RESULTS DISORIENTATED
Sophronia found Dimity waiting in the hallway. Her friend’s face was white, and her lower lip trembled.
“Oh, Sophronia,” she cried. “Wasn’t that perfectly ghastly?”
She’s getting more and more dramatic, thought Sophronia. Overexposure to Mademoiselle Geraldine. “It certainly was odd.” Sophronia’s gift for understatement was almost as good as Dimity’s gift for overstatement.
“I poured the cold tea,” admitted Dimity. “Did you?”
Sophronia nodded.
“Oh, good, I thought you might. You’re usually right about these things.”
“Not always.”
Dimity was crestfallen. “Oh, dear. Your assessment wasn’t wholly positive?”
“Not by half!”
Dimity brightened. “Really? Neither was mine. That’s good, then. Perhaps I won’t fail.”
“I thought you wanted to be sent down. I thought you wanted to be put into a real finishing school, to become an ordinary lady with a respectable parliamentary husband and no concerns beyond planning the next dinner party.”
“I did. I mean, I do. But Mummy would be so very disappointed, and I would have to leave you. And Sidheag. And Bumbersnoot.”
Sophronia could only agree with Dimity’s logic. “True.”
“Speaking of which, I must talk with you about this letter I received.” Dimity flashed a suspiciously embossed missive.
Sophronia grabbed for it.
Dimity was faster. “No, you can’t see it until we are with the others.”
Sophronia stuck her tongue out but waited obligingly until after luncheon. Due to the presence of Monique and Preshea in the drawing room, Agatha and Sidheag joined Sophronia and Dimity in their private room for a gossip.
Dimity produced the letter, both embarrassed and excited. “It’s from Lord Dingleproops!”
“Dimity,” objected Agatha, “should you be getting private correspondences from an unattached gentleman friend?”
“No, but this is the first. I didn’t write to him! And it can’t be that bad; our families are acquainted.”
Agatha was properly concerned. “Has he permission to court you?” Agatha Woosmoss was small, round, and redheaded, with a freckled face that wore a perpetual expression of distressed confusion, not unlike that of a damp cat.
Dimity flushed even redder. “No, but I’m certain he would.”
Sidheag was reading the hastily scrawled note. “It’s worse than simply a letter. He wants to meet with you, in private and secretly!”
“Dimity!” Sophronia said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dimity was truculent. “Because I knew you’d be all Sophroniaish about it. That’s why. It’s not that bad, is it? He probably only wants to chat a bit about the weather or something.”
Sidheag, still in possession of the shocking missive, said, “Since it says here that he intends to come to you on this airship, it can’t be that banal.” Sidheag Maccon was an overly tall young woman, almost of an age with Sophronia. She had a long, proud face and a general attitude of indifference to both manners and dress that drove their teachers to distraction.
Sophronia was having none of it. “Dimity, he’d have to steal an airdinghy and then try to find us. I’ve no idea where we are over Dartmoor, do you? I’m sure he doesn’t. Besides, I don’t think Bunson’s has airdinghies. The whole idea is foolhardy.”
Dimity liked Lord Dingleproops rather more than she ought and was disposed to think well of him. “It must be important, then, mustn’t it? Perhaps it’s a declaration!”
“Oh, Dimity, really!” said Agatha.
Sophronia added, “You’re only just fourteen, and he’s what, sixteen?”
Dimity protested, “My birthday was weeks ago!”
Sidheag, the blunt one, said, “He isn’t even holding yet. He can’t declare without his parents’ permission.” Sidheag could be quite crass, the result of having been raised by men, or Scots, or soldiers, or werewolves, or all four. Since she was also Lady Kingair, her crassness would have been an accepted eccentricity—in a much older aristocrat. In a fourteen-year-old, such vulgarity was as odd and uncomfortable as last season’s hat.
Sophronia took the missive out of Sidheag’s hand and examined it. It under the Earl of Dingleproops’s heading, which gave it a certain weight. But she did wonder what the son was doing with his father’s stationery. Probably using it to write angry letters to poor tradesmen in his father’s name and to torture decent young ladies like Dimity.
“He wants to meet with you on the back squeak deck in a week and a half?”
Dimity nodded. “Isn’t that romantic?”
Agatha protested. “You’re not going?”
“Of course I’m going! He will have come all this way.”
“It’ll all end in tears,” foretold Sidheag morosely.
Sophronia said nothing further; Dimity could be awful stubborn. Privately, Sophronia vowed to follow Dimity. Lord Dingleproops was up to something.
They were made to wait until the end of the week for their test assessments. At long last, after supper, instead of the customary parlor games and card counting, their age-group was separated from the others. Agatha looked like she might faint, or cry, or palpitate, or all three—which would be a real feat. Preshea—small, dark, and unreasonably lovely—looked like she intended to kill someone. But then, Preshea always looked that way. Dimity’s round porcelain face was set. Monique, having been through this before, swept her skirts behind her with an air of determination. Sidheag loped along as though she hadn’t a care in the aether. Sidheag could be irritating like that.
Sophronia wondered how she herself was showing tension. Not at all, to those who did not look at her shoulders. She would have been surprised by how impressed Lady Linette was with this accomplishment. Lady Linette had also been impressed when Sophronia ate only the vegetables from the meal provided after the exam. Sophronia was the only student to have considered that the test might include the meal. Even Monique, who should have known better, had eaten seven bites of her meat and all her pudding.
Lady Linette led them to her own teaching quarters. These were decorated as if a boudoir had procreated with the set of She Stoops to Conquer. There were red curtains, a good deal of gold, and chaise longues instead of chairs. Several fluffy cats with funny scrunched-up faces and possessive attitudes to hassocks lounged about.
Lady Linette left the six girls there.
They sat in expectant silence. Agatha stared at her feet. Sidheag slouched. Both knew better but were regressing into bad habits out of anxiety.
Professor Lefoux entered the room.
An almost audible groan met the appearance of this, the harshest of their teachers.
Professor Lefoux was not so much a battle-ax as a pair of pinking cutters—sharp, toothy, and uneven in temper but very useful. They hadn’t any lessons with her yet. Rumor had it she was deemed too fierce for the younger girls. Tall and bony, with a stiff face and hair scraped back into a bun, she looked mean. She also had a French accent, which hundreds of years of animosity had trained nice young Englishwomen to suspect as evil.
Professor Lefoux did not bother to explain her presence. “Monique de Pelouse, your assessment is not really one of six months, as you have now been in attendance at this school for four years and eight months. Nevertheless, due to your attempted theft of the crystalline valve prototype last year and your regression in status as a result of that failure, you are undergoing public review along with the others of your rank.”
Monique sat silent, her gaze straight forward, her attitude one of superiority rather than penance.
“Your marks are as expected. You are a fair intelligencer but prone to lack of creativity, which could get you killed. You are ladylike but favor overt manipulation, which could get you ostracized. Given your age, it is the recommendation of the staff that you marry with no second attempt at finishing.”
Monique looked, for the first time in Sophronia’s miserable association with the girl, as if she might genuinely cry. Sophronia had seen her fake cry on several occasions, but never had an honest tear come from those pretty blue eyes. The blonde said, “How could you? Why, I ought to have my father refuse funding. I shall report you to my special friend for this.”
Sophronia perked up. She knew Monique had an advocate on staff, but this was the first time the girl had admitted it publicly.
Professor Lefoux interrupted any further tirade. “Silence, young lady. You are to remain a student here until your coming-out ball and will conduct yourself as such. You will do very well for yourself in society, but it is the formal assessment of this institution that even with retraining, you could not exceed your personality. You are not to be made an agent.”
Am I seeing things, wondered Sophronia, or is that a smile on Professor Lefoux’s face?
Monique rose as though she might storm from the room.
“Sit down, Miss Pelouse!” ordered Professor Lefoux. “You are required to witness all the assessments.”
Monique resumed her seat, almost trembling.
“Preshea Buss.” Preshea’s dark eyes were wide, and her normally crafty face was carefully blank.
“You are adept at social manipulation but too apt to trade on your looks for assistance. You underestimate intelligence, even your own. Improve your execution, or you will be good only for marriage without covert orders.”
Preshea protested, “But I’ve been here only a few months!” She spoke precisely and sharply, as though each word were being murdered by her mouth.
“Which is why we tell you this now.”
“What if I want to get married?” grumbled Preshea under her breath to Agatha.
“I thought that was one of the ways to finish,” Sophronia whispered to Dimity.
“It is, but to be dismissed into marriage without covert orders is dishonorable.”
“Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, if you would like to include the rest of the class in your discussion?” Professor Lefoux’s ire was turned abruptly on them.
Dimity and Sophronia looked up. “Sorry, Professor,” they singsonged in tandem.
Professor Lefoux glared but clearly wished to continue. “Agatha Woosmoss,” she barked.
Agatha’s bottom lip wobbled.
“Very poor marks indeed. Have you been paying any attention at all in your lessons? You are hereby put on probationary status for six months. You must improve both covert and social aspects of training. Your father is a great patron of our insitution, but we cannot play favorites with a weak component.”
Agatha began to cry, fishing about for a handkerchief. As usual, she had misplaced hers. Sophronia passed her a spare, wincing in sympathy.
Professor Lefoux continued. “Sidheag Maccon, Lady Kingair.”
Sidheag looked directly at the teacher, like a soldier facing execution. The girl’s unique yellow eyes were wary.
“You chose all the weapons and showed excellent use of them, even the fan. However, your social skills are middling, and your dress and posture have entirely failed to improve. We understand your background is unusual and that your expectations are different from those of other students. We are sending you into Scottish society, but you will be presented at court eventually. A woman of your rank will need all skills, not only the ones you find interesting. You too are on probation, and your father has been informed of this.”
Sidheag look more worried than Sophronia had ever seen her. Her so-called father, Lord Maccon, was really her great-great-great-grandfather and Alpha werewolf of the Kingair Castle pack. Sidheag always spoke of him with a fond irreverence. Now Sophronia could tell from her friend’s expression that he could also be fierce.
Professor Lefoux moved to Dimity. “Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott.”
Dimity’s face was ashen.
“Your marks are fair, although not as we would have hoped given your lineage. Your reluctance to pursue subterfuge does you a disservice when it is rooted in laziness. Your good humor may work in your favor if you can harness it for information gathering and not simply gossip. Concentrate on combat and solo reconnaissance. You must build your character, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott. Flibbertigibbets are only good if they have a solid foundation.”
Dimity looked humbled but relieved. She clearly had thought she too would be placed on probation.
Last, Professor Lefoux turned to Sophronia.
“Miss Temminnick, you are in receipt of the highest marks we have ever given in a six-month review. Your mind seems designed for espionage. Nevertheless, you veer away from perfect in matters of etiquette. Do not let these marks go to your head; there are many girls at this school who are better than you. Our biggest concern is what you get up to when we are not watching. Because, if nothing else, this test has told us you are probably spying on us, as well as everyone around you.”
All the other girls in the room, even Dimity, turned to stare at Sophronia.
In that moment, Sophronia knew they hated her. And because she was exactly as Professor Lefoux had said, one small part of her wondered if her assessment had been inflated for precisely that reason: to challenge her by pitting her against her fellow students.
“Oh, Sophronia,” hissed Dimity, “couldn’t you have faked it a little?” Dimity hadn’t a vengeful bone in her body, but even she could be manipulated.
Sophronia looked out from under her eyelashes at the others. Agatha was no longer holding back tears. Sidheag wore a small smile of discomfort. Preshea and Monique were openly hostile.
“Good luck,” said Professor Lefoux to them all, almost cheerfully, before walking swiftly from the room.
Everyone began talking in hushed tones. Everyone, that is, except Sophronia. And no one talked to her, just about her.
“Isn’t she Miss High and Snobby now?” hissed Monique.
“Bet she thinks the sun rises out of her tea in the morning,” added Preshea in her sharp, clipped voice.
“Highest marks ever. Isn’t that something? We witnessed history,” said Sidheag, her yellow eyes cold.
“I can’t believe I’m on probation. Papa will kill me,” said Agatha, possibly not exaggerating. One never knew with parents who sent their daughters to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s.
Sophronia tried out tactics in her head. Just now, she had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound falsely modest. Even if she told them her suspicion that she was being set up, she’d sound defensive. She would have to hope that Agatha and Sidheag would figure it out on their own. She felt certain, however, that she could count on Dimity.
Sophronia cocked her head to one side to look at her best friend.
Dimity looked away and said something sympathetic to Agatha.
Sophronia bit her lip and stared at her hands. She had thought Dimity would stay loyal, just a little bit.
The girls continued to ignore her all that day. It made for lonely classes and an uncomfortable evening meal. Sophronia tried not to let it affect her. They should recover from their resentment if she did nothing to aggravate them. But every time she performed a task well or answered a question correctly during lessons, she could feel the dislike. Several days saw no change to this pattern, and even Dimity still wasn’t talking to her, which was particularly awkward, as they shared a bedroom. Sophronia was both annoyed and hurt. She stopped having an appetite at dinner and started filching the occasional roll for later. She even contemplated not following Dimity when the girl crept out of quarters for her assignation with Lord Dingleproops. But since Sophronia figured that the letter was some kind of cruel joke and that the boy wouldn’t show up, she simply couldn’t let her friend walk into heartbreak alone. So when Dimity sneaked out of quarters, having changed at bedtime into her best evening dress rather than a nightgown, Sophronia followed.
Dimity used a series of evasion and climbing techniques to get around the ship. She held perfectly still and flattened herself against walls so mechanicals patrolling the hallways slid right by. It made getting around after hours very slow, and there was always a risk of discovery whenever a maid rolled into sight. Dimity was better at it than Sophronia had thought, which made her proud. After all, Sophronia had taught Dimity everything she knew on the subject.
Sophronia stayed out of sight, tracking her friend effortlessly, knowing Dimity was headed to the back squeak deck. Sophronia had it easier. She used a small grappling rope knotted at stages for climbing, her own personal invention. It was undemanding to creep along the same level, but up and down could be a challenge on an airship hull. Sophronia had scavenged rope from the sooties and asked Vieve to build her a hook and the emission hurlie. The hurlie was a kind of turtle-shaped device that clipped to Sophronia’s wrist. Vieve was fond of things that clipped to wrists. Once Sophronia flipped the catch at the turtle’s tail, a spring-loaded release mechanism allowed her to fling the turtle’s shell, with the grapple underneath, and the rope followed behind. Best of all, Sophronia didn’t have to use the ladder from Lady Linette’s balcony every time she wanted to visit the sooties.
Instead of climbing up onto the deck after Dimity, Sophronia continued edging around to the very back of the ship. She reeled in her grappling hook and hung off the side, looking into the skies, hunting for an airdinghy. Above her, the squeak deck was abandoned under its great balloon, except for Dimity. Dimity’s view was obstructed by the smokestacks, mast, and propeller, but Sophronia could see around and between them. The school floated with the breeze, so the air around them felt still and windless.
Hours seemed to pass, and Sophronia was convinced that the letter was a hoax. Then she saw it, coming up from below—an airdinghy. There was someone crewing it, but she could make out nothing from her vantage point but its sail and four balloons.
Above, Dimity’s silhouette came to the rails and looked out, but she could not see what Sophronia saw.
Sophronia wondered how Lord Dingleproops intended to board without setting off any of the school’s alarms. The back was the safest choice, since teachers and staff slept in the forward section and students in the middle, but there were mechanicals everywhere. Several had protocols that had them do nothing but look for shapes in the sky and set off alarms in teachers’ bedrooms when they saw something.
Fearlessly, the airdinghy rose up until it was almost level with Sophronia. She heard Dimity give a glad little cry of welcome. When Sophronia could finally see into the gondola, there were two men, not the one boy Dimity expected. Sophronia had met Lord Dingleproops once at a party; he was a reedy, chinless, redheaded blighter, and while tall and strapping, he was not bulky. Both of these men were bulky. There was certainly something wrong.
As the airdinghy rose higher, Sophronia squinted, trying to make out more of the figures in the dark. Then she realized what was off about them. No top hats. No gentleman would ever meet a lady without appropriate headgear, even if that meeting was a joke. Whoever these men were, they were not noblemen. Plus Lord Dingleproops was a member of the Pistons, a social club. A Piston’s top hat was his marker, his sign of status; to travel without it was unthinkable.
Sophronia was not prepared to mount a defense, but she didn’t want anything to happen to Dimity. She threw her bread roll from dinner at the men. It hit one in the head but didn’t appear to do any permanent damage, even though it was a very hard roll. The man swore and looked up at her.
Sophronia cursed herself. All she had done was attract their attention, and one of them now pointed a pistol at her. Banking on the fact that he wouldn’t want to fire because of the noise, she wrapped one arm tightly about the railing that was her current anchor and pointed her hurlie at the airdinghy. She ejected the grapple toward one of the four balloons. The grapple sailed over, but on the pull back she felt the barb catch and tear through the fabric.
The airdinghy lurched to one side.
The man guiding the dinghy yelled. The other shot his pistol at Sophronia, who swung out and to one side, avoiding the bullet.
Above them, Dimity said, “What’s going on? Lord Dingleproops, is that you? Was that gunfire? You’ll wake the teachers!”
Sophronia shot her grapple again, catching another one of the balloons and gashing it open. Two ripped balloons was more than the airdinghy could manage, and it began to spin and sink, gaining speed as it went. The men inside were now more concerned with their own safety than with Sophronia or Dimity.
Dimity squeaked in alarm, calling, “Wait, come back!” But her imagined suitor was gone.
Sophronia yelled up to her, “That wasn’t Lord Dingleproops.”
Dimity was annoyed enough to actually speak with her. “Sophronia? What are you doing following me?”
“Keeping you safe.”
“By sabotaging my assignation?”
“I don’t know what they wanted, but they weren’t Pistons. No top hats.”
Clearly, Dimity preferred to believe in her own romantic visions than to see reason. “Oh, Sophronia, he was probably in disguise! Must you ruin everything?”
Sophronia couldn’t think of anything to say. Since she hadn’t determined what the strange men wanted with Dimity, she could hardly argue that she had protected Dimity from some sinister unknown. Perhaps one of them had been Lord Dingleproops, but she doubted it. Lord Dingleproops was the type to disguise himself, certainly, but he would dress up as a jester and still wear his top hat. Those men had been after Dimity, and they weren’t lordlings; Sophronia would stake her reputation on it.
As Sophronia climbed back to quarters, she reflected that perhaps it was best if Dimity didn’t believe that someone was after her, at least for the time being. Sophronia simply would have to keep an eye on her, whether she liked it or not. Of course, the question remained: who were they and what did they want with Dimity?