On the other hand, instructing him made Sophronia feel better. She was injured, but she had a plan.
Mademoiselle Geraldine woke up at that moment. She looked hale enough, except her skirts were hiked up in a manner no gentlewoman ought to hike, and there was a large bandage around one calf.
“Miss Temminnick, what do you look like?” was quickly followed by “We gave you up for lost. Now I see we were nearly correct.”
Sophronia was relieved, for Mademoiselle Geraldine could guide poor Handle through the steps of a surgeon’s dance. Fortunately, the headmistress did not flinch away from this duty. Even more fortunately, for Handle’s sake, Sophronia did faint during the shoulder adjustment and stayed fainted for the rest.
She awoke some time later to find her arm braced and bound against her side and her head wrapped. The bandages probably started life as a petticoat and were a bright lavender color with cream lace.
“Ah, good, you’re awake.” Mademoiselle Geraldine was sitting up and drinking…
“Tea?” Sophronia whimpered pathetically. Oh, glorious thing!
Handle, that scruffy angel of mercy, immediately handed her a cup. Sophronia sipped in a reverent manner. She didn’t complain that he’d put in a vast amount of sugar. Being a sootie, he rarely got sugar, and he likely thought he was spoiling her.
The headmistress reported in. “We put the shoulder back in and checked the nose, which wasn’t broken, thank goodness, just askew. You’ll have two black eyes, I’m afraid, and us with no raw meat to apply. None of the cuts were deep, so we dressed them with vinegar and one of Mathilde’s best poultices. They should heal fine. So your career is safe. The sootie boy here did very well.”
Handle was grinning, ear to juglike ear. “I never thought I had the healing touch.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine nodded. “Real skill there. You help get us out of this safe and sound, young man, and I’ll set you on a path to study medicine. You see if I don’t.”
Handle glowed with pleasure at the praise and the thought of a soot-free future.
Sophronia sipped her sweet tea and, much to her surprise, began to cry. Well, sob, really.
“Stop that!” ordered the headmistress. “Your bandages will get damp.”
Sophronia wasn’t certain if it was relief that her face wasn’t worse—she’d never thought herself a particularly vain person—or grief over poor Madame Spetuna. Perhaps it was simply residual emotion from a very trying evening. Or something like joy, at the prospect of one of her sootie friends making himself a good life out of this awful situation. More chance than poor Soap had before the bite.
The thought of Soap seemed to cause her shoulder to ache even worse, which made her cry harder. Which made her hurt more.
“I’m a wreck,” she blubbered. “Oh, this is so embarrassing.”
Handle sidled over and handed her a smudged handkerchief, his face scrunched in sympathy.
Sophronia controlled her emotions by turning on her observational eye. She noticed that Mademoiselle Geraldine had returned the obstructor. Handle had strapped it onto Sophronia’s good wrist. He’d moved the hurlie to that side as well, so both devices were on the same arm. Her sleeve had to be rolled up to compensate. It made her feel lopsided and unfashionable. Then again, what did she care for an exposed wrist? She was bloodied and bound and dressed as a boy anyway.
“What happened?” demanded Mademoiselle Geraldine.
Sophronia told her everything. Including Madame Spetuna’s voluntary spectacular demise. “Why would she do that? I might have been able to rescue her. Instead, I handed her a deadly wicker chicken.” She felt the sickening broiling acid of guilt, familiar since Professor Braithwope’s fall.
Handle gave her a soft bread roll.
Sophronia gummed it gratefully, eating slowly, in tiny bites, sipping the tea in between. It settled her tummy.
Mademoiselle Geraldine looked infinitely sad. “She was a fine intelligencer and a good friend, but she knew the risks. And she knew her duty. You can’t fault her for doing something you would have done in her place. She would have taken as many key agents with her as possible. And it’s likely she saw no possible extraction for herself. Death and glory rather than torture and ignominy. Much alike, you and she. You know, wicker chicken would be a good code name. Suitably innocuous and an ode to her.”
“You can’t rescue them all, miss,” added Handle.
Sophronia recovered enough to say, “Speaking of which, how did you get here, Handle?”
The sootie looked to the headmistress.
Mademoiselle Geraldine explained that Professor Braithwope had ejected two Picklemen out of the pilot’s bubble. Then she had taken a bullet to the leg during their squeak deck liberation. All four were now gone, thrown overboard with guns and ill intentions in tow.
Professor Braithwope had brought the injured headmistress to the rendezvous point and then left to find food, driven to hunger by her bleeding leg. He’d returned with Handle, whom he’d managed to rescue during a chaotic moment in the boiler room and fuzzily determined was necessary to their cause, although he mistakenly identified him as Lady Linette’s stuffed badger. Professor Braithwope safely asleep, Handle had fetched tea. They’d stayed holed up all day, waiting for Sophronia. Also, they needed the vampire’s help to do anything further.
Handle reported that the sooties were fine and in reasonably good spirits, having seen him rescued by the vampire. “None of us have much interaction with old fangs, but if we have anyone on our side, we’re grateful it’s him. After that first attack, we all assumed he’d been killed.”
“Handle,” ordered Mademoiselle Geraldine, “give Sophronia my grenadines. Keep some for yourself, of course, but I won’t be going anywhere soon and she’s got working legs and one good arm.”
Sophronia took a fortifying breath. The tea and food were helping, and Mademoiselle Geraldine was correct. There was work to do as soon as the sun set. Those attack mechanimals hadn’t yet been used. The Picklemen weren’t done. She had to gather her strength. She couldn’t stop now.
Handle handed over a stuffed reticule. Inside it were several of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s infamous fake pastries.
“What, what?” stuttered Sophronia, sounding not unlike Professor Braithwope.
“Small explosives,” replied the headmistress. “All of them. I used up several last night. These are the last. Handle has a few. He’ll show you how they deploy.”
“I don’t know about explosives, Headmistress. I haven’t had much luck with them, so far.” Sophronia was skeptical.
“Nonsense, young lady. You’ll do as you are instructed. Use these pastries as needed and do not be scared or ashamed of the necessity.”
“Yes, Headmistress.”
Handle showed her how they were activated, by depressing the decorative element on the top, be it cherry or icing twirl. Simple devices, in the end. And I always thought them merely beautiful representations of a very odd hobby. I should have known they were deadly as well as decorative. Everything at this school is both. It was practically the school’s unofficial motto. The official one being Ut acerbus terminus: To the bitter end. Madame Spetuna had taken that motto to heart.
“Tell me truthfully, Handle, how are the sooties, really?”
“Not bad, miss. We all know how to turn and shield the delicate bits. And, frankly, the whip-hand is not so good as he thinks he is.”
Sophronia searched his face, hoping he wasn’t making light of a bad situation.
Handle continued. “They need us to keep this boat afloat, so they feed us well enough. Won’t lie, it hasn’t been easy. We’re running her faster and harder than ever, and with a skeleton crew. Plus, we didn’t take on stores beforehand. They are pushing her. And us. But there are mechanicals to help with the heavy lifting—good ones, complex protocols.”
“Tonight,” promised Sophronia rashly. “I’ll get them all out tonight.”
“Even Smokey Bones?”
“O
f course.”
“Who is Smokey Bones?” demanded Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“Our cat, my lady.” Handle poured more tea.
Mademoiselle Geraldine didn’t seem to know what to say to that.
Sophronia took another deep breath. “I can only think of one option at this point. We are too close to London. We have to crash the school and use the soldier mechanicals to do it.”
Handle and Mademoiselle Geraldine both gaped.
The headmistress breathed out, “No!”
Sophronia explained. “The Picklemen have already used this airship to activate their updated mechanicals. That screaming noise you heard was my alarm to that effect. They needed our pilot’s bubble, and they needed to be high enough to send the signal through the aether. You ask me, they took out every major key-point mechanical within aetheric transmission distance. Staff mechanicals would have gone bonkers, too, but were mainly side consequence. Now they only need to pacify the capital, and the whole country is theirs. I think they intend to drop down and offload the attack mechanimals from our hold into the city streets. If I were them, I’d do it after dark, right when people start to feel safe from further attack from the domestic mechanicals.”
“Attack?” gasped Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“Or whatever the first part of the plan caused to happen. Domestics weren’t the target. They’re collateral. Infrastructure mechanicals were the target—train switches, station houses, government clangerclerks, record-room processing centers—that kind of thing. I overheard the Chutney himself before the chicken went off. It’s almost sunset, and I wager we’re sinking.” Words piled up, one upon the other, as if through the act of talking Sophronia was understanding it all. If she didn’t hurt so much, she would have paced the room.
Mademoiselle Geraldine and Handle were a gratifyingly riveted audience.
Sophronia continued, “Two stages of chaos—both requiring this airship to execute. No wonder they wanted the school so badly. They can’t be allowed to complete their plan. They simply can’t. There’s only one way to stop them, and that is to crash with their mechanimal army still on board. Preferably destroying the belly of the airship. The trouble is, how to do this without killing everyone else?”
Mademoiselle Geraldine was thoughtful. “I knew that pilot’s bubble would be a problem. Such advanced technology was always going to tempt thieves. Professor Lefoux often gets ahead of herself. And poor Professor Braithwope—what’s left of his tether is to this ship.” She added, “You’ll have to aim the soldier mechanicals carefully or everything will explode.”
Sophronia nodded. “Tell me how.”
The rest of sunset was spent drinking tea and strategizing on how one young woman could sabotage an entire dirigible.
Handle, who had a sootie’s affection for his ship, didn’t like the idea one jot.
Sophronia tried to make her case. “The Chutney is on board, alive, and in an unknown location. He has two men with him. There is also his right-hand man, a record keeper with dyed black hair, and some of the five flywaymen who may have survived the wicker chicken incident. And there are two runners still at large.”
“One runner,” corrected Mademoiselle Geraldine. “Professor Braithwope got peckish during our peregrinations.”
“He got one of the supervisors in the boiler room as well.” Handle looked rather sick at the memory. He’d probably never witnessed a necking before.
Sophronia wondered at the ethics of utilizing the primitive feeding instincts of an insane vampire in their cause. Is it justified? Are we harming Professor Braithwope further by allowing him to run amok or is this simply the way he is now?
“So that’s two still in engineering and one in the propeller room?” Sophronia crossed the appropriate dots off her map. “Approximately seven Picklemen and five flywaymen left. Some of them injured. I could maybe eliminate them in the space of a night—if I weren’t injured myself. But as things stand, I’m sorry. It’s better to destroy the ship.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine and Handle, odd allies, exchanged apprehensive looks.
“So long as you do it carefully. Let’s go over the plan again.” Mademoiselle Geraldine’s agreement was reluctant.
The sun set.
Professor Braithwope awoke and instantly tried to eat both ladies. They smelled of blood and weakness—Sophronia supposed he couldn’t be faulted. Poor Handle had no alternative but to give over his own wrist to quiet the beast. Fortunately, Professor Braithwope was in an amiable mood and retracted his fangs after only a snack. He had eaten his fill the night before.
This left Handle disgusted, upset, and weak from loss of blood.
“Stupid vampire!” shouted the sootie, wrapping his own wrist in bandages this time.
“Sorry, little man,” apologized Professor Braithwope. “You do have a pleasant char flavor to your skin, whot, with the added spice of smoke. Reminds me of the good old days of toast. I miss toast.”
Handle sniffed at him. “Go find yourself a Pickleman next time.”
“Pickled? I don’t think I should like that. Fresh is best, even toasted.”
“Never you mind,” interrupted Mademoiselle Geraldine when Handle looked like he intended to argue further. “Our apologies, Handle. You did not sign up for mealtimes.”
“No, I did not!” agreed the aggrieved Handle.
“Think of it as valuable experience for your prospective switch in professions.”
Handle was thoughtful. “Bloodletting?”
“Exactly.”
He was somewhat mollified.
Sophronia stood and tried to stretch. She ought to feel better after resting covered in Sister Mattie’s poultices, but every part of her still ached. Now all the little muscles, strained from hanging and climbing and falling, also hurt. She hobbled like an old lady.
“I’m going to check the lay of the land.” She headed onto the balcony.
They were flying quite low now, rooftops clearly visible although the moon was not yet up. At least with the moon no longer full, some werewolves are available this evening if Agatha manages to get ahold of them.
Ahead twinkled a vast number of lights. London.
Sophronia suppressed a shiver of apprehension. Tonight I crash an airship. On purpose.
She squinted into the lights. Was that…? Yes, a small dirigible was approaching them at speed, under cover of darkness, flying stealthily, a dark shape against the twinkling background.
Somehow, Sophronia knew that this was her friends. There was something about the way the ship weaved through the air—intent, stylish, almost a waltz. It stank of Geraldine’s training.
Sophronia unhitched the miniature crossbow from her belt. She took one of the valuable targeting bolts and created a satchel for it by weaving it through the lace edge of her red doily. Into this she stuffed a hastily scribbled note, torn off the corner of her map.
“Meet at soapy entrance. Bring this bolt back.”
Only her particular friends would know what that meant. Even if she was entirely wrong and that ship was full of enemy reinforcements, nothing bad would come of her message.
The crossbow was so small she only needed one hand to fire. But still, everything took twice as long as it ought. She’d have to remember that in her calculations. She took careful aim and fired the bolt at the side of the gondola section of the approaching dirigible, now clearly visible.
There was a distant shout, and then a pause, and then the ship dropped down and altered its approach. Success!
Sophronia limped back inside. “Change of plans! Handle, you are with me. We take out the propeller room and free the sooties there first. Headmistress, if you and the good professor would meet us outside engineering? He’ll help you get there.”
“What good could I possibly do?” protested Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“I believe we have a rescue incoming. If all works out as I hope, they will be meeting us just outside the boiler room hull.”
“Capit
al. How did you manage that, my dear girl?”
“I have capable friends,” replied Sophronia.
Handle said, “That our tea cake angel?”
“Dimity? Yes, I believe so. Or someone sent by her.”
“Good.” Handle went all cheerful. “She’s prime at pinching a tasty pastry.”
“Not quite certain how that skill set has any bearing on this situation,” objected Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“And yet how do we know it doesn’t?” reasoned Sophronia.
Handle only tossed one of the explosive fake pastries up into the air suggestively.
There was no one in the hallway outside their room. In all probability, the Picklemen were occupied with their invasion, in the storage room readying their attack mechanimals.
With no time to waste, Sophronia saw Mademoiselle Geraldine off, carried by a docile vampire in the direction of engineering. She and Handle headed toward the rear as fast as she could hobble.
Eerie and empty as the school had been before, it was more so now. All the mechanicals were gone, their tracks abandoned. Her obstructor remained unused. It was a worry, but also a relief, for it allowed them to move quickly. With the excitement of the hunt back on, Sophronia’s aches faded somewhat to the background. Or perhaps Sister Mattie’s poultices were finally taking effect.
They found the propeller room, which was much smaller than engineering, manned by six sooties with one Pickleman supervisor. The man in question sported a nasty expression and held a crop, rather than a whip, and a smallish gun.
Sophronia’s good arm was sound. Handle was enough of a boy to have hurled stones at random things in order to break them—as boys do. So when two fake pastries went flying, the world around that Pickleman exploded.
He collapsed, unconscious.
The sooties cheered, weakly but with real joy.
Sophronia trussed the Pickleman up with a strip of her shirt—she was running out of hair ribbons and curtain cords—and nabbed his gun. She gave his crop to a sootie with an equally nasty expression. He seemed delighted.
Handle explained the situation to his compatriots. They instantly shut down all boiler activity. Propeller work didn’t keep the ship afloat, just headed it in the right direction, but this would stall the approach to London. The great whump-whump vibrations of the propeller slowed. It would take a while for the heat to work out completely, but it was a start.
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