Curtsies & Conspiracies

The 13th test HIGH FLOATING ABOARD

W hen she first saw Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Quality, Sophronia had been impressed by the size of the airship. But no one would ever make the mistake of calling it pretty. It was a cumbersome thing that seemed to stay up by will rather than ability, like a potbellied pig. One got the impression it didn’t really want to float but was doing so out of a sense of polite obligation.

The same could not be said of Giffard’s aether-current floater, christened the Puffy Nimbus Eighteen. It was a thing of technological beauty. Its bottom half was still barge shaped, but all sleek and elegant. Its blimp was sleek as well, an elongated almond with no patches from cannon fire and no extraneous ropes or ladders. The balloon was made of silk and oiled to a dark midnight purple. The ship glided in over a jubilant crowd and sank to land at the center of Hyde Park, some distance away from the embarrassingly emblazoned Mademoiselle Geraldine’s.

The girls were permitted to visit the assembly area to watch the landing, along with hundreds of others. They were under strict orders to stick together, paired into two long lines. They dressed in their best walking frocks and bonnets, parasols raised against an overcast sky.

“Pretty as a pineapple,” pronounced Mademoiselle Geraldine, waving them off with a lace handkerchief. Mademoiselle Geraldine never left the airship if she could avoid it. “An Englishwoman’s dirigible is her castle” was one of her favorite sayings.

The girls joined in the cheers of welcome. It was a magical event, for Giffard had managed the journey in under an hour. He’d come all the way from Paris, mostly inside the aetherosphere, higher up that any manned float-craft had ever been before. “He must have used the crystalline prototype guidance valve,” insisted Vieve. “He couldn’t have managed those currents any other way.” Then she vanished into the crowd.

Henri Giffard pranced down the gangplank of his wondrous machine with all the fanfare of a circus ringmaster. He was dressed in a suit of cream check with a turquoise cravat and boasted a mustache the likes of which Sophronia had never seen before. Had he been awake, Professor Braithwope and his sad excuse for a lip curtain would have trembled in humiliation. Henri Giffard’s mustache curled up and out like a corkscrew, waxed to within an inch of its life. It was too theatrical. Sophronia instantly stopped looking at him and looked about the crowd. He must be intentionally drawing attention away from someone?

The gathering was what one might expect of a Hyde Park afternoon. There were toffs in fancy carriages and on horseback. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s young ladies of quality were companioned by a number of other students from surrounding schools, all allowed to walk out for the momentous occasion. There were groups of boffins from the Royal Society, distinguished by slightly rumpled attire and a predilection for spectacles and oddball gadgetry. There were riffraff as well: some chimney sweeps, the occasional shop girl, greasers, and other representatives of the rougher orders. Before she had met Soap, Sophronia would have glanced over them, but now she examined all with interest. Intelligencers could be anyone, after all.

She wasn’t certain exactly what she was looking for—something out of the ordinary, she supposed. She noted a group of extraordinarily well-turned-out dandies to one side. They were a bit out of place. It was early in the day for that sort to be awake, and they were not the kind of men to be interested in dirigibles. She stared at them for a long moment, but then Giffard hailed the young men with a whoop, and they whooped back. Chums from the gambling circuit? Giffard was rumored to be a bounder. Several of the academics looked like they might be too well dressed; perhaps they were in disguise? Then again, they could be French scholars, over to observe the landing.

The Puffy Nimbus was locked down. Giffard gave a speech in broken English and was welcomed with all due honors by the queen’s daylight representatives. That was when Sophronia spotted them.

Off to the far side lurking under a weeping willow were three men, all dressed to the height of fashion, carrying canes and wearing top hats. Around those hats were bands of green. Picklemen. They, like Sophronia, acted aloof from the excitement—watchers. As she looked at them, one spotted her. He tipped his hat with his cane. Sophronia twirled her parasol at him and then turned pointedly to take Felix’s arm, smiling up at the startled boy.

“Are you unwell, Ria, my dove?” Sophronia never took his arm.

Let them guess at our relationship, she thought. Let them wonder. Son of a Pickleman, is he? How much does he know?

Sophronia said sweetly, “A little overstimulated, Lord Mersey, that is all. It’s unseasonably warm, don’t you feel?”

Felix patted her hand on his arm in a condescending way. “Well, little one, you hold on there. I’ll ensure you get back to the ship safely.”

Sophronia couldn’t resist. “That’s my big strong man.”

Felix’s eyes flashed at her suspiciously.

Sophronia only continued to smile, using her lashes to good effect.

Felix couldn’t help but smile back. She was, after all, on his arm. Why question such a sought-after eventuality?

They returned to the school. Surprisingly, no one had tried to escape during the outing. The teachers were delighted with such unexpectedly good behavior. Accordingly, the girls were given the afternoon off to primp and prepare for London, whether or not they would get out into it for Monique’s ball.

The ship was abuzz with the excitement of those who were invited and the disappointed tears of those who were not. Sophronia and her friends pretended titillation. In Dimity’s case it was probably genuine. She fluttered about, suggesting a way Agatha might better do her hair (“Really, darling, it’s such a pretty red”), reprimanding Sidheag for the plainness of her gown (“Add a little lace, please?”), and insisting Sophronia wear more jewelry (“No, the obstructor does not count”).

“It doesn’t look at all like a bangle. Could we dress it up with jewels or something else sparkly?”

“Not without Vieve’s permission. It isn’t mine yet. Dimity, leave it alone! I’m far more concerned with being adequately kitted than fashionable.”

“Oh, Sophronia, don’t say such a horrible thing!” Dimity put her hand to her chest and gasped. One of Lady Linette’s techniques. “As if anything untoward would happen at Monique’s coming-out ball.” Her eyes sparkled at the temerity of her own statement.

Sophronia felt guilty. After all, Dimity and Pillover were headed into certain danger. “Very well, you can sparkle up the hurlie if you must. But not the obstructor.”

Dimity clapped her hands and dove for the device.

Over supper that evening, they were informed that night classes were canceled.

“We will all be leaving the school for several hours. I’m told the airship is required by the government for a very delicate test.” Mademoiselle Geraldine looked as if she had swallowed a slug. “It is too dangerous to risk young lives. All students are to pack their most precious items into one hatbox—one, mind you!—and assemble amidships. You are to remain near the Crystal Palace building site, where you will be permitted to observe the test. You will have a quarter of an hour after supper to pack and assemble for staircase deployment. There will be a counting.”

A murmur of confusion went through the crowd at such odd instructions. Sophronia looked at Professor Braithwope for hints as to the nature of this test. It must have something to do with the vampires trying to conquer the aether. But Professor Braithwope’s expression was impassive. Even his mustache betrayed nothing.

Undaunted, the students did as ordered. Several of the girls found themselves very large hatboxes indeed, and all of them wore their best dresses under their winter cloaks, in case something did happen to the ship.

“Why tonight?” whined Monique. “Couldn’t this have waited until after my ball?”

“No, dear, it couldn’t,” said Sister Mattie, coming up behind the fretful girl.

“Oh, but Sister Mattie, if something happens my spare ball gown will be destroyed. Then what will I do?”

“My dear, if we lose the ship, it will be far worse than that.”

Monique wailed in distress.

Sophronia was not impressed. She knew for a fact that Monique had insisted other girls carry her dresses in their hatboxes.

Sophronia inched her way over to the dumpy teacher. “Is there really a chance the ship may go down?”

“My dear girl, it is a floating school. There is always a chance.” Sister Mattie could be rather fatalistic at times; it was why she was such a good poisoning instructor. Death, felt Sister Mattie, must come to everyone in the end. Sometimes it simply needed a little help.

Sophronia glanced around. “Are the other professors not joining us?”

Sister Mattie pointed.

The forms of Professors Braithwope, Shrimpdittle, and Lefoux were making their way upward around the edge of the ship.

“What about the sooties?” wondered Sophronia. “If this test is really that dangerous, shouldn’t they be allowed off as well?”

“Oh, they don’t count,” said Sister Mattie airily. “Besides, they are needed to run the boilers. Every engineer is on duty right now, too. It’ll take all the muscle we have to get high enough.”

At that, Sophronia understood exactly what was going on. Everything fell into place—needing a teacher, the school having to travel to London, the vampires’ interest in aether technology. “Giffard is running another aether test tonight, and he needs our school to shadow him because Professor Braithwope is involved. His tether can’t be stretched that high, right?”

“Now, dear, you shouldn’t concern yourself.” Sister Mattie dismissed her with forced casualness and moved away.

Vieve appeared at Sophronia’s elbow, dark hair free of the chronic cap but dimples firmly in place. “Did you notice? They are taking the invention from the lab with them.” Professor Shrimpdittle was carrying the metal suitlike contraption. “And you know what my aunt did? She installed one of the guidance valves inside it! Let’s hope they are better than I am at getting it to turn off correctly.” With that she disappeared again.

Sophronia moved back to Dimity, Agatha, and Sidheag. “I do wish they would do the counting soon.”

“Why?” Agatha was instantly suspicious.

“Because she wants to stay on board,” explained Dimity.

Sidheag was having none of it. “What if they do another count when we are on the ground?”

“I have to chance it. I can’t leave the sooties to go up alone. It isn’t fair.”

“Very noble, Sophronia,” applauded Dimity. “I didn’t know you had an altruistic bone in your body. Charity is so ladylike.”

Sidheag snorted. “Nonsense. She wants to see what’s really happening.”

Sophronia grinned. “Can’t it be both?” She looked with concern at Dimity and Pillover. “You two, please stick tight to Captain Niall? Just in case there are any further kidnapping attempts. The one contingent I can guarantee isn’t after you is the werewolves. If you stay near the captain, he’ll protect you as he would any student.”

The Plumleigh-Teignmotts looked as if they would like to object.

“Please, Dimity. Please?” Sophronia was more earnest than Dimity had ever seen her.

Dimity nodded, her round face doll-like in its seriousness.

Sophronia turned to Sidheag. “Keep an eye on them, too?”

Sidheag nodded. “Kidnapping?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Sidheag nodded again. Sophronia blessed Lady Kingair’s military upbringing. The girl knew how to follow orders.

“Oh, and Dimity, as you exit, could I have a little diversion?”

Dimity pursed her lips. “Of course. What kind—”

Mademoiselle Geraldine clapped her hands, and all the girls turned to face her expectantly. “Line up by year for the counting. Debuts this side, midranks there and there, oldest girls that side, boys at the back.”

There was shuffling while they did as they were told. Felix took it as an opportunity to brush close to Sophronia.

“What’s going on, do you think?” he asked.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“No, why should I?”

“Your people are involved.”

“What do you mean, my people?”

Sophronia gestured below, where a great number of benches were being put out on the green near the skeleton of the Crystal Palace. This was nothing like Giffard’s landing earlier that day. This was a private nighttime affair, and the constabulary were present to ensure it stayed private. These were not any old crushers, either. They wore the silver and wooden weaponry of men who specialized in the supernatural. Not that there would be much activity in Hyde Park so early at night. After supper was a time used to dress. Things weren’t actually supposed to happen at nine o’clock in the evening. It was a most unfashionable hour to run a test, even covertly. No wonder Mademoiselle Geraldine was disgruntled.

Under the moon’s bright light Felix could see what Sophronia meant by her slur. His friends were indeed seated below. A goodly number of gentlemen wore top hats with green satin bands about the crown. There were others as well—a group of well-dressed dandies, some scruffy types who could only belong to a nearby werewolf pack, and two pale, debonair gentlemen who must be vampires. The potentate sat with them.

Sophronia noted that the sky was becoming overcast. Not with clouds but with airships. A small armada approached and hovered at a distance. There were little airdinghies with four small balloons and sails up high in the middle—flywaymen. There were larger, proper dirigibles, a matched set with dark-colored balloons—sky pirates or private-airs. No doubt Madame Spetuna and Bumbersnoot are up there somewhere watching.

Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy sunk down as low as possible, proving that the scaffolding all around it was quite fake. A counting was conducted, and the staircase was cranked down. As they began shambling toward it, Sophronia drifted to one side, her eyes on the professors. Dimity gave a shriek and a wobble, veering toward the side banister of the stairway. She lurched, almost tumbling down several stories to the ground below. Agatha peeped in fear and pretended a faint backward. Sidheag made a lunge after Dimity and nearly went over the edge herself. They were doing beautifully.

Everyone burbled in perturbation. The crowd boiled upward as ladies raised on tiptoe to see what was happening. Teachers and other staff pressed forward to ascertain the cause of the commotion. Lady Linette, trained as she was, sensed the manufactured nature of the distraction and surveyed the crowd, but with over three dozen on the midship deck it was easy for Sophronia to wait until her teacher’s gaze passed her over.

The moment Lady Linette looked elsewhere, Sophronia crouched. The fashion for large hats, even at night, afforded her some protection from view. Removing her own bonnet, she made a break for the staircase that led to the upper decks. She’d be exposed if she actually took those stairs, but she could hide behind them until everyone had disembarked.

Sophronia waited patiently until blasts of steam and the sound of cranking indicated the staircase was being pulled back up. The ship lurched upward. It was safe to emerge.

Professor Braithwope was visible on the upper forward squeak deck far above. He was climbing into the contraption Professors Lefoux and Shrimpdittle had built. It fit him like those suits designed for undersea exploration. What are they called? Diving suits. Once it was fully in place, he looked a little like an oversized mechanical, only more liquid in his movements.

Sophronia made her way around to the far side of the ship, out of view from the watchers below. But not before she saw Sidheag sit next to Captain Niall, along with Dimity and Pillover.

Giffard’s aether-current floater, the Puffy Nimbus Eighteen, swooped into sight, ululating in their direction. Sophronia had once manned an airdinghy, and she knew enough to admire Giffard’s skill. Once the other airship was level with Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, the school extended a long gangplank to it, and Professor Braithwope ran across with a tightrope walker’s skill. The gangplank was drawn back and the two ships began to rise ponderously, keeping pace with each other. Sophronia had intended to check up on the sooties, but she was hypnotized by the action above her, so she stayed hanging where she was. Professor Braithwope and Mr. Giffard exchanged pleasantries, and then Mr. Giffard went back to work steering his small vessel. The two ships rose together, so high the people below became little specks. Then so did the trees of the park. Finally, London herself was nothing but a blob of twinkling lights. They were above the clouds at last, and then higher than Sophronia had ever floated. The air was glacial and the winds howled by; the propeller pushed hard against the breezes through which the school normally drifted peaceably.

Sophronia wondered if there would be a defining shift when they hit the aetherosphere. She knew that it must be close, that invisible onion skin, the thing that protected them all from the void beyond. She couldn’t believe they intended to take Mademoiselle Geraldine’s up that high. Giffard’s aether-current floater was built for the changeable humors of the upper sphere, but Geraldine’s was not.

She turned her attention to Professor Braithwope. The vampire stood stiff and straight, leaning back against the railing of the Puffy Nimbus’s one squeak deck and looking up. Sophronia could hardly fathom that he intended to enter aetherosphere. Very little was known about it, except that it was breathable but dense, not like normal air, and dangerous. Only humans had ever been inside it, and only very few of them. But no other vampire could float up even a short distance; Professor Braithwope was the exception, by virtue of his inhabiting their school. So the school had to go up with him as far as it could, keeping his tether as short as possible.

They intended all along to send the vampire, suited in his protective gear, into the aetherosphere on Giffard’s ship. He will be the first supernatural creature to enter aether. They want to know—vampires, werewolves, government, Picklemen. They all want to know: what happens to a supernatural creature in the aetherosphere? They built him a suit as a nod to safety, but they really have no idea what will occur up there.

Professor Braithwope was undergoing a very dangerous test indeed. For queen and country, the potentate had said. For science, Sophronia thought.

Mademoiselle Geraldine’s stopped rising and held steady, the propeller fighting to keep the school in place. They had gone up as high up as possible. Directly above us, thought Sophronia, must be the aetherosphere. It boggled her mind. She looked but couldn’t see anything apart from very bright stars. The aetherosphere was invisible from below, and opaque from within, or so she’d heard.

Giffard gave some kind of signal and the Puffy Nimbus bobbed up, leaving Mademoiselle Geraldine’s behind.

At first everything seemed fine. Then Professor Braithwope began to gyrate around in his mechanical suit, waving his hands about his face as if fending off a swam of attacking wasps. The mating dance of a mechanical was Sophronia’s hysterical thought.

Giffard seemed to be occupied doing battle with his navigation helm. Sophronia thought she heard Professor Braithwope scream. Then she saw him jerk wildly backward, come up against the railing, and flip right over it. At the time and for years after, she was never certain if he fell accidentally or jumped in order to get relief from invisible tormentors.

Professor Braithwope, encased in his Lefoux-made suit, was tumbling down though the air. His body was limp and there was no sound coming from him anymore.

He should be screaming, thought Sophronia, inanely. I would be screaming.

She watched, transfixed, as the vampire’s body spiraled down into the clouds and out of sight.

Then she moved. He was supposed to have had a guidance valve in that suit of his. Presumably connected to their ship’s boiler room, so they could follow him right away if anything happened. But he either hadn’t used it or it hadn’t worked, because Mademoiselle Geraldine’s still held steady.

Sophronia had never moved so fast about the hull, hurling and jumping from balcony to balcony in a frenzy, working her way down until she could climb in the hatch to the boiler room.

She had never seen engineering so busy before. It was a swarm of activity, every sootie awake and at work. There were greasers, firemen, and engineers everywhere monitoring the flurry. It couldn’t have been easy. All the boilers were burning, licks of flame coming from the fuel boxes. Steam that didn’t make its way out through the pipes filled the room, clouding the upper portions of the cavernous space and making it seem more intimate. It was incredibly hot.

Sophronia’s only thought was to find Soap. Fortunately, he found her.

“What ho, miss?”

Sophronia babbled, forgetting her manners and grabbing his arms in an excess of emotion. “Soap! The school has to go down with him! His tether will snap!” she yelled helplessly into the loud bustle of the boiler room. “Go down now! Take us down! Please!”

Soap put gentle hands on her clutching arms. “I don’t know what you’re on about, miss, but orders have to come from the pilot’s bubble.”

Sophronia panicked. She remembered only Professor Braithwope’s face when she asked him about tether limits. How terrified he had been. They needed to follow him as quickly and as closely as possible.

“Soap, who is in charge of the boiler room?”

Soap looked at her, mouth open. “What, miss?”

“Take me to him, please? Now.”

Soap lead her through the craziness at a run. Sophronia dogged him in her full dress and hat, looking as if she were about to go for a stroll in Hyde Park. Her skirts were long enough to lift up the soot dust in her wake, like steam from a machine.

They ended up at the base of a tall platform that rose up to one side of the room, allowing the man standing on its top to overlook the entirety of the activity therein.

“You stay here, Soap. No sense in us both getting into trouble.”

“Are you sure, miss?”

“Yes,” said Sophronia. No, thought Sophronia.

Soap’s face puckered in concern, but Sophronia turned her changeable green eyes on him and said, “Please.”

So he let her climb up to the dais alone.

The man who stood on the top was dirty with coal dust and wore simple clothing—jodhpurs, boots, shirt, and vest. He had facial topiary sprouting off of his chin and down his neck like a mountain goat. The beard was red, as was the man’s cruel face.

“Who are you, missy?” he barked.

Sophronia quailed a moment—he was very fierce—and then she remembered Professor Braithwope’s well-tended, if confused, facial hair and found her courage. I must send a beard to rescue a mustache! “Sir, it’s Professor Braithwope. He fell. I saw him. We must track him down or he could be permanently damaged. Please, we have to follow quickly.”

“That’s not possible, little miss. The lever hasn’t dropped. And this is no place for a young lady. Get along with you.”

“Please, listen! We must go down. We must!” This was one of those times Sophronia wished she had blackmail material. Why oh why were those lessons only for older students?

“If we were to go down, that newfangled gadget would have told us.” The man pointed to a small cradle, in which sat a guidance valve. It was partly encased in mechanisms that attached to a lever. Sophronia remembered what she’d learned about the first prototype—that it required two to communicate. This was the second, and Professor Braithwope’s suit housed the first. She remembered Vieve and her troubles convincing the sputter-skates to turn off using her guidance valve. It hadn’t worked properly because she’d needed a second valve. This, then, was supposed to have been the vampire’s safety net. Professor Braithwope, or his suit, should have alerted engineering when something went wrong. That lever should have dropped. But it hadn’t, and the professor was falling.

Sophronia might have argued with the man indefinitely, but there came a screeching, airy, puff noise, and a long metal tube, which ended above the platform, spat out a pelletlike object that nearly hit the man on the head.

He grabbed it out of the air and cracked it open on his knee; it split like an egg. Inside was a message, which he read and then, giving Sophronia a suspicious look, reached for a massive bullhorn. The brass horn was almost as tall as he, and all over covered in keys and levers. Raising it to his lips and adjusting the controls to his liking, the man yelled out over the chamber. “All hands, pull back, we’re going down at speed. Propeller tilt to steady a rapid decent. Greasers Six and Fourteen, take your sooties up top. We’re collapsing the midship balloon.”

A collective gasp met that statement.

So I managed to climb the ship and get him the message here before the pilot’s bubble did. No wonder they want working guidance valves. No wonder everyone is so desperate to get their hands on these things. Everything about air travel could be faster—for everyone, not just those who float inside the aetherosphere.

Into the resulting comparative silence—the machinery still clanged and the boilers still flamed despite the fact that all human movement had stilled—a small voice said, “Not all the way?” in a shocked tone.

The red-faced man said into the bullhorn, “Yes. All the way. The rest of you, perform your cool-down tasks and then brace for a rough descent. We aren’t landing, mind you, but we are going down fast!”

The chamber sprung into action. It was as though everything were in reverse. Sooties who had been running one way began running the other. Stokers stopped stoking. A few even threw water on the burning fuel, the resulting steam adding to the congestion of the room.

The angry man looked at Sophronia. “You, get out of here! Find yourself a place to brace. This is no lark, you realize? And what’s your name?”

“Monique de Pelouse,” said Sophronia, without missing a beat.

“I wager it is. Now off with ya. Get!”

Sophronia got.

A truly harrowing few seconds followed. The ship sank so fast Sophronia could feel it in her belly. It was a wobbly sensation, especially when one was accustomed to not feeling anything at all on the floating school. She holed up in her favorite meeting spot behind a—now much diminished—pile of coal, near the floor hatch. Eventually, Soap joined her there. Together they watched the ground approach through the hatch.

“What did you do, miss?” asked Soap as London came into view.

“It wasn’t me. I tried, but he only took instructions when some tube spat at him.”

They could see Hyde Park at the city center and Regent’s Park to the north.

“Pilot’s orders. Must have agreed with you. But deflating a balloon? It’s not done, not ever. The expense alone!”

They began to see streets and houses distinctly.

“Are we going to crash?” wondered Sophronia, her heart fluttering.

Soap inched one long arm about her waist with the excuse that she might need the support. Sophronia felt somewhat reassured.

The bones of the Crystal Palace and the now empty benches came into view. Everyone was crowded around what could only be the fallen body of Professor Braithwope.

“Man the pull back, swell up inflation,” came a yell over the bullhorn.

“Erp, that’s me!” Soap dashed back to work.

Sophronia felt bereft.

Someone in the crowd below looked up, pointed, and screamed. It must be a truly terrifying thing to see, the massive school hurtling down toward them.

Then Sophronia felt a mighty jolt. They stopped falling and hovered, almost exactly as high above the ground as they had been before the whole thing started.

The sooties cheered.

Several of the young ladies in the crowd directly below fainted. Each faint was, properly, backward and caught by one of the many gentlemen in attendance.

Sophronia let down the rope ladder attached to one side of the hatch and climbed to the ground as quickly as she could.