Manners & Mutiny

by Gail Carriger

  She missed him so much it actually hurt.

  TEA EMBARGO

  New Year’s Eve dawned damp and disgruntled, a soggy tea towel of a day. But by noon the rain had turned to mist, and by sunset it looked like there might be a clear sky over the evening festivities. The girls were delighted. Rain would keep them all inside the dining hall, but clear skies meant the squeak decks were open territory, and teachers could only chaperone so many couples at once. Mademoiselle Geraldine, proverbial apple cart almost overset by her heavy breathing, issued strict instructions that they were to avoid tête-à-têtes. But while the headmistress didn’t know this was a school of espionage, the other teachers did, and were looking at a long night of tea-related canoodling. Professor Lefoux was positively dour at the prospect.

  As the moon, almost full, popped up over the horizon in a cheery manner, Mademoiselle Geraldine’s girls glided into Swiffle-on-Exe to find the Bunson’s boys all standing, waiting, with flowers and other appropriate offerings at the edge of the goat path. Of course, Dimity and Sophronia weren’t waiting with the other ladies on the midship reception deck. But they did have good box seats. They watched it all from the comfort—it must be admitted the deck chairs were quite posh—of Professor Braithwope’s private balcony.

  “And so we glide in on the wisps of receding fog, emerging out of the white with the rays of the dying sun highlighting all our puffy majesty.” Dimity was moved by loss to muttering poetic twaddle.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Sophronia would have none of it. “We are a chubby caterpillar with delusions of balloon grandeur.”

  Forbidden to attend, they were nevertheless dressed for the festivities. Even Professor Braithwope had rediscovered a measure of his old dapper nature in a suit of deep-purple velvet with a lavender brocade vest and purple cravat. He sat, docile, between the two young ladies, knitting what looked like a tea cozy in the shape of a hedgehog. Bumbersnoot, wearing a black cravat, lounged happily at their feet. Occasionally he wuffed at Professor Braithwope’s yarn basket but so far showed no inclination to nibble it.

  “Sophronia, hush. I’m enjoying wallowing in a maudlin humor.”

  “Apologies, Dimity. Do carry on.”

  They watched the sooties crank down the massive staircase. Billowing steam wafted up. The young ladies milled about in excited agitation.

  “There they all are.” Dimity was very good at wallowing. “Like colorful fruit being steamed for the pudding course. I should have so liked to be a piece of fruit on that table.”

  “What kind?”

  “A peach, of course.”

  “Of course.” Sophronia privately felt Dimity more of the gooseberry fool at the moment.

  Dimity had optimistic plans to sneak off and visit the party, or at least one edge of it where Lady Linette and Professor Lefoux might not notice her. Dimity was never one to miss an event where tea cakes were on the line. Sophronia intended to try as well—after all, she was under orders to get information out of Felix. She couldn’t very well do that while on vampire nanny duty. Thus both young ladies had dressed in their best gowns. It must be admitted that their attire pushed the edge between ball and dinner dress, but since they didn’t have to pass any kind of inspection, they had both taken risks. Or, more to the point, Dimity had taken a risk and chivvied Sophronia into doing the same.

  Sophronia self-consciously tucked her shawl around her shoulders. Perhaps she had taken too much of a risk.

  Dimity caught her at it.

  “Stop twitching.”

  “I’m cold,” protested Sophronia, worried over the expanse of chest she was displaying.

  “Rubbish.” Dimity’s dress was equally low cut, but, as she put it, she hadn’t been blessed with Sophronia’s turnips. Admittedly, when compared with Agatha or Mademoiselle Geraldine, even Sophronia was a mere radish, but the dress she had on exposed everything but the tips, so to speak.

  Dimity’s gown was peach silk with multiple pleats about the neckline ending in scalloped lace. There was a black bow at the waist, as well as one on each shoulder. It was actually quite elegant. She had accentuated the simplicity with jet jewelry, black gloves, and black slippers. Normally, jet was only for those in mourning, but it was an ingenious pairing. All that black against the peach of her dress and skin made Dimity looked pretty and wealthy.

  Sophronia’s dress was very sophisticated, possibly overly so. She could hardly believe Petunia had purchased it for her. Sophronia had objected at the time to its being too grown-up. But her sister, who might have been cautious had Sophronia liked it, had advocated heavily once she saw how afraid Sophronia was of the cut. It had no ruffles, no pleats, no lace—nothing but a fitted bodice and a full skirt. Nothing to hide any sins of the figure. The fabric was what made it shine, a vibrant red with black brocade flowers. The short sleeves did end in tiny puffs, but that was it, except, of course, for the extremely low neckline. It was better suited to a lady twice her age and firmly married. However, Dimity thought they might as well go all in, as they expected few would actually see them. And Sophronia felt that if she was to wheedle information out of Felix, this dress was the best help she could get.

  They watched the young men board, picking out their particular acquaintances. Lord Dingleproops was there with Lord Mersey and the rest of the Pistons. Pillover trailed reluctantly at the back of the crowd. Both girls were delighted to find he was attending. It pleased Dimity, mostly because she knew he would be miserable. It pleased Sophronia because Agatha had been so unhappy at having to go to the party without them.

  They did not see Vieve among the attendees. Has she gotten into trouble? Worse, has she been exposed as female? Sophronia’s scalp prickled in fear. There was great reassurance in knowing Vieve was their inside agent at Bunson’s—not to mention her useful mechanical talent. If she had been compromised, they were all in trouble.

  Professor Braithwope leaned forward as if only now noticing they had visitors, his knitting needles continuing to click.

  “What’s that, then? First course?”

  “Fruit course.” Dimity grinned.

  Sophronia shook her head slightly. “It’s a tea party, Professor. They are coming on board for the New Year’s event, remember?”

  “Whoever heard of such a thing? One never serves schoolboys at a tea party. Too disruptive. Only the finest young ladies ought to be consumed, everyone knows that. Like yourselves. With a liver-and-egg butter sauce, of course.” The vampire regarded them each in turn, out of the corner of his eye. There was such a focus on their necks that even Dimity pulled up her shawl to cover the exposed flesh, although it conflicted with the much-vaunted neckline of her lovely gown.

  “Pity.” The vampire returned focus to his knitting. “I’m not hungry for either, whot.”

  The boys looked a treat. There wasn’t much leeway in the dress of a young man attending a tea party, so they were of a set. A few had gone to the pink, peaking up their collars and donning very tight and very loud plaid trousers and impossibly enormous cravats. These stood out among the rest like peacocks among the chickens. After all, Bunson’s was a school for evil geniuses, and scientists weren’t encouraged to experiment with fashion, only weaponry.

  The boys having boarded and the staircase retracted, the school rose slightly. It wasn’t going to drift off for an hour yet, in case there were stragglers. With nothing left to see and the night turning chilly, Sophronia and Dimity prepared to chivvy the vampire indoors. It had taken them an age to get him outside in the first place, so they were ready for a battle.

  “Come along, Professor, do,” wheedled Dimity.

  The vampire jerked to his feet, head cocked. He sniffed. “Broiled monkey.”

  “Later, Professor.” Sophronia opened the door for him.

  A cough at their feet interrupted the coaxing.

  Dimity squeaked as a small soot-covered face appeared by their toes. A sootie had climbed up to the bottom edge of the balcony and was peering at them through the rails.


  Professor Braithwope looked down, his mustache quivering like a hound scenting the fox. “And this one comes to the table burned and dirty? I think not. Fire the cook! What terrible presentation. Send it away and demand another, whot.” With which he drifted sedately into his chambers.

  Dimity assumed—quite rightly—that any lowbrow visitor must be for Sophronia. So she merely gave her friend a telling look, snatched up the vampire’s knitting, and followed him inside.

  “Yes, Handle?” Bumbersnoot tottered over to join Sophronia in looking down at their visitor. The little mechanimal seemed thrilled—rarely was anyone at his level. Perils of being a sausage dog, mechanical or no.

  The sootie grinned up at Sophronia. “You look mighty fine this evening, miss. Mighty fine, indeed.”

  Sophronia clutched her shawl to her bosom, realizing it was horribly visible when she bent forward to talk. “Thank you kindly.”

  “You got yourself a visitor groundside. Old friend. Says he made the trip special and you might want to hurry.”

  Sophronia nodded. “Drift-off is in an hour?”

  “That’s orders, miss, as they stand now. You know the Uptops—could change at any moment, and we can’t hold the ship for you. Not even in that dress.”

  Sophronia nodded.

  “You wearing your sproingy?”

  Sophronia fished her hurlie out of Bumbersnoot. There was just enough room to stash it and the obstructor inside him, what with Vieve’s modifications. She couldn’t wear them outright, they clashed with her dress. She strapped her hurlie on and considered the obstructor.

  “Will this take long, do you think?”

  “That’s rather up to you and the visitor, miss.”

  “It had better not. I’m not dressed for this. You’ll have to provide an assist? Up for it?”

  “Of course, miss. My pleasure.” No doubt he was thrilled by the opportunity to look down her dress the entire time. Why did I listen to Dimity?

  Sophronia hooked the hurlie grapple on the edge of the balcony, hiked up her skirts—much to the sootie’s delight—and climbed over the railing to drop next to him. She looked down to the ground directly below, and there, indeed, was a familiar figure, waiting patiently.

  Her skin prickled in a much less fear-driven manner.

  She kicked herself off to swing down and then in to catch a lower balcony. Handle unstrapped her hurlie from Professor Braithwope’s balcony and dropped it to her. It was always easier to go up the outside of an airship. Usually, for down, Sophronia utilized stairs and hallways inside, but with help, this method was fastest.

  She hooked and dropped again. Then had to wait while Handle climbed down and unhooked her. He had no hurlie, so his descent was all skill. Sophronia though he ought to be teaching the young ladies of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s lessons on climbing. Then again, climbing was part of his job. In addition to feeding the boilers, it was sooties who ran the rigging and repaired the outside of the balloons.

  She dropped to the lowest balcony, the level above engineering, and tried to estimate the remaining distance to the ground. Should be fine.

  One last unhook, reel in, and hook again, and she dropped the final length. She dangled about one story up, but considering who was waiting for her, she figured he could give her a lift back when she needed it.

  “Catch!” Sophronia unstrapped the hurlie from her wrist and let go, falling the remainder of the distance.

  She landed in his arms, easy for a supernatural creature to catch someone her size. The poufy skirts added cushioning.

  Dimity’s head poked out over the balcony edge far above.

  “Oh, really!” her friend yelled. “I leave you for five minutes to have a conversation and this happens? You are certifiably impossible.” Her eyes widened as she took in Sophronia’s position, wrapped in a gentleman’s arms. “And a strumpet!”

  “You chose this dress,” Sophronia objected.

  “Bunter!” said Dimity.

  “I’ll be quick, I promise.” Sophronia was not worried about being overheard, as everyone was now inside at tea.

  “Yes, I understand that’s part of the strumpet’s profession.” Even Dimity could be crass on occasion.

  Sophronia tried not to laugh. “Just keep him knitting!”

  “Thank you for your sage advice.” Dimity snorted loudly enough for Sophronia to hear, even on the ground. Or perhaps she imagined it, because she knew Dimity would snort.

  Sophronia turned in Soap’s arms to look shyly up into his dark eyes. “You can put me down now.”

  “No.” His smile was wide and his teeth were still startlingly white, but immortality had given them points where most humans had none.

  Sophronia had always loved Soap’s smile, but now it was more predatory than comforting. Fortunately, the twinkle in his eyes was the same.

  “Please?”

  Soap pretended to consider her request and finally set her gently on her feet.

  Sophronia took a moment to put herself in order, touching her hair and untucking and smoothing down her skirts.

  Soap’s eyes widened into saucers at the cut of her gown. She swore she could hear his breath hitch. It was ridiculously satisfying. Then, annoyed with herself and the dress, she wrapped the shawl tightly ’round her chest. I’m supposed to be putting a stop to Soap’s romantic notions, not be charmed that he finds me attractive.

  Caught up in reprimanding herself, she gave a startled squeak as he snatched her up into his arms once more, unbalancing and kissing her. No hesitation, no tentative touches, a full deep hungry kiss. It left her breathless and discombobulated, and even angrier at the dress.

  “Soap, we really shouldn’t.” Sophronia pushed herself away.

  Soap was panting a little. She was secretly delighted to find that he was just as affected as she. It would be horrible to be the only one.

  “I thought, after what happened when I died, that you loved me.”

  Sophronia winced and looked down at her hands. How to say anything to that without lies or heartbreak?

  “Oh, I forgot. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? To talk of feelings. Romance.” Soap brightened.

  Sophronia took the coward’s way out and switched topics. “What are you doing here? Is the dewan with you? Are you all right? Is he all right? Has something happened with the Pickleman situation?”

  Soap answered, ticking questions off with his fingers. “I came because I wanted to see you. The dewan is not with me. I’m well. He’s well. The Pick—”

  “Wait, he’s not here? But Soap, tomorrow is full moon!”

  “I know that.”

  “But you’re newly made! You can’t be parted from him at such a time, can you?”

  “I’m tired of being attached to his apron strings.” Soap looked more out of temper than he should over such a sensible comment. She was only thinking of his safety. He was almost growling.

  “Oh, sweet heaven. You’re not supposed to be here, are you? You came without permission. And you’re not yet in control of shift. How could you be so stupid? Where were you sleeping all day? You must have traveled to get here last night. Who guarded you?”

  A small figure materialized out of the shadows and put up his hand. No, her hand. “Um, that would be me.” Vieve.

  Sophronia turned her ire on the young inventor. “Do you know what an insane risk he’s taking?”

  “Don’t get all grumpy with me, termagant. What was I to do? He turned up, it was dawn, I couldn’t very well send him packing after sunup, now could I? Even I know a young werewolf can get seriously damaged under such circumstances. So I stuck him in the bathhouse.”

  “What?”

  Vieve shrugged in that very French way of hers. “It’s a boys’ school. The bathhouse is rarely used. Then I figured you two could have your smooch, disgusting, by the way”—Sophronia supposed Vieve was too young to think of romance as anything but revolting—“and we could pack him off tonight none the worse for it.”


  “Oh, did you?”

  “Yoo-hoo, don’t I have a say in this conversation?” Soap had calmed while they bickered.

  Sophronia turned on him. “Exactly why are you here now? And don’t prattle on about not being able to stay away from me. If that’s your real reason, you had better come up with an alternative or I shall box your ears, werewolf or no.”

  Soap took a breath. “The Picklemen have one or more intelligencers infiltrating your school tonight. Disguised as Bunson’s students.”

  “Impossible. Surely the professors would spot new boys.”

  “They’ve been vouched for by a wealthy patron.”

  “But why would the Picklemen want to attend our New Year’s party? It only a tea.”

  “The dewan thinks it’s to gather information of some kind, that it’s not very important.”

  Sophronia nodded. “You disagree with him?”

  Soap went oddly flat. “A pup does not disagree with his Alpha. Not if he wants to escape discipline.”

  Sophronia looked from him to Vieve. “What do they hope to accomplish?”

  Vieve said, “They could be after a piece of technology, something of my aunt’s, perhaps. She’s not always”—a pause while she considered word options—“ safe in her inventions.”

  “They did visit once before.”

  “They did? You didn’t tell us that,” said Soap.

  “I don’t work for the dewan yet.”

  “And what am I, chopped liver?” Soap paused. “Oh, chopped liver sounds tasty right about now.”

  “Soap, you are his get. I’m not stupid.”

  Soap looked hurt. “Does that mean you don’t trust me anymore?”

  Sophronia paused—did it? “If I had told you of the first infiltration in confidence, would you have reported it to him?”

  “Not if you asked me not to.”

  “Well, it’s pointless to discuss now.”

  “And yet it is in your nature to be dishonest, even with me.” He was angry.

  Sophronia was hurt, especially given how hard she had been working not to have to lie to him about her feelings. By all rights she should simply tell Soap that she didn’t love him, send him away with no hope of any kind of future together. In the long run, that would be better for both of them. And she could do it, too. She had the training. But I’d lose him entirely. He said there was no possibility of friendship. I’m weak, thought Sophronia. It is not the thought of Soap’s pain that keeps me silent, but of my own.