Curtsies & Conspiracies

The 12th test A WELL-EXECUTED CHARACTER ASSASSINATION

Sophronia felt it would take only one more delicate push to topple Shrimpdittle. Sister Mattie had instructed them in the fine art of skin dying for subterfuge only a month earlier. Sophronia concocted a plan based on this information. It would involve breaking into a gentleman’s sleeping chamber but, if the professor was a solid sleeper, it shouldn’t be difficult.

Of course, Sophronia had no way of knowing how Professor Shrimpdittle slept. Ordinary character assassinations required considerable research on the victim prior to enactment. Sophronia hadn’t the time. She could only hope that given his fondness for wine, the man would slumber deeply.

Once she had possession of the obstructor, it was a simple matter to make her way to the teacher’s section. Vieve yielded up the device easily, knowing Sophronia was using it for The Cause. Sophronia paused at one juncture, after blasting a maid mechanical, reflecting that she had become quite relaxed about running about after hours. She ought to remember to stay on her guard, for it was when an illegal activity became easy that one was most at risk of exposure.

Professor Shrimpdittle’s guest rooms were in the forbidden red-tassel section. Sophronia thought she had chosen an hour late enough for everyone to be asleep. Except Professor Braithwope, of course. She rounded the corner to be confronted by a soldier mechanical, which she shot into stillness. Then, as she went to creep around it, she found the hallway occupied!

Someone in a long dressing gown and bed cap of matching emerald brocade walked down the hall and entered Professor Braithwope’s room. Without knocking, mind you! Impossible to tell whether the wearer was female or male, but it was most certainly not the vampire—too tall. A pox upon nondescript clothing, cursed Sophronia—in knickerbockers, corset, and men’s shirt. Is Monique still feeding him? It could be her, I suppose.

Sophronia was preparing to proceed when, of all people, Sister Mattie emerged from Mademoiselle Geraldine’s quarters and hurried down the hallway. Sophronia had to blast the soldier mechanical again, as she caught the telltale whirr of the machine ramping back into action.

She was thinking of aborting, the chances of discovery too great, but the gaslight from under the various doors went out, except Professor Braithwope’s. The quiet murmur of voices from his room indicated he and his guest were settled into conversation. So, with silent footsteps, grateful for the plush hallway carpet, Sophronia crept to the very last room.

Sophronia opened Professor Shrimpdittle’s door with her lock pick, automatically checking the jamb for cords, bells, sticky substances, or traps. Nothing. He really is an innocent. Closing it behind her, Sophronia’s eyes adjusted to the weak light of a white-misted moon. Professor Shrimpdittle snored loudly, in a gratifyingly deep sleep.

Sophronia crept over and removed a little perfume bottle from her cleavage. Inside was a mixture of concentrated walnut dye and beet juice. It didn’t last long, but it would hold to the skin for a day or so even under strenuous washing, especially if it were left to sit several hours—while a man was asleep, for example.

Carefully, she touched the small end of the stopper to the teacher’s neck, light as could be. Twice. She examined her handiwork. It looked exactly as if it might be the mark left by vampire fangs. She fervently hoped that the man wouldn’t move and smear it while it dried. She hurried to the door and let herself out, mission accomplished.

“Well, well, what are you doing?”

Sophronia only just managed not to let out a shriek that would have awakened the entire front section of the airship. She whirled to find Madame Spetuna standing in the hallway, arms crossed. She’d lost several of her scarves and much of her accent. She looks younger, too.

At a loss, Sophronia curtsied. “Madame Spetuna, how do you do?”

The purported fortune-teller looked at the door Sophronia had shut. “Professor Shrimpdittle’s quarters, is it? What could you possibly have to do there?”

Sophronia didn’t answer.

“And you had me sew that button in his ear earlier as well. What are you up to, little covert recruit?”

She knows that, does she? “I might just as well ask what you are up to, Madame Spetuna.”

“Touché.”

They stood in the dark hallway, at an impasse.

“I have learned you are in possession of a mechanimal,” the fortune-teller said at last.

“How?” Knowing she was a covert recruit was one thing, but Sophronia had hoped the teachers knew nothing of Bumbersnoot.

The diminutive lady cocked her head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

Of course, if she was trained here, and she’s as good as I think she is, she would have sources of information beyond the teachers. “What’s it to you?”

“Let us make a bargain. You give me the mechanimal, and I will not reveal your infiltration of the tassel section.” Madame Spetuna gestured with one hand at the dark hallway.

“Why do you need him?”

“Let us say, I could use the status conferred upon owners of mechanimals.”

Sophronia speculated, “It would be a help if one wanted to gain the confidence of, say, flywaymen and Picklemen. They do have a penchant for mechanimals, don’t they?”

Another silence met that.

“You cannot have my mechanimal.”

The fortune-teller’s eyes narrowed. She cocked her head threateningly, like an angry rooster. A red fringed scarf about her neck contributed to the effect, looking like a wattle.

Sophronia added, “But you may borrow him for a time. Arrange to return him to me in, say, one week, and we have a deal.”

Madame Spetuna pursed her lips. “One month.”

“Two weeks.”

“Three.”

“Done.”

“And I want to know why you came on board to report in. What was so important you had to leave your post and abandon all those embroidered pillows?”

“My, my, you are a devious little thing, aren’t you?” Madame Spetuna made a decision. “I came to report that the flywaymen are assembling a float gather. This has not occurred in some fifty years. Also, they are allying formally with the Picklemen.”

“Which is why you need Bumbersnoot. This is an opportunity for you to trade up to a more significant position in sky ranking.”

“Bumbersnoot?”

“My mechanimal.”

Madame Spetuna inclined her head.

“Why are they gathering?”

“Giffard’s dirigible. If he can travel the aetherosphere, so could they.”

Sophronia wrinkled her nose. “They aren’t trying to kidnap my friend Dimity, are they?”

Madame Spetuna looked genuinely confused.

Sophronia nodded to herself. Either Madame Spetuna wasn’t high enough up to know, or the Picklemen weren’t revealing this plan to their flywaymen allies, or it wasn’t the Picklemen. Vampires, then?

“When can I get the mechanimal?” demanded Madame Spetuna.

“Tomorrow evening, in the boiler room,” said Sophronia.

“Done.”

“How do I know you won’t steal him forever?”

“You don’t.”

They parted, and Sophronia was left feeling both forlorn and triumphant, although her prevailing emotion was one of relief. She was wrung out, like wilted spinach. I’m losing my touch, she thought. I got caught! Her stomach sloshed. Confidence shaken, it took a long time to make her way back to her quarters.

By the next morning, however, Sophronia was more controlled. She went, during their brief free time before breakfast, hunting for Vieve.

The thing about Vieve was the scamp turned up when she pleased, and no one was entirely certain where she spent the bulk of her time. So when one was looking for Vieve, it could prove difficult to actually find her. Sophronia pestered the hall steward, one of the human staff members, into getting the word out that Vieve was wanted. And after searching for a bit, she gave up.

The younger girl appeared, dimpling excitedly, to escort her to breakfast an hour later. They hung back, despite Monique’s teasing, for a quick exchange. Sophronia shook her head quite firmly at Felix when the boy looked as if he would come over and take her arm. She indicated that she already had an escort, and even Lord Mersey was well mannered enough not to interfere. He did, however, look offended.

“Quickly,” said Sophronia. “Your Bunson’s plan is getting me into heaps of trouble. I’ve had to promise the loan of Bumbersnoot to a fortune-teller.”

Vieve gave her best effort at a guilty look.

Sophronia was not fooled—Vieve rarely felt guilty about anything. “Can you kit him out to emit a timed explosive? Set the timer for three weeks in the future, give her incentive to get him back to me quickly?”

“I won’t ask for the details.”

“Nor should you. Well, can you?”

Vieve scrunched up her nose. “Explosives aren’t my strongest suit. It’s ridiculously difficult to acquire them when one is only ten. Then again, I could link something under pressure to his own functionality, get the viscosity of the oil down enough to begin a gradual buildup.” Her forehead wrinkled. “You’d have to shut him down and clean him out if you got him back early.”

“Show me how?”

“Of course.”

“The boiler room, this evening?”

Vieve nodded and then skittered off.

At breakfast Professor Shrimpdittle was red-eyed and panicky, with a very high cravat tied about his neck.

Soap was thrilled to see Sophronia that night. “My goodness, miss, I thought you’d forgotten all about us.” His grin practically lit up the boiler room.

Sophronia thought he was looking remarkably fit. Had he got himself new clothing? Well, newer clothing. “Never, Soap. Things have simply been busy with this trip, that’s all.”

“And with all them fine visiting gentlemen?” Soap’s tone was overly casual.

“Now, Soap. You know you’ll always be my favorite.”

Soap tugged his own ear self-consciously. “Aw, miss.”

Sophronia unstrung Bumbersnoot from his reticule disguise and put him down on the floor. His tail tick-tocked happily as he nibbled chips of coal and snuffled in the black dust.

“So, miss, what’s the doggerel?”

Sophronia relayed to Soap some of what she was currently scheming—the bits she was tolerably certain wouldn’t offend. She told him of Vieve’s plan to relocate, her own plotting against Shrimpdittle, the fortune-teller spy, and the possible attempted kidnapping of Dimity and Pillover. And how it all might be tied to Giffard’s fancy new dirigible technology and the guidance valve that was once a prototype.

It was a like telling an adventure story to a child. Sophronia made the most of it, exaggerating her own actions rather more than was truthful, and detailing the Chaise Longue Attack as if it were some epic battle.

Soap, and the small crowd of sooties who joined him, were entranced. They gasped in all the right places. When Vieve arrived and scooped up Bumbersnoot, they barely noticed. The younger girl settled herself to tinker with the mechanimal, making a host of adjustments and configurations. She placed a round spidery thing inside his storage compartment that looked uncomfortably deadly and hooked it into the dog’s tiny steam engine with various cables.

By the time Sophronia had finished her tale, Vieve was done with Bumbersnoot. Sensing that story time was over, the sooties dispersed.

Vieve showed Sophronia the adjustments she’d made.

“You detach it here, like so.” She tapped the side of the spider in a pattern of pressed buttons and twisted nobs.

Sophronia memorized it.

“That’s the only shut-down sequence that will incapacitate the explosive. Otherwise, it’s timed to be heat dependent. If you try to remove it early, it will explode. What I’ve done is connected it to Bumbersnoot’s boiler. This will cause a slow buildup. He already has a safety thermometer in his storage stomach to prevent overheating; this will cause him to regurgitate the explosive in exactly twenty-four days, if my calculations are correct. If the device is disconnected, it will explode in minutes. All this timing is rather delicate and requires that Bumbersnoot runs standard practices. If he is walked at high speed too frequently, he’ll emit the explosive sooner.”

“Will there be any kind of warning?” Sophronia asked, patting Bumbersnoot’s head.

“His tail will begin to wag faster and faster. When it’s going as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, he’s about to regurgitate.”

“How do we ensure he himself gets out of the blast range?” Sophronia was worried for her beloved pet’s safety. “And how do I get him back?”

Vieve shrugged unhelpfully.

“Ah, is that the mechanimal?” Madame Spetuna appeared as if out of nowhere.

Everyone started, including the sooties, who were usually excellent at spotting an intruder in their domain.

“Who are you?” Soap demanded.

“Ah, Soap, this is Madame Spetuna. She is that fortune-teller.”

“How do you do?”said Soap, intrigued.

Madame Spetuna nodded at him curtly. Clearly, she had no time for sooties.

After exchanging glances with Vieve, Sophronia said, “This is Bumbersnoot. Bumbersnoot, this is Madame Spetuna. You’ll be visiting with her for the next few weeks.”

Bumbersnoot’s ears dropped. He whistled bit of steam out his undercarriage in query.

“It not that you’ve done anything wrong, Bumbersnoot. It’s a covert mission for you.”

Bumbersnoot did not look convinced.

“Come now, you want to be an intelligencer like me, don’t you?” Sophronia patted the metal dog on his head and then handed him to Madame Spetuna. The fortune-teller began stroking the mechanimal covetously.

Sophronia said, “Vieve here has installed an exploding spider, and only the two of us know how to shut it down. If you try to take it out and keep him, it will explode in your hands. If you don’t get him back to me in under three weeks, he will emit it and explode.” Sophronia did not explain that said explosion would be slightly delayed. She wanted the woman to think that attempting to steal Bumbersnoot would be very hazardous. To provide further incentive, she added, “If you opt to merely drop him overboard, I will arrange for the flywaymen to learn who you really work for. I have broken into the record room before, you know.”

“That was you?” Madame Spetuna looked impressed. “Very nice touch, missy. And, of course, you could be lying to me about any of this, and I’ve no way of knowing.”

Vieve said, pertly, “I assure you, she is not lying.”

Soap followed this interchange with a look of skepticism. He was fond of Bumbersnoot. “Are you certain about this, miss?” he asked, as Madame Spetuna trotted away, clutching Bumbersnoot under one arm.

Sophronia watched the intelligencer disappear, nibbling her lip unhappily. “No, I’m not. We have to hope that Madame Spetuna and the flywaymen stick close. If they are after the Giffard test, then they’ll be heading to London, like us.”

Vieve was confident. “It will all work out in the end. Only think, Sophronia, how nice it will be to own all my gadgets.”

Soap pursed his lips. “Is that your bargain?”

“The things I do for gadgets,” said Sophronia.

Soap, fond of Vieve’s inventions himself, nodded sagely. “Now, miss, you let me know if you need any help getting that critter back, you hear?”

“Soap, what could you possibly…?”

“Why, miss, you think the flywaymen don’t have sooties on their big ships, too?” He gave her an almost evil smile. “My people are everywhere.”

“Soap, have I told you recently how much I adore you?” Sophronia’s heart lightened, her worries about Bumbersnoot allayed slightly.

Soap looked down at his feet and shuffled them in the coal dust. “Aw, miss, not again.”

Sophronia stood on tiptoe and kissed his dusty cheek. “Thank you. You’re a chum.”

Madame Spetuna departed the ship before breakfast the next morning, Bumbersnoot with her. Sophronia felt his lack keenly. She hadn’t realized how prevalent the mechanimal was in her life—puttering about her feet as she washed in the morning, blundering into the furniture while the girls gossiped, eating discarded gloves while they dressed of an evening. Her shoulder, without the weight of the lace strap from his reticule-disguised form, felt naked. She had only a few days to miss him, however, because they finally arrived in the great city of London.

Around midnight on a fine clear Thursday in mid-March, a lone cloud wafted over west London toward Hyde Park. There it stopped and hovered in a most un-cloud-like manner. It hesitated and then headed purposefully toward the grounds of the Crystal Palace, where the Great Exhibition halls were being torn down. It sunk low enough to touch the top of the center post, where once massive buildings had housed engines of industry.

No one observed this odd behavior except two gin-soaked gentlemen. They watched the cloud slowly part, revealing itself to be, in actuality, a massive dirigible.

“Did we visit one of the opium dens this evening?” inquired one gentleman of the other, trying to explain away this hallucination.

“Dens? Hens?” said the second, tripping over a mulberry bush.

The two gentlemen swayed where they stood, leaning against each other, transfixed while the dirigible undertook a series of transformations. Dark figures swarmed up to the squeak decks and then climbed over the casings of the huge balloons, scrambling about with the aid of rope ladders, but looking, to the befuddled watchers, like so many four-legged ants.

Eventually, the ants unrolled a canvas banner that stretched the full length of the central balloon and read BLENHEIM’S BUILDERS & SAFETY INSPECTORS. FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY. The ants then proceeded to rig scaffolding from the ship’s decks down to the ground. After these adjustments the airship looked quite convincingly as if it were part of the Crystal Palace deconstruction operation.

In Hyde Park the only way to hide something as huge as a floating school was to pretend it was a tradesman’s concern, a business that functioned through the use of day laborers. Anyone of note tempted to look must instantly look away in humiliation. After all, persons of consequence did not pay attention to buildings going up or down—they were too exposed. Anything to do with construction was highly embarrassing.

When Sophronia awoke the next day and trotted out on deck to investigate, she couldn’t read the legend spread above them, but at breakfast they were told what it said.

There were a few cries of outrage from the young ladies. After all, they didn’t want to be associated with builders any more than the aristocrats strolling through Hyde Park.

Monique was particularly upset. “We can’t be seen to be here, on a ship emblazoned with an advertisement! It’s simply too shocking! What if someone observes us disembarking?”

“Well, you’ll have to be careful no one does, won’t you? After all, young ladies shouldn’t be around building sites regardless of signage. You are, as of this moment, restricted indoors. Is that understood?” Mademoiselle Geraldine was firm on this matter.

They all nodded.

Sophronia entertained herself by imagining what kind of disguise might best facilitate escape. She couldn’t, after all, look like a builder. She hadn’t the physicality for it.

“I guess if I want to wander around, I’ll have to pretend to be a sootie,” she muttered. After all, most industries required the use of small wiry boys in some capacity.

Dimity was shocked. “Sophronia, first men’s garb and now lower-class men’s garb? The very idea!”

Sophronia admitted, “It is daring. Luckily, I have no reason to leave the ship. Yet.”

“You will not be allowed off school grounds regardless, ladies,” continued Mademoiselle Geraldine. “It’s too dangerous to parade around London without an escort. Those of you who have families in town will make special arrangements. For the rest, this is an educational jaunt, not a pleasure cruise.”

Preshea was upset. “But the shopping! I have been given an extra allowance in anticipation of this trip!” She emphasized the final p so sharply it almost popped the eardrum.

“It will wait, Miss Buss.”

“But Monique’s party!”

“That’s enough, Miss Buss.”

Preshea looked sulky.

Monique was smug. Her parents were in town preparing for the ball. She would be allowed to shop as much as she pleased.

So they lodged in Hyde Park, and their classes continued despite the tempting activities outside the windows. The view included the aristocracy taking the air, hackney cabs rolling by, and the certain knowledge that, just out of reach, were all the luxuries and privileges afforded by town.

It was maddening, for everyone except Sidheag. Even Agatha, normally reticent, yearned to take in a theatrical performance. “Or perhaps an opera. I do adore the opera.”

Sophronia ruminated over whether the ban was intended to drive them into transgression, or if there was some serious threat to the students that warranted keeping them holed up. The teachers were not revealing any secrets, and with only a few attempted escapes by some of the older girls, the day passed smoothly.

The only odd occurrence was later that night, when instead of Professor Braithwope for evening lessons, they were put in with the older girls under Professor Lefoux. This was their first experience with Vieve’s aunt as an instructor.

Professor Lefoux was patiently brilliant and moved through the topic—industrial sabotage, tea, and supply trains—with such rapidity it left most of the class, regardless of age, utterly confused. Then she began to fire off questions in such a way as to make them all feel stupid. It was a traumatic experience and left them fervently wishing for the nice, easygoing, friendly vampire of their ordinary schedule.

Professor Braithwope was a dedicated teacher, and he didn’t like to change his routine. A monster of habit, the vampire. What, then, could possibly draw him away?

His place was empty at the head table at supper, as was a guest spot set next to it.

“He has a visitor,” said Sophronia, nibbling at some fried haddock.

“Oh, you think so?” Dimity was much less interested in the goings on of teachers than Sophronia.

“I do. An important visitor.”

Halfway through the meal, when the main course was to be brought out, Professor Braithwope arrived with a gentleman in tow.

The gentleman was tallish, not overly thin or overly fat. He wore proper dress to the height of style but nothing more elaborate. He had a long face with lines about the eyes that suggested exhaustion, not humor, and the general pallor of an invalid or an accounting clerk. The most remarkable things about him were his hands, which were long and elegant, mothlike in the candlelight. Mademoiselle Geraldine insisted on candlesticks for supper. Gas, she said, was too harsh for food.

The stranger sat next to Professor Braithwope as though it pained him to do so, and took no food, only a little port.

Sidheag, following Sophronia’s gaze, said idly, “So that’s why Captain Niall was so anxious.”

“Captain Niall was anxious?”

“About coming to London. I thought it only that werewolves don’t like town, except the West End. Now I suspect that it has to do with him.”

Sophronia examined their visitor, trying to determine what it was about this man that the school’s werewolf would find objectionable. “Why him in particular?”

“Don’t you recognize our dear fanged member of the Shadow Council?”

“Goodness, no, why should I?”

Sidheag had been raised in Scotland but nevertheless enmeshed in supernatural politics. “True, he likes to stay out of the public eye, but that’s him, all right.”

“Him who?”

Sidheag nodded, firmly. “Funny me having information before you.”

Now Sidheag was simply being obstreperous.

“Are you telling me that is the potentate!” Sophronia hissed the revelation. Things began to click into place in her brain. Not unlike the workings of the oddgob machine. Could this be the school’s mysterious patron? Not just a vampire, not just the government, but Queen Victoria’s pet vampire?

Sidheag chewed a bit of fricassee of rabbit and new potatoes. “Looks like.”

The potentate glanced up and directly at them, as if sensing they were discussing him, although even with supernatural hearing there was no way he could possibly cut through the suppertime chatter all the way to the back of the room. Or could he?

Sophronia raised her water goblet in salute. Sidheag ignored him. As Lady Kingair, she was allied with werewolves. Wolves might shun polite society, but they equaled vampires in status.

Felix, observing this interchange, said from across the table, “Very unpleasantly august company you keep here, for a ladies’ seminary. Now, where’s the pudding course?”

“It doesn’t look like your teacher is too thrilled,” replied Sophronia.

Professor Shrimpdittle was looking bilious. He had a bright paisley scarf tied high about his neck. He was focused on his mutton and spinach with single-minded intent.

Felix said, “In no way are two vampires better than one.”

Especially not if you believe you’ve recently been bitten. “Are you certain it’s not the political power he wields?” Sophronia asked.

“Why, Ria, are you speaking in riddles? That’s sweet. I might almost think you wished to lure me in.” Felix batted long lashes at her.

The meal came to a close, the millet pudding and Norfolk dumplings consumed with gusto, especially by Pillover. Sophronia held back while most of the students crowded out through the door, eager for their brief spate of spare time before night classes began. The teachers let them go, lingering over their sherry or brandy, as nature dictated. In the case of Sister Mattie, nature dictated barley water.

Alone, Sophronia inched her way toward the front of the room. She pretended interest in some leftover nibbles at one of the tables. She watched the teachers out of the corner of her eye.

Professor Braithwope stood to take his leave, and the potentate clapped him on the shoulder in a fair imitation of jocularity. There was no real friendliness to the touch. I suppose they are nervous; one is inside the other’s territory. This ship, after all, belongs to Professor Braithwope by vampire law. So the potentate is imposing, whether invited or not.

She heard the potentate say, “For blood, queen, and country, Aloysius. You take a grave risk, my boy, a grave risk. You are to be commended.”

Professor Braithwope replied, mustache under control for once, “Thank you, sir. I shall do my best.” This was said in the tone of a son to his military father on the eve of battle.

Feeling she was pushing her luck, Sophronia drifted toward the exit, only to find herself accompanied by Professor Braithwope.

“Sir,” she said, politely.

“I don’t like how obsequious they all get when he is around,” said the vampire, as though answering a question she hadn’t asked.

“He is a very important person.”

“More than you will ever know, I hope. Don’t try any of your tricks on him, Miss Temminnick. He won’t put up with them the way I do.”

Sophronia’s mind was whirring. If the school works for the potentate, does that mean graduates are agents of the Shadow Council? “For blood, queen, and country, sir?” she said, softly.

“So he says, Miss Temminnick. So he says.”

Sophronia had always enjoyed the idea of intelligencer work but been worried about who she might be an agent for. Queen Victoria and her supernatural advisers seemed safer than the Picklemen or the vampire hives, but were they really any better? If I want to, will I be permitted to make my own arrangements? Can I choose a patron, or do we automatically go to the highest bidder? And if the latter is the case, how is that a fate better than an arranged marriage?

Sophronia wasn’t certain what instinct drove her to drop by the classrooms that night—but she did.

She saw the light on in Professor Lefoux’s lab and climbed outside to peek in, listening with her trumpet pressed to the porthole. There was only one person in the room, and he wasn’t talking. Professor Shrimpdittle was bent over the large metal suitlike object that he and Professor Lefoux had tinkered with earlier that week. He was working in intense silence, and though Sophronia watched him for a quarter of an hour she got no information. She returned to her room, puzzled, but with a certain sense of anticipation. Soon, she felt, all her questions would be answered. They were, after all, in London.

Her bed was lonely and cold without Bumbersnoot’s hot metal body to warm her feet.