna.
Wide-eyed, Dimity presented the fortune-teller with both hands. Madame Spetuna bent over them, the many rings on her fingers flashing as she traced the lines.
Sophronia heard Monique whisper to Preshea, “I wouldn’t allow such a dirty, common creature to touch me!”
Madame Spetuna gave no indication of having heard. “You wish for a simple life, magpie. You will not get it. You will choose, many times, between loyalty and peace. A terrible choice.” She looked up at Dimity, her dark eyes sad. “I am sorry.”
Dimity nodded, her round face somber. “That’s all right, Madame Spetuna. I always suspected it might be so.”
Since she had forgotten her reticule, Dimity slid off one of her own many bracelets and gave it to the fortune-teller. They exchanged the smiles of kindred spirits.
Mademoiselle Geraldine called Monique. The older girl hid her excitement with a haughty expression. She sat and took up the cards without Madame Spetuna suggesting she do so.
“You are attracted to the cards, moonbeam? Good. It is always better when one is summoned.”
Once the icy blonde had selected five cards, the fortune-teller bent over them for a time. “You will never be as important as you think you are. That is all.”
“What do you know, old woman?” Monique stood with a sneer and left without offering a gratuity.
When she went to sit, Mademoiselle Geraldine wrapped the girl’s knuckles hard with a fan. “Manners!”
Monique, without further comment, curtsied to the fortune-teller and returned to her tea and Preshea’s questionable council.
Then it was Agatha’s turn. The redhead asked, in a hesitant voice, if her fortune might be told privately. Sophronia thought to warn her that this might not be permitted by Lady Linette under the subterfuge clause, but there wasn’t time. Madame Spetuna agreed.
Agatha was also given the cards. After her selection was laid on the table, Madame Spetuna whispered in her ear. Whatever Agatha’s fortune, it cheered the chubby girl. She was almost animated and passed over a ridiculously large sum to Madame Spetuna in thanks.
Sophronia wished she were a fortune-teller. It would be an admirable way to inspire discomfort. Professor Shrimpdittle, for example, might be shaken into distrusting Bunson’s. Then again… I wonder how much it costs to buy a fortune? Sophronia assessed her own meager funds. Then, while Agatha bumbled back to her seat, Sophronia pulled out a scrap of paper and a bit of graphite from her reticule. Three shillings, she wrote, to imply that Bunson’s headmaster no longer trusts Prof S. There was no time to code the note; she simply had to hope the fortune-teller was game.
Sidheag assumed the seat with a certain bravado. She held out her hands without being asked.
“You have done this before, wolf child?” Madame Spetuna’s eyes were sharp on Sidheag’s face.
Sidheag nodded.
“Then what I tell you will be no different. You know your fate and you cannot escape it. Why do you dally here pretending to be tame?”
Sidheag nodded and stood to resume her seat. Her curtsy was perfunctory, but the fortune-teller did not take offense. It was almost as if she knew Sidheag’s curtsies were always perfunctory.
Finally Madame Spetuna gestured to Sophronia.
Sophronia went eagerly. Suspicious nonsense, of course, but terribly fun suspicious nonsense. I wish Soap could have his fortune told. He’d love it.
Madame Spetuna looked her up and down. She said, “The palm, I think, for you.”
Sophronia offered both hands.
The fortune-teller seized them by the wrists. Her touch was soft and dry, and she smelled of exotic spices Sophronia could not place. I must train my nose, she thought. Such information could be important, particularly if a given smell is associated with an enemy or an informant.
“Even now, you think only in terms of the game. You are well chosen, little bird. Or are you a stoat?” Madame Spetuna bent forward, looking even harder at Sophronia’s palms. She was close enough for Sophronia to feel the woman’s breath on her skin. “Give your heart wisely.” She paused a long time over one particular wrinkle. “Oh, child, you will end the world as we know it.” Madame Spetuna swallowed and then turned Sophronia’s hands over and placed them, palm down, on the table. She leaned forward, pressing them into the tablecloth as though she might rub out what she had seen.
It was an admirable performance. Sophronia thought she ought to applaud. Everyone was silent in awe. Sophronia looked over at Felix. He was making a face.
Then Monique giggled. “Stoat, of course Sophronia’s a stoat.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine recovered her composure. “What a very odd fortune, Miss Temminnick. What game could she possibly be referring to?”
“Oh, Headmistress, we have been playing loo these last few nights. Perhaps it is that?” Sophronia lied easily.
Mademoiselle Geraldine looked relieved. “Oh, yes, indeed. Now, which of the gentlemen would like to go next?”
Sophronia stood, reached into her reticule, and passed the fortune-teller a shilling and the note. Since handling and exchanging money was always an embarrassment, everyone made a point of not really watching the gratuity.
Sophronia pretended to get her skirt caught in the chair as she rose. In a flurry of long sleeves she bent and almost tipped Madame Spetuna’s teacup over. Under cover of this, the fortune-teller opened and read the note.
By the time Sophronia had sorted herself, and the chair, out—Mademoiselle Geraldine reprimanding her for such unladylike clumsiness—the note had vanished, and Madame Spetuna was giving Sophronia a funny look.
Sophronia arched one eyebrow. She’d been practicing that expression for days; it was a very intelligencer sort of skill, and she felt she ought to know how to do it. Her eyebrow twitched slightly and didn’t arch gracefully, but it got her point across.
The fortune-teller nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Pillover assumed the seat. “It’s all nonsense, of course.”
Madame Spetuna used the cards on him. “You are greater than the sum of your parts,” she said.
Pillover looked doubtfully down at his tubby form. Sophronia wondered at a woman dressed in scarves quoting Aristotle.
Madame Spetuna continued. “And you will never make your father happy. Stop trying.”
Pillover drooped.
Lord Dingleproops was next. “What a lark!”
“Wager to win, my lord, not to lose.”
“That’s all you have to say to me?”
“Wager any more and you could learn nothing at all.”
“You speak in riddles. Come on, Felix, saddle up.”
Felix assumed the seat, lounging back as was his insolent manner. His posture always gave the impression of not caring. About anything.
“You will not repeat your father’s mistakes. You will make new ones, all your own.”
“Very meaningful, Madame Spetuna. Of course, you might suspect any young man of being somewhat at odds with his father.” Felix’s eyes were narrowed.
Madame Spetuna only looked at him and adjusted the red-and-gold shawl around her shoulders.
The young viscount slouched over to take a seat opposite Sophronia and next to Monique. He ought have talked to Monique, but instead he said to Sophronia, “Occult nonsense.”
Sophronia blinked at him, her green eyes very direct. “Well, are you, my lord?”
“Am I what?”
“At odds with your father?”
“Is that interest I see at last, Ria, my dove?” Felix smiled and turned to talk with Monique.
Sophronia was left in possession of the field but also feeling as though she had lost something. I must get better at extracting information. She considered. Perhaps he requires feminine sympathy?
Mademoiselle Geraldine, meanwhile, was urging Professor Shrimpdittle to have his fortune told. The good professor looked as if he would rather not, but the headmistress’s assets were clearly irresistible. He took the seat.
The fortune-teller grabbed his hand and said, “You have troubles at school? Your headmaster, he does not value your contribution? This trip, it is to get you away, to keep you from becoming important.”
Professor Shrimpdittle was agitated. “How do you know?”
“The spirits do not lie.”
“There are no spirits, not that science has proven. Ghosts, of course, but not spirits.”
“And yet, you fear I speak truth.”
Professor Shrimpdittle, attuned to the interest of his own students, fell silent. But the seed of suspicion had been planted.
Sophronia palmed three shillings, ready to complete her end of the bargain.
Madame Spetuna was about to say more when a knock on the door interrupted her.
“Who could that possibly be?” wondered Mademoiselle Geraldine. “Everyone knows I am in an important session.”
As if this tea were a meeting of Parliament.
“Come in,” yelled the headmistress.
Vieve poked her head in. “Sorry to disturb, Mademoiselle Geraldine, but I heard… oh, yes! Bully! A fortune-teller! May I have mine done, please?”
“Oh, I don’t think we have the time—”
Professor Shrimpdittle delicately interrupted the headmistress by rising to his feet. “By all means, let the child take my place.”
“If you don’t mind, Professor?”
Vieve trotted over and sat, little legs dangling.
The fortune-teller looked the scamp over and then looked at her palms briefly. “You are too young, as yet, to be fully formed. I can tell you only one thing. You are doomed to be lucky in matters of the head and unlucky in matters of the heart.”
Vieve grinned. “That’s good enough for me. I’d rather the first over the second.”
The fortune-teller shook her head sadly. “Which only proves how very young you are. And now, I am fatigued. Mademoiselle Geraldine, if I might beg to rest before the next session?”
“Of course, my boudoir is just there. Please, avail yourself of the amenities.”
Madame Spetuna left the room with barely a nod at her former customers. She brushed past Sophronia and scooped up the three coins, which Sophronia held casually behind her seat back. It was as if Madame Spetuna had been conducting covert operations her whole life. Very professional.
Sophronia turned to watch the fortune-teller retreat. The lady was quite short, and she moved slowly. I must remember that kind of garb as a good disguise. I should invest in colored scarves. My list of necessities gets ever longer. Perhaps I should also take the time to learn the basics of fortune-telling to go alongside. It seemed a matter of making statements vague enough to be possibly true or predictions far enough in the future to be irrelevant.
The girls discussed their precognitive tea later that evening. After much analysis of their own fortunes, and everyone else’s, Sophronia brought the subject around to the fortune-teller herself.
“Of course, she can’t possibly be a real fortune-teller.”
“Why ever not?” wondered Agatha, who wanted to believe in what she had been told. Whatever that had been. She was keeping her own council on the matter, despite Sophronia’s needling.
“Don’t you think she’s one of ours?” Sophronia was casual in her assertions. “Returned to report in person on some dangerous matter?”
“Oh.” Dimity was impressed. “You think she is an agent in disguise?”
Sophronia nodded.
“How do you know?” Sidheag demanded. “She realized that I’d had my fortune told before. She seemed genuine.”
Sophronia did not want to tell them about the bribe and Professor Shrimpdittle. Discrediting a man’s reputation was shabby work. They’d been taught a little of it, but it was considered dirty, even by Lady Linette. Character sabotage was morally hazardous to both parties. Sophronia was outside her depth with this operation, and her friends would take her to task for it. Especially as she was campaigning against an adult. Monique was one thing, but a teacher?
But there was something about the fortune-teller. A broach hidden among her scarves in the shape of an onion. The fact that she had come aboard in secret and while they were floating. Combined with something Sister Mattie had said about the intermediary, the one who missed the shipment of pillows. She had to take the opportunity to infiltrate the flywaymen. Flywaymen were supposed to be very superstitious, so fortune-teller would make a great cover for a spy.
HOW TO GRACIOUSLY RECEIVE A GIFT
The next morning at breakfast, there was a postal delivery waiting. Captain Niall was still gathering the mail diverted to inns along the way. The offerings consisted of flowery letters from beaux and the occasional familial missive. Sophronia watched Pillover carefully, pleased to see him receive a letter addressed in aggressive black script.
Their six-month review marks must have gone out, for the girls in Sophronia’s year all had correspondences from parents. Agatha was in tears over hers. Sidheag snorted at her missive and lit it on fire with a nearby candle.
Dimity nibbled her lip over a boldly scripted note. “Oh, dear, Mummy is disappointed.”
Her brother looked up from his own letter. “What did you do?”
“It’s more what I didn’t do.”
Pillover stared gloomily into his giblet pie. “I suggest you become accustomed to the sensation. I showed interest in their work, and they’re still critical.”
Dimity peeked over his shoulder. “Anything significant?”
Sophronia squinted at both of them. They were attracting attention with their sibling fussing. “Later!”
If Monique’s parents cared that she’d been sent down, she showed no sign. Instead, she said in a loud voice to Preshea, “See? Daddy has written to the trustees, questioning Lady Linette’s leadership. That should yield interesting results. Oh, look, and Mama has rented Walsingham House Hotel’s Tea Room for my coming-out ball! It is not quite so grand as I had hoped, but…”
“Oh, but it is pretty and centrally located.”
“True, true, dear Preshea. Mayfair is the height of fashion.”
Sophronia saw Monique stash away two other letters. Letters that had already been opened, their wax seals cracked. Monique’s hands trembled as she stuffed them into her reticule.
Sophronia had expected a message of congratulations from her own family, assuming that they had been told of her achievements in the matter of oddgob tests. But there was nothing.
They returned to their parlor after breakfast to find two large dress packages waiting.
Monique pounced with a squeal of pleasure. “My new ball gown, already! How exciting. Oh, no. They are addressed to Sophronia. Who would have guessed you ever got new clothes? I certainly should not.”
Nor, thought Sophronia, should I.
She pulled the ribbon and opened the top box. There was a note in her mother’s tidy handwriting. “Your father and I are thrilled with your results, and with your sudden interest in fashionable attire. We hope the measurements are still sound.”
Inside was a day dress of royal-blue-and-black brocade. Its pagoda sleeves boasted modest black fringe, but otherwise the gown was unadorned. The fabric was lovely, and the simple cut allowed it to shine. It had a high neckline, giving it a mature aura. Sophronia wondered if her mother had ordered the gown for herself and then been displeased with the vibrancy of the color. It was not a dress Mrs. Temminnick might ordinarily have approved for a daughter, which made Sophronia like it all the more.
She held it up for the others to see.
“Oooo,” admired Dimity.
“It’s not something she would usually send.” Sophronia was careful to look skeptical.
“Oh, is it not customary for her to actually spend money on you?” Preshea wondered, drawn into admiring the dress despite herself.
Monique’s nose wrinkled. “It’s terribly adult.”
Dimity said, “Perhaps we might get hold of some black velvet ribbon and create military details up the front—to make it a little less simple.”
Sophronia liked the simplicity, but she didn’t want to crush Dimity’s decorative dreams. “Perhaps.”
Dimity clapped her hands in excitement. “Let’s see the other one!”
The other box was larger. Sophronia dipped in to produce not one, not two, but three bodices and two large, fluffy skirts. This gown was of soft and filmy sage-green muslin. The overskirt dipped and swooped like curtains. The underskirt was a darker shade of the green, with a scalloped edge. There was a good deal of detail work put in at the hem, stripes as well as embroidery. It had a wide sash and, unless Sophronia was very mistaken, could be worn without the overskirt for plainer look. Of the three bodices, one was a heavily fringed, low-cut evening style, with a cinched belt sporting a pretty center clasp; the second was for visiting and had narrow sleeves and a button front; and the third was a crossover fichu that could be arranged like a shawl over the evening top or as cross-front variation on the visiting version on colder days.
“Three dresses in one,” said Sidheag. Even she was moved to comment on the peculiarity. “How very practical.”
How very thrifty was Monique’s thought.
Sophronia loved it, but she knew better than to say so in Monique’s hearing, or raspberry cordial would be spilled all down the skirts the first time she wore it out. So she said, “I’m not sure about the color.”
Dimity was not so reticent. “It will bring out your eyes beautifully. I’ve heard of this, you know. It’s called a robe à transformation, and it’s the very latest thing in Paris.” She said this for Monique’s benefit.
“So optimistic of your mother to include a ball gown option,” said Monique, smiling sweetly.
“Monique is right.” Sophronia turned to Dimity. “I doubt I’ll get to wear that bodice, but it was very kind of Mumsy to think of me. She must have spent her own personal dress allowance on it.”
The other girls gasped.
“Sophronia, don’t talk of such menial things!” reprimanded Agatha softly. Agatha found money terribly embarrassing, as she had so very much of it.
Perhaps Agatha would consider being my sponsor in the intelligencer game, thought Sophronia. If she decides against taking it up herself, of course.
She was rather gleeful later, putting her new gowns away reverently in her wardrobe.
“You like them, don’t you?” accused Dimity.
“I shall like them better when I have a chance to sew in hidden pockets and holsters, and determine a way to hang my chatelaine from those cloth belts.”
“Yes, you like them.” Dimity bounced onto her bed, grinning. She possessed a generous and happy spirit that allowed her to enjoy a friend’s good fortune.
“I wonder what was in Monique’s letters. The ones she hid in her reticule at breakfast.”
Dimity smiled. “You mean the ones that had been opened and looked at before she got them?”
“You saw them, too? Do you think she’s begging to become someone else’s drone? After all, she and Professor Braithwope have broken off.”
“Does it work like that? I heard vampires come after you,” said Dimity, playing with her bangles.
“Could be negative replies to her ball, I suppose. Did you get a look at Pillover’s letter?” Sophronia closed the wardrobe door on her new dresses and went to the looking glass to prepare for evening lessons. They had Professor Braithwope next, and he was very particular about appearances.
“Yes. Mummy’s still working on aetheric communication, and Daddy’s on mechanical protocols. It’s all rather dull. They’ve been stuck on those subjects for absolutely ever, since before I started school here. Is it relevant?”
Sophronia sat down on her bed in shock. “Relevant? Relevant!” She remembered that it was after visiting Dimity’s house that Monique had first taken possession of the prototype valve. It must have come from Dimity’s parents! They were the ones building them.
“Oh, good, it is? How nice!”
“Dimity, Vieve thinks your parents’ activities are part of Giffard’s upcoming dirigible test. They’ve invented new mechanical protocols to help negotiate the aetherosphere currents. Do you remember the prototype all the fuss was about at my sister’s ball?”
“Of course I remember. Monique hurled a cheese pie at you.”
“Well, that’s your parents’ device. Someone is using a smaller version of that device to help Giffard float.”
Dimity blinked. “And someone else is trying to get at me to stop them?”
Sophronia nodded. “Pillover, too, don’t forget.”
“Poor Pill. He’s such a little guy, and he’s no training at all.” Dimity sounded almost as if she actually liked her brother.
“Did the letter say whom your parents are working for?”
“No, they’d never tell Pillover that. Too adult for a child to understand and what not.”
“Would either of them work for the vampires?”
“Mummy might,” said Dimity. “Daddy wouldn’t.”
“How about the Picklemen?”
“The reverse.”
“And the government?”
Dimity nodded, blushing. “It’s embarrassing, and I’m only saying this because we are alone, you understand? But it would depend on the remuneration.” She lowered her voice. “We aren’t made, you know? We’re earned.”
Sophronia steered the conversation delicately. “Your parents are divided in their political leanings?”
“It’s why unions between Bunson’s boys and Geraldine’s girls are not encouraged. We are allowed to flirt, but that’s only to practice. We aren’t meant to marry. Mummy and Daddy are aberrant. Kind of like Romeo and Juliet. Only with less poison. Well, less poisoning of each other.” Dimity was proud of this fact. “The rumor is, Daddy gave up becoming a high-ranked Pickleman for love of Mummy. Very romantic, don’t you feel? He might even have achieved Gherkin status.”
Sophronia was enthralled. “Are you two the only siblings with a boy at one school and a girl at the other?”
Dimity nodded.
“Sadly, this doesn’t help us determine which camp is trying to push your parents’ hand.”
“They could be working for any of the usual suspects, thus alienating any of the others. Hundreds of depraved people could want to kidnap us.” Dimity sounded almost philosophical.
“What a mess,” said Sophronia. “Why did your parents have to be evil geniuses? Good geniuses are much easier to keep track of.”
“All the best geniuses are evil,” replied Dimity confidently. “Oh goodness, we’re late for lessons. Should we tell a teacher any of this, do you think?”
Sophronia shook her head. “With no proof and no certainty as to who is after you? I’m afraid you simply must be careful, Dimity. And keep an eye on Pillover.”
Dimity sighed. “And here I was so excited to be away at finishing school so I didn’t have to spend time with my brother.” She stood and checked in the looking glass to ensure her hair was in place, all her buttons secured, and her lace tuck lying flat.
Sophronia stood as well, wrestling a stray lock of hair back under her cap. “What subject do we have tonight?”
“Oh, Sophronia, didn’t you do Professor Braithwope’s reading?”
“I was out late.”
“Hive and pack dynamics as part of the modern aristocratic system.” Dimity waved a copy of the Evening Chirrup at her. “We were to read six articles written over the last twenty years from the gossip column. We’re to present on the treatment of supernaturals as teased out from society papers. It was actually kind of interesting.”
Sophronia took the parchment from her friend. “Did we all have the same six pamphlets to read?’
“Of course.”
“Who knew to collect and keep multiple copies of the same newspapers at various points over two decades?”
“You think these are fake?”
Sophronia raised one eyebrow; she was getting better at the maneuver. “Or Professor Braithwope has hidden quirks.”
“Sometimes I hate the way your mind works.”
They made their way to the lessons. Dimity guided Sophronia by the arm, so she could read while they walked. It wasn’t entirely successful, as Sophronia bumped into a wall, a statue of a nymph, and lastly Felix Mersey. She wasn’t entirely certain Dimity hadn’t guided her into the young lordling on purpose. Dimity thought rather too highly of Felix for Sophronia’s good.
“Why, Lord Mersey. How nice to see you this evening.” Dimity pinched Sophronia to make her pay attention.
“Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott. Miss Temminnick, are you all right?”
Sophronia, caught by a particular line in one of the older columns, looked up at him. “Oh, no need to apologize, my lord. My fault entirely.”
“I didn’t.”
“Mmm? Ah, well, I’m that clumsy when I read and walk.” She gave him a winning, if absentminded, smile.
“Fascinating transcript?” ventured Felix, slightly alarmed by her pleasant demeanor.
Sophronia thought he looked disturbingly adorable when confused. “Indeed it is. Ever heard of the Westminster vampire hive?”
“Of course, hasn’t everyone? Not exactly my social circle, Miss Temminnick.” The boy’s lip curled slightly.
“Are there many hives in London, do you know, Lord Mersey?”
“My dear Ria, one would be too many.”
“Well, perhaps Professor Braithwope will enlighten me. I take it you won’t be attending our lesson with him?”
“Wouldn’t be permitted, Miss Temminnick.”
“Pity, he’s a very entertaining teacher. If you would excuse us?” Sophronia and Dimity curtsied and made their way into the vampire’s classroom.
“Now what are you about, Sophronia?” hissed Dimity, as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Me?” They took their seats, Sophronia back to reading.
Professor Braithwope entered wearing a velvet smoking jacket, an expertly tied Indian silk cravat, and a pathologically unsteady mustache. “Welcome, little bites, welcome. Today we are on to an extremely interesting topic, whot. But first, your thoughts on the reading? Miss Pelouse?” The mustache arrowed in Monique’s direction.
Monique made some offhand comment. Preshea was up next, equally vague.
The mustache drooped. “Ladies, this is vital high-society survival information. Even should your paths take you into a duplicitous union with a conservative family, you must know who sits where in government. Not to mention, who came out of which families into which hives and packs. Did anyone read the articles? Miss Temminnick.” He turned the mustache on Sophronia.
Sophronia looked up at the mercurial little man from the wingback love seat she shared with Dimity. “I think the articles are meant to demonstrate the gradual acceptance of vampires into London society via their image as presented in the popular press. The earlier articles emphasize vampires’ monstrous nature, feeding habits, and visiting hours. Shockingly late, says one line. And regrettable slurping, says another. This article was all about so-and-so being bitten after only three dances. The later columns focus instead on vampire influence on complexion and dress, particularly driven by one Countess Nadasdy of the Westminster Hive. A recluse who never leaves her secret home yet has a significant effect on fashion.”
Professor Braithwope stood silent under this assessment. “Excellent, Miss Temminnick.” His mustache vibrated in approval.
“Do you think you might tell us a little more about the Westminster Hive?” asked Dimity, all innocent and pure. It was the perfect setup, for while she turned wide, honey-brown eyes on the teacher, Sophronia watched Monique. The older girl went still, her expression impassive, which was a giveaway.
Now that the professor has dropped her as drone, I bet Monique wants to trade up to a hive. And she’d want Westminster. It’s clearly the most stylish. Sophronia would lay good money on it.
Monique fished about in her reticule, retrieving a golf ball–sized white powdery object, which she popped covertly into her mouth. She swallowed with the look of a cat forced to eat a carrot.
Professor Braithwope, in animated response to Dimity’s interest, said, “The queen of the Westminster Hive, Countess Nadasdy, is old, mean, and wise. However, her success in making new vampires is no better than any other queen’s. And therein, of course, is the immortal curse. Drones tend to die in the attempt, and she has to kill them. This makes most vampire queens a little funny about the head—all that murder.” He looked pointedly at Preshea and then went on to detail the male members of the Westminster Hive—age, holdings, undocumented trade, technological interests, and rank, if any.
This lesson left the six girls with the distinct impression that it was better to play nice with the Westminster Hive. Or avoid crossing them altogether.
They moved on to discussing the reach of the potentate, a rove vampire but a powerful one, who sat on Queen Victoria’s Shadow Council and advised Her Majesty on the running of the Empire.
The girls were beginning to look glassy-eyed. It was a great deal of information to absorb.
“There is one other rove of interest in London, no matter how frivolous he may appear at first. Lord Akeldama is a unique personage of considerable standing with a propensity to dandification—Miss Pelouse? Miss Pelouse, are you unwell?”
Monique had turned, throughout the course of the lecture, a chartreuse color not unlike that of Agatha’s dress.
“You are sweating, Miss Pelouse, whot. Young ladies of quality are not supposed to sweat!”
“Oh, Professor, I believe I’m unwell.” The blonde got shakily to her feet and then, in a dramatic show, fell forward in a dead faint.
Since they had been instructed many times always to faint backward, this was shocking. A forward faint was, to the best of their assessment, a real faint! Practically unheard of. Preshea bent over her friend, spreading her own lavender-and-blue skirts out prettily.
Professor Braithwope reeled, discombobulated by such frail mortal activity, and then minced out the door. “Matron! Where’s the matron, whot?” Sophronia and Dimity followed him.
At his yell several of the other teachers opened their doors. Sister Mattie’s round, friendly face was concerned. “Professor, may I be of assistance?”
“Miss Pelouse is unwell.”
Sister Mattie bustled across the hall and into the room.
Professor Shrimpdittle emerged at the far end of the passageway, followed by his boys. “What’s happening?”
Sophronia sent Dimity off. “Tell him something is terribly wrong with one of the girls in Professor Braithwope’s class. Use a tone that implies the vampire is to blame.”
Dimity gave her an odd look but did as requested. She wafted down the hall, smiled sweetly up at the Bunson’s teacher, and then whispered to him. She might not be the best at acquiring information, but she was deliciously excellent at disseminating it.
Professor Shrimpdittle’s boyishly handsome face became suffused with red, and he glared at the vampire teacher. Professor Braithwope, flustered by actually having to deal with a human illness, remained unaware of the man’s ire.
The matron arrived. She and Sister Mattie made a litter out of some parasols and carried the insensate Monique from the room.
By now, word had spread, and most of the lessons were on hiatus. The doors were crowded with curious students, a consequence of their education. A few milled about in the hallway, causing Dimity some distress in returning. Vieve popped up, watching with interest as the fainted girl was carried past. She exchanged a few words with Pillover, who was lurking near Professor Shrimpdittle.
“What did that vampire do to her?” the visiting professor blustered loudly.
“Don’t be silly, Algonquin,” Professor Lefoux sneered. “The girl fainted. Could hardly be Aloysius’s fault!”
“No good can come of having vampires supervising a bevy of nubile young girls,” insisted Shrimpdittle.
Pillover said something to Vieve that made her laugh. The girl then trotted back the way she had come. Sophronia realized Pillover must be included in the plot to get Vieve into Bunson’s, as he knew her real identity. How to persuade him?
The girls returned to class, somber after the sudden illness in their midst.
“Imagine, fainting forward!” Preshea whispered, white with shock.
What did Monique eat? Useful to know, thought Sophronia. I must ask Sister Mattie. Dover’s powder, perhaps? And why did Monique want to get out of class so badly she poisoned herself?
Over supper, Pillover agreed to Vieve’s planned infiltration, because it was evil to hide a girl from his professors, and he’d yet to do anything truly evil. “If I’m found out, I’ll probably be awarded top marks. So I’m game.” His expression remained morosely impassive. Poor Pillover; everything was a struggle. Here he was, forced to be bad, when at heart, he was a rather agreeable fellow. No wonder he behaved like a pustule, as his sister put it.
Felix watched Sophronia’s whispered interchange with the younger boy with an odd expression on his face. She made certain he could not overhear the actual conversation.
Monique looked none the worse for her faint. She must have used the illness as an excuse to read those other secret letters because she promptly engaged in an odd role reversal.
She took a seat between Dimity and Agatha, not Preshea and one of the boys.
“Dimity, you’re looking quite pretty this evening,” she said awkwardly.
“Um, thank you, Monique?” Dimity was tentative as she frantically searched for the barb within the compliment.
Sophronia and Pillover stopped talking in order to watch this fascinating proceeding.
“Such a nice bracelet you have.” Monique smiled. It looked like it pained her. The bracelet was one of gilt filigree with paste amethyst stones.
Dimity sniffed. “Thank you again. Can I help you with something, Monique?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. It seems that we must make up the numbers. I was hoping you and your lovely brother might honor us with your attendance at my coming-out ball.”
Pillover choked on his mulligatawny soup, snorting a small bit out his nose. Dimity looked at Sophronia, eyes desperate.
Sophronia gave a slight nod and then pointed at herself.
Dimity nodded back. “We will, of course, consider your kind offer, but you know I couldn’t possibly attend without Sophronia. We do everything together.”
Monique winced.
“And Sidheag. And Agatha.” The other two girls looked up. Agatha pretended to be pleased. Sidheag attempted not to look disgusted. Sophronia successfully hid a smile.
Monique gritted her teeth. “In that case, you are all invited. I hope you have outfits suitable to the occasion.” Poor Monique; she couldn’t resist saying something nasty.
“I do now,” said Sophronia, but she did not push. This was far too fascinating of a character change. Something in those letters had forced Monique to issue invitations to Dimity and Pillover, which was sinister considering the kidnapping attempts.
Felix turned to Sophronia. “I demand the first dance and the dinner dance, fair Ria.”
Sophronia came over all coy. “Don’t be greedy. You can have the third. I’ll consider the dinner.”
“You’re a hard-hearted woman.”
“I know.”
Dimity mouthed, “Flirting,” at Sophronia, which made her stop self-consciously.
“Oh, look.” Sidheag was the only one not at all interested in this alteration to their London activities. Thus she had not been distracted by the conversation and was pointing at the head table where the teachers sat.
Professor Shrimpdittle, at one end, had spent the entire meal glaring at Professor Braithwope. The visiting teacher’s sandy hair was mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. His blue eyes were watery from lack of sleep. His attitude and appearance were unsettling. The students sensed the tension and were embarrassed. Really, he should try to hide his animosity. It wasn’t done to allow emotions to impact anyone else’s enjoyment of a meal!
The lady teachers were holding their own, despite a grumpy guest, except Professor Lefoux, who was stoically shoving soup into her mouth in the annoyed manner of any woman when a man is misbehaving.
Sidheag’s attention had been caught by the arrival of Madame Spetuna. The fortune-teller was making her way to the dining table. A place was laid for her, so she had been anticipated, although she had missed the soup course. She was permitted to sit, with only a dirty look from Mademoiselle Geraldine, who thought punctuality more important than anything else, including bathing, brains, and breathing.
Sophronia wished for an opportunity to talk to the fortune-teller alone, to test out her suspicions that she was an agent. She considered breaking into the record room to see if there were any files on the lady. Madame Spetuna sat next to Professor Braithwope. The vampire took no food, only sipping a little port. The two engaged in animated conversation, much to the continued annoyance of Shrimpdittle.
Sophronia said, “Professor Shrimpdittle seems quite emotional over the presence of a vampire. I wonder if he is entirely stable. One doesn’t have to like them, but they are here to stay. One must at least be polite.”
This caused all three of the young men at their table to look at her with varying expressions of confusion.
“He’s all right, is Shrimpdittle,” said Pillover. Sophronia remembered, at that moment, that he was the youngest of the boys on board and had said he was confused as to why he had been permitted this trip—which was meant to be a reward for boys of high standing. Had Shrimpdittle insisted Pillover be brought along, intending to put the boy at risk? He could be working for the Picklemen. Did that mean the Picklemen were trying to kidnap Dimity and Pillover?
Sophronia nibbled her bottom lip, staring pensively at the head table. She was bent on getting Vieve’s agenda enacted regardless of the man’s motives. “He seems unhinged. Is he fond of the drink, perhaps? Don’t you feel as if his objections against the supernatural are excessive?”
“What are you implying?” demanded Felix.
“Me, implying? Nothing at all. Although, it could be that he is trying to hide favor or income.”
Monique, of all people, jumped on this idea. “Pretending to hate them, when he really is progressive? Are males of his scientific ilk any good at acting?”
It was a stylish trap, and Sophronia was almost grateful to Monique for staging it, so she didn’t have to. Now the boys at their table either had to defend their teacher as faithful to the conservative cause, but possibly insane, or allow the ladies to imply Shrimpdittle was not honest to the moral foundation of their school.
The boys did neither, being trained only in the ways of infernal devices and not inferring derisively. All of them, even Felix, looked confused. Sophronia hoped that the rumor was out there now—was Professor Shrimpdittle to be trusted? Whose politics did he really back? Was he going mad?
Sidheag jumped in to help. “You know, the other day when we were grounded and Professor Niall was around, I saw them engaged in conversation.”
The three boys only looked more confused.
“Professor Niall,” explained Sophronia, “is a werewolf.”
“Never!” objected Lord Dingleproops. “Not Shrimpdittle!”
Agatha tried as well. “And I saw him being nice to a kitten, once.”
Everyone looked at her, puzzled.