Curtsies & Conspiracies

The 7th test WIELDING A BALLISTIC EXPLODING STEAM MISSILE FIRE PRONG

It was much easier to climb about the airship in masculine garb; Sophronia regretted not trying it sooner. True, petticoats had saved her life once, but this! This was liberty. She resolved, once they reached London, to acquire gentleman’s dress, upper- and lower-class. Plus a fake mustache. Where does one purchase a mustache in London? Fleet Street? Not that she would ever wear such things in public, but for midnight jaunts to visit sooties, why be modest?

She skirted the outside of the residential areas, then the classrooms, and soon she was outside the tassel section. It was a bit challenging to climb surrounded by a cloud of dense white damp. Twice her foot slipped, and she thought fondly of gentleman’s riding boots and then wondered if that might be taking things too far. Footwear, after all, was a serious commitment.

She moved as quickly as she could; with all the white she wouldn’t know she’d found Monique until she was right on top of her. Then, as Sophronia was jumping from one balcony to another, she caught a flicker of skirts above her doing the same.

The blonde was heading toward the upper front starboard section of teacher residences. Sophronia knew the area well, even which balconies belonged to which teachers. She usually avoided them assiduously.

She took out her grappling rope and swung it up onto a balcony above. It caught and hooked. She shimmied up—so much easier in trousers!—and retracted the hurlie, taking a moment to run her hand along the railing. There were little scrapes and nicks—some fresh, some ancient—indicating other grappling hooks had been used. Why should I be surprised? This is a school of espionage, after all. She swung, hurlied, and climbed up another level so that she was above Monique and could follow her from there.

Monique was not the most graceful climber. She was wearing an evening dress and was hindered by the length and fullness of her skirts. Even at her most prudish, Sophronia wore her shortest dress with only one or two petticoats when climbing. Nevertheless, Monique moved as if she did it regularly and was following a pattern. She did not look around to see if she was being pursued. Eventually, she stopped at a balcony, climbed over the railing, and knocked on the door. All the other quarters nearby had attractive French doors with stained glass. Professor Lefoux’s glass was all gears in grays and blues, Lady Linette’s was roses in reds and pinks, and Sister Mattie’s was vines and flowers in greens and yellows.

This door had no glass, and the porthole window to the room was blacked over—Professor Braithwope’s rooms. Vampires did not like sunlight, and floating high above cloud cover, the sun beat down on Mademoiselle Geraldine’s more than anywhere else in England.

The door swung open, and Monique entered the vampire’s nest.

Sophronia made her way over. It was a risk, but the only way to listen was via the cracks in that door. She’d have to be particularly quiet, given Professor Braithwope’s supernatural hearing. Hopefully, Monique would be talking loudly about herself, as usual.

Sophronia hooked her grapple over the railing, then unstrapped and lowered the wristband end of the hurlie, careful to let the excess come to rest without slapping. Then she swung herself over and by slow degrees climbed down.

Her weekly visits to the sooties and other extracurricular excursions had given her arm muscles no young lady of quality ought to have. She’d had to let out the seams on most of her sleeves. Thus far, no one had noticed. She was certain to get a lecture on her diet if Sister Mattie did. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s young ladies were not supposed to become portly.

Sophronia attained the balcony and padded to the door. Taking out her ear trumpet, she pressed it against the crack between the hinges.

“… there must be something you can do!” Monique’s tone was wheedling.

“I’m afraid not. She is not my queen, even were I hive bound, whot. The words of a rove hold little weight. It’s too bad you gave Lady Linette a reason to send you down. You pushed her too far with that prototype business, and then poor testing marks. They have a legitimate excuse that can be justified to the trustees, and your parents.”

“But I’ve given you years of my blood!”

Monique is Professor Braithwope’s drone, Sophronia realized. Somehow she wasn’t surprised. He would be a perfect advocate. It was a little creepy that he fed on a student. But then again, the very idea of him sticking those fangs into anyone’s neck was creepy.

“Nothing I can do about it, whot. You should have stayed in everyone’s good graces until this Giffard nonsense passed, as I instructed. I will have a better standing with all hives after. Now, you must leave the ship as soon as you come out. Our contract together ends the moment we land in London.”

I wonder if Professor Braithwope is the reason we’re called to town, Sophronia thought. It would make perfect sense. He is the only teacher who can’t travel there on his own. The whole school has to go with him. He is, after all, tethered to the airship.

Professor Braithwope’s tone became almost kindly. “You are more connected to her than I at this point, whot. After all, I did not authorize the redistribution of the prototype; you undertook that at her private request.”

“You thwarted me and them in that matter,” said Monique. “They aren’t happy with either of us.”

Sophronia rubbed at her forehead, trying to make her brain’s inner cogs tumble smoothly. Last autumn, when Monique tried to steal the prototype, Sophronia had thought she was working for the government. This conversation indicated that Monique was working for a vampire hive instead. If they wanted the prototype valve then, did they still want it? Goodness, I wish Vieve would tell me what that newer one from the oddgob was for. Is it still all about communication across distances? Or do the mini ones do something more sinister?

“Hence the reason I do this test with Giffard,” said Professor Braithwope.

Well, that cinches it. Professor Braithwope needs to meet with Giffard and his new dirigible; that’s why the school is going to London.

The vampire continued. “What will you do to get back in their good graces?”

Monique said nothing. Sophronia wished she could see their faces. Eavesdropping was difficult without a window.

Finally Monique muttered, “I don’t know.”

I’d wager she already has a plan, thought Sophronia.

“I wager you already have a plan,” said Professor Braithwope.

“And you’re hungry enough to let me get away with not telling you about it.”

Sophronia realized, for the first time, that Monique had always favored high-necked gowns. She also liked silk shawls and ribbon chokers. How could I have not realized it was to disguise feeding bites? I’m going to have to pay better attention to that part of fashion in the future.

“Oh, no, my dear, you forget, I no longer care,” said the vampire, sharper than Sophronia had ever heard him speak to a student. “Now, come here.”

Sophronia prepared to shimmy back up the rope.

After a long silence, Monique spoke, her voice weaker than before. “Since you are no longer looking after me, Professor, you must consider this our last meal together.”

Professor Braithwope said, “Of course, wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You have… alternative options?” Monique sounded jealous.

Sophronia began to make a mental list, trying to think of all forty-five students and which ones might be hiding the mark of Professor Braithwope’s favor.

The vampire did not answer Monique.

Sophronia considered offering herself. There would be quite an advantage to having a vampire’s help. But it smacked of cheating. Also, the idea made her squeamish. It was a mark of how far she had come during her time at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s that it didn’t make her more than squeamish.

“Well, Professor, will you be able to attend my ball?”

“I’m afraid not. That’s well within Lord Akeldama’s territory. I’ll stay with the ship around Hyde Park, neutral ground, whot.”

“Shame,” said Monique.

“I am certain you will catch London afire with your charm,” said the vampire gallantly. Professor Braithwope never forgot his manners, which was why he taught lessons on them.

“I’d rather do it with my looks,” snapped Monique.

Angry footsteps headed in Sophronia’s direction. She scrabbled backward, sacrificing silence for speed. She grabbed her rope at the edge of the balcony and shimmied up, coiling it behind her.

The door below burst open, and both Professor Braithwope and Monique walked out.

“I heard something!” said the professor.

“No one is here.” Monique glanced around but did not look up.

But Professor Braithwope did, just as Sophronia tumbled over the railing of the balcony above. Their eyes met for one startled instant.

The vampire winked at her. Actually winked, his mustache bristling conspiratorially. “Ah, perhaps you are right. Simply the wind, whot?”

There was no wind.

Monique had her own concerns and let the matter drop. It was one of the things that made her such a poor intelligencer. She was good at putting lessons to use, but only in the service of her own ends.

“I can’t believe it,” said Dimity over breakfast. Her objection was almost loud enough for Monique to hear at the other end of the table.

Monique, fortunately, was in deep council with Preshea, Lord Dingleproops, Lord Mersey, and several of the older girls on the subject of decorations. Who supplied the best fresh flowers in London? And did they want ribbons, rosettes, and streamers, or only two fluttering options?

“He’s her advocate on staff. Or he was. I suppose it makes sense, but I should never have believed it of him. I was certain Prof B. had better taste. And”—Dimity’s attention was caught by the end of the table—“why must Preshea flirt with him so outrageously?”

Sophronia was accustomed to her friend’s lightning-fast change of topics. “Lord Dingleproops?”

“Of course, Lord Dingleproops! I could hardly mean Lord Mersey. He’s obviously yours. And Pillover doesn’t count. Pillover never counts. They are the only three assigned to our table.”

“Not that Monique would ever flirt with me,” added Pillover, staring glumly into his bowl of porridge. Sister Mattie had put him on a diet. He was, if possible, even more morbid as a result.

“Lord Mersey is not mine,” Sophronia protested rather too vehemently.

Dimity got coy. “Does he know that?”

“Now, now, we were talking about Lord Dingleproops. I thought you had moved on. The lack of chin. The nasty joke missive.”

“Well, I genuinely think he didn’t know about that. I compared handwriting. It wasn’t his on that letter requesting the assignation.”

Sophronia nodded. “Still, I thought you were no longer tempted to partake.”

“I wasn’t, until Preshea came along and stole him away from me.”

“Dimity!”

“Well, it’s true. I’m a terribly, terribly shallow person.”

Pillover nodded into his gruel.

Dimity turned on him. “Speaking of which, have you heard back from the Parental Evils yet?”

Pillover shook his head even more glumly, practically sinking face-first into the porridge, he was hunching so low.

Dimity went back to commenting on the other end of the table. “Oh, simply look at Preshea, flashing that diamond necklace around! One shouldn’t wear diamonds to breakfast, so gauche. As if she came from real wealth!”

“Doesn’t she have money?” Pillover looked up. “She acts like she has money.”

“Which is the most certain indication that she does not. People with money never act like it. Take Agatha, for example.”

“Which one is Agatha?” wondered Pillover, in a tone of voice that said all girls looked the same.

“The redhead.”

Pillover glanced at Agatha, who was dutifully pretending to be part of Monique’s inner circle. Her bonnet had slid back, her hair was coming undone, and she’d forgotten her lace tuck—again.

Pillover looked understandably doubtful as to the girl’s substance.

Preshea’s tinkling laugh rippled down the table. The pretty brunette pressed a hand to Lord Dingleproops’s arm and looked up at him adoringly. Her diamonds sparkled almost as much as the avarice in her eyes.

Lord Dingleproops seemed stunned. His cravat was tied so nicely, one could almost, reflected Sophronia, forgive him the lack of chin.

Dimity said, “I wrote him poetry!”

Preshea let go of the young lord and continued on with her conversation. Dingleproops brushed at the spot where her hand had been, straightening his jacket.

“Dimity,” Sophronia said, horrified by such an admission, “you didn’t give him the poetry, did you?”

“Certainly not.”

Sidheag tilted back in her chair, grinning. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.” But Dimity was already dipping into her reticule and pulling out a scrap of paper. She gave it to Sidheag, who read it with a perfectly straight face, her tawny eyes dancing, and then passed it to Sophronia.

“My love is like a red red rose

occasionally he has a red red nose

he could keep me warm in the snows

I wager he has very nice toes.”

Sophronia could think of nothing to say except, “Oh, Dimity.”

Things might have continued in this vein except a violent jerk shook the entire airship, accompanied by a rumbling clunk and then a sinking sensation.

The girls looked at one another.

Dimity glared suspiciously at Sophronia. “What did you do now?”

Sophronia widened her eyes. “Not me this time, I promise.”

“It’s always you,” accused Sidheag in an appreciative kind of way.

“Are we sinking? I do believe we are sinking,” said Lord Dingleproops a tad loudly.

“Falling, my dear Dingleproops,” corrected Lord Mersey. “We are not at sea.”

“Landing, perhaps?” suggested Dingleproops, obviously uncomfortable with the concept of falling out of the sky.

The girls were also discombobulated, but they were not so gauche as to talk about it. They looked to the head table to see how the teachers were behaving. Aside from Professor Shrimpdittle, none of them were reacting. Even Mademoiselle Geraldine was calmly consuming crumpets. Professor Braithwope, it being daylight, was still abed.

Sensing the shift in student mood, Lady Linette rose to address the masses.

“We are lowering for a refuel and groundside layover. Students will engage in various land-bound activities, including an al fresco luncheon during which time you will be expected to undertake consumption, courting, and conspiracy over calico cloth. After sunset, there will be a lesson with Captain Niall for the ladies, and badminton in the dark for the gentlemen. Be certain to gather all your necessities after breakfast; you will not be permitted back aboard until supper.”

Mademoiselle Geraldine added, “Ladies, be certain to wear your wide-brimmed hats. You know how I feel about freckles.”

This announcement was met with enthusiasm. Outside classes? All day and evening? How thrilling. Plus picnics were widely considered a wheeze.

Everyone attempted to finish breakfast posthaste, the better to have extra time to change into walking dresses and outside bonnets.

Shortly thereafter, they found themselves trotting down the steam-powered drop-staircase onto a grassy hilltop pasture near a diminutive forest. Sophronia spared a moment to wonder what locals might think of a random low-floating cloud. However, it was romantic to imagine being seen descending out of it.

“As if we were cloud princesses,” suggested Dimity. She’d chosen to branch out from her customary vibrant dresses for one of ruffled cream-and-dove-gray chiffon, looking very cloudlike herself.

As soon as all the students and most of the teachers were disgorged—Professor Braithwope and Mademoiselle Geraldine remaining on board—the airship cloud rose majestically back into the air and drifted out of sight behind the trees.

It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky—which made a random airship cloud all the more peculiar. The girls looked a picture. It was still cold for spring, but out had come pretty flowered muslins and striped seersucker walking dresses. There were parasols galore, and embroidered fringed shawls, not to mention shepherdess hats and Italian straw bonnets. Admittedly, the stylish dresses had been modified by belts with dangling gadgets, wrist attachments, suspiciously heavy chatelaines, and, in Sophronia’s case, a large reticule that looked like a metal sausage dog.

Lessons, it must be confessed, were not a resounding success. The students were distracted easily. Sophronia and the debuts joined with some of the middle-level girls and all of the visiting boys for a lesson with Lady Linette in how to stroll in Hyde Park. Much time was spent going over the different ways to cut an unwelcome suitor, how tightly a man’s arm might be grasped, and the best way to engage in espionage under direct sunlight. They also discussed the distribution, use, and application of stealth spy rocks.

There was a light picnic of broiled beef, roast duck, braised pork pie, cold poached chicken in cream sauce, pickles and relishes, crusty French bread, and stewed fruit, accompanied by punch, which was followed by tea with pear turnovers, cabinet pudding, and apricot macaroons. They learned how to sit on wet ground and still eat with delicacy. Conversation centered mainly on the various evil projects under the purview of their gentlemen visitors, with the young ladies inventing new uses and applications. It turned into a kind of game. Lord Dingleproops, for example, was working on mustache-curling and waxing technologies, and the girls wondered if his wax might be used to convey secret messages, or even if the curl of a man’s mustache might function in just such a manner. The discussion evolved to the interesting question of whether a gentleman could tattoo a secret message upon his chin, then grow out his beard, thus transporting said message into enemy territory with no one the wiser. Would a man want a message permanently upon his chin? That was the quandary. And could one legitimately ascribe nefarious intent to any many with a full beard as a result?

“I’ve always thought beards suspicious,” said Dimity with conviction.

Sophronia felt Lord Dingleproops might be improved by a beard. After all, no one would know his chin appeared to have eloped with, quite probably, Monique’s brain and Preshea’s sense of humor.

After the picnic, the ladies and gentlemen were permitted to socialize further. Flirting was cautiously encouraged, with Lord Dingleproops and Lord Mersey being instantly subsumed by Preshea and Monique respectively. Sophronia and Dimity linked arms and tootled around. Agatha trailed dutifully behind her mark, as ordered, along with a small gaggle of fellow sycophants. Sidheag mooched off with a stick to beat a tree or something. The teachers settled into a group near the hilltop to keep an eye on the mingling young people.

Sophronia and Dimity wandered into the small forest, where they found an empty patch of ground and put Bumbersnoot down to have a snuffle in the fallen leaves. He was given strict instructions not to catch anything on fire, although it was damp enough that he would have had to put considerable effort into the attempt.

He squeaked about, his stubby mechanical legs getting caught on twigs, his ears flapping with toots of smoke, and his tail wagging back and forth eagerly. Sophronia did not bother to remove the lace bits wrapped about him, so that he trailed ribbons and straps in his wake like an entirely disreputable bride.

They talked of nothing consequential and watched the mechanimal’s antics. Bumbersnoot was wrestling with a large stick, and Sophronia couldn’t tell whether he wanted to swallow it into his storage compartment or his boiler. Suddenly, the little creature sat back and whistled, pressing out steam forcefully in some kind of an alarm, like a teakettle.

Both girls were startled. They’d had no idea he could make any noise whatsoever, aside from the clang when he stumbled into furniture.

Moments later three slablike men materialized out of the trees. One of them grabbed Dimity, and another Sophronia. The third stood with arms akimbo, as if he intended to make a speech.

Sophronia found herself most indelicately confined. There was one beefy arm about her waist, trapping her arms against her side, and another over her mouth, preventing her from shouting for assistance.

“Where’s the boy?” demanded the third ruffian, looking around. “We need him as well.”

Sophronia tried to kick her captor, lashing out with one booted foot, but heavy skirts and copious petticoats prevented her from doing any damage.

Dimity was also struggling. Sophronia could see her friend’s wide hazel eyes above the other ruffian’s arm.

Bumbersnoot, ignored by their attackers, took temporary refuge behind a stump.

Sophronia really didn’t want to, but she did the only thing she could. She opened her mouth and bit down hard on the man’s sweaty arm.

The man howled in pain but didn’t let her go, only jerked her head back and tightened his grip into her mouth in a most uncomfortable manner.

“The boy should be with them; they are siblings, after all.”

Pillover. They want Pillover, too.

Bumbersnoot, not at all pleased with this treatment of his mistress, circled about and approached Sophronia’s captor.

Sophronia couldn’t give him any orders. Even if she were able to speak, he rarely obeyed verbal commands. She had no idea what he might do. She was terribly afraid he would get himself permanently damaged; one swift kick from the ruffian’s anvil-sized boot and he was done for.

Her mind cataloged lessons. They’d had nothing on freeing themselves from larger, stronger captors. Her elbows were tight to her waist, but she made an attempt to reach for her chatelaine—the Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification hung there. It was a weapon, of sorts. She couldn’t get hold of it, but she could reach her other wrist.

She still wore the hurlie. She rarely took it off except to bathe. She managed to use one hand to release the catch.

Bumbersnoot moved closer.

Sophronia couldn’t point the grapple at her own captor, and she daren’t risk hitting Dimity, but the man who had spoken was an easy target. She angled her wrist at him and fired. She got the grapple over the ruffian’s shoulder, jerking back to bring the hook into the flesh of his upper back. The man screamed and turned, scrabbling with his hands.

“Get it off, get it out!” he yelled. There was blood leaking down his shirt—he was without a jacket. All three of them were. So thuggish.

In the same instant, Bumbersnoot snuck up against Sophronia’s captor’s leg and blasted hot steam on the man’s bare ankle, scalding him badly. That’ll teach him not to wear hose, thought Sophronia.

The man yelled in surprise and let her go. Sophronia dove down, scooped up Bumbersnoot, and rolled out of reach. Lady Linette had made them practice that maneuver in full skirts. The extra material actually helped, cushioning the somersault. Sophronia couldn’t get very far, however, as her wrist was still attached to the other man via the hurlie.

At the sight of the blood, Dimity fainted, becoming a dead weight in her ruffian’s arms. He swore and tried to keep hold, but Dimity’s chiffon dress was slippery, and she hadn’t Sophronia’s propensity for covering herself with gadgets. Without handholds, the man lost his grip. Dimity collapsed to the forest floor.

The bleeding man managed to free himself from Sophronia’s hurlie, which she retracted. Momentarily unencumbered, Sophronia pulled out her letter opener. She’d begun to carry it right after they started knife-fighting lessons, as soon as she realized it would work just as well and be more innocuous. After all, a lady might expect a missive at any moment. It wouldn’t do to be without a letter opener. She made a mental note to start wearing and training with her hurlie in her left hand so she could use both as weapons in a fight.

With one ruffian trying to pick up a limp Dimity, another clutching his burned leg, and the third trying to grab his own bleeding back, it looked like Sophronia had the best of them. She was no fool, however. It was her and Bumbersnoot, whose ribbon strap she threw over her neck, against three fully grown men. She ought to run, but she wasn’t about to leave Dimity in their clutches!

The men were wary of coming at her again. She was, after all, armed with a projectile. She wished for a gun. If this kind of thing were to become a regular occurrence, munitions lessons really shouldn’t be left for older students. Then her training kicked in: get them talking.

“What do you want?” she asked, pleased with how steady her voice sounded.

“Oh, no, little miss, we know better then that,” said one.

Another said to his companions, “We can’t let her go. She’ll alert the others.”

“Good idea,” said Sophronia, at which juncture she threw her head back and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Instantly, not so very far away, she heard someone crashing through the trees. She screamed again.

Apparently, deciding it was most important to hush her, two ruffians charged. Sophronia took aim and fired with her hurlie a second time. It hit the burned man in the chest and bounced harmlessly off. The hooks were made to catch on the draw back, not the firing. I should get Vieve to mount a sharp point in the middle that pops out when I release the turtle. Still the man howled in surprise; the spring-loaded release was strong, so it would at least bruise. Then the other man was upon her.

Sophronia fell into Captain Niall’s best defensive stance for the smaller personage when faced with a large opponent and raised her letter opener. The ruffian moved in, no doubt relying on the fact that she was female and could not possibly know anything about fighting. Captain Niall had only taught them a single attack, but he had made them practice it over and over and over. Sophronia slashed out, opening up a long gash on the man’s arm.

He backed away warily.

The other ruffian stopped, grabbed at her grappling hook, and began tugging on it. Soon he would have Sophronia by a leash, and she had no time to undo the turtle from her wrist, focused as she was on fighting the first man. Sophronia prepared to kick. That was a dirty tactic, not taught by Captain Niall, but Soap had shown her a few tricks and she was prepared to use them if necessary.

It was not necessary, for a rescuer appeared out of the forest.

“You screamed, madam?”

“Why, Lord Mersey, what are you doing here?”

“Following you, of course. Spot of bother?”

“Little bit of one, yes.”

The young man looked with interest at Sophronia’s opponents, one holding a collapsed Dimity, one bleeding from a gash to the arm, and the third bleeding from a wound to the back.

“My dear Ria, you hardly need my help.”

“Hardly.”

“Have I told you recently how much I admire a capable woman?” As he spoke, the young lord reached inside his coat and produced the most remarkable gadget. It wasn’t very big and was rather flat, which explained how he could keep it in his coat without upsetting the lines, but it was extremely evil looking. It was long and sharp with multiple attachments and a nozzle blackened from extruding some toxic substance. It looked highly flammable and quite deadly. Vieve would have been enthralled.

The ruffians were suitably impressed. They stopped.

“Put down the young lady,” said Felix.

The man holding Dimity hesitated.

Felix was an aristocrat and accustomed to instant obedience. “This moment!” He swung the weapon to aim at the man and Dimity. “I assure you, I am a very good shot. I will most certainly hit you, not her.”

“What is that thing?” quavered the ruffian.

“Oh, this?” Felix was casual. “This is a ballistic exploding steam missile fire prong. It’s my latest invention, and it’s very, very good at being deadly.”

That did it. The ruffian holding Dimity dropped her once more, and she flopped becomingly, like a sleeping princess from a fairy story.

The man who had been hurlied said to the other two, “We ain’t paid enough for this.”

The others apparently agreed. “Leave it.”

With little more to-do, the three ruffians dashed away into the forest.

Sophronia and Felix looked at each other.

“Nice prong,” said Sophronia after a moment.

Felix grinned and waggled his eyebrows lasciviously. “Thank you for saying so.”

Sophronia was instantly suspicious. “You mean that isn’t a ballistic exploding steam missile fire prong?”

“No such thing, my dear Ria, but it certainly sounds wicked, doesn’t it?”

“Then what is it?”

He handed the evil-looking object over. “Ah, a portable boot-blackening apparatus with pressure-controlled particulate emissions, and attached accoutrement to achieve the highest possible shine. For the stylish gentleman on the go.” He presented his own well-turned-out leg, proving that his boots were as shiny as could be, despite exposure to the outside environment.

Sophronia looked down the barrel of the thing and, accidentally, pulled the trigger. A fine mist of boot black hit her in the face, making her squeak, sputter, and drop the object.

She pulled out her handkerchief to repair the damage but left the apparatus where it lay in the leaves. “Automated shoe-shining kit?”

“Shoe-shining prong.” Felix picked it up and moved closer to her. “You are unhurt?”

Sophronia nodded, still trying to clean her face.

After a moment, Felix took the handkerchief away from her and began to tenderly remove all trace of the black. Sophronia submitted to his ministrations in a momentary lapse of training. Her mind went blank, and she couldn’t determine how to extricate herself from the intimacy. She was not prepared for tenderness.

A small cough and rustle of leaves interrupted the tête-à-tête.

Dimity was awake.

Sophronia grabbed her blackened handkerchief from Felix and ran to kneel next to her friend.

“What happened?” wondered Dimity.

“You fainted.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“And then Felix… uh… Lord Mersey came to our rescue with a shoe-shining kit.”

“Sophronia, have I told you recently that your explanations often lack a certain panache?”

“Well, you will keep fainting during the best bits.”

Felix ambled over. “How are you feeling, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott?”

“Oh, perfectly topping, Lord Mersey. I’m always topping. And you?”

“Tolerably well. Shall we rejoin the rest of the party?”

“Jolly good idea,” said Dimity, accepting his hand up and his offer of an arm.

He offered his other arm to Sophronia. “Ria?”

Sophronia took it, not wishing to be churlish.

“Now, ladies, do we say anything of this to anyone?” he asked, not being trained by Mademoiselle Geraldine’s into the custom of never saying anything unless instructed otherwise.

“Of what, exactly?” wondered Sophronia.

“I fainted. I’ve no idea what you are on about,” added Dimity.

“Ah,” said Lord Mersey, “quite. I see,” just as if he did quite see.

Dimity and Sophronia looked at each other. Dimity nodded. Now, they both knew for certain that someone was after Dimity and Pillover. I hope their parents can shed some light on this situation, thought Sophronia. Or Dimity and I are going to have to take some seriously restrictive precautions. She was already planning ways to booby-trap their room of an evening.