She cleared the widest point of the airship, barely. She had jumped overboard at a point between balconies. A little to either side, and she would have landed with a splat instead of free-falling. It was not a graceful dive, more a frantic tumble. Thus, she was facing up when the whole forward section of the school exploded into flames—billowing orange gas and fire. The brightness of it lit up the sky, illuminating the carnage that had once been a friendly caterpillar-like dirigible.
Two balloons gamely tried to hold up the wreckage. In fact, as half the ship dropped away, the lighter burden caused what remained to bob upward. Until one of the balloons caught fire, flames licking at the oiled material.
Sophronia became occupied with her own problems, grabbing desperately for the deployment ribbon for the parachute. I probably should have held it when I jumped, like Monique.
The lights of the city below her were getting dangerously close. Sophronia finally found the ribbon and pulled. Something whuffed out behind her, and a moment later she jerked. Her bad shoulder screamed in pain, but she caught wind and was drifting instead of falling, like dandelion fluff upon a breeze.
She landed in someone’s backyard in the outskirts of London.
Sophronia was not ashamed to admit that she positively flopped. She sprawled back onto a damp patch of earth, among what once had been, before she landed on it, a vegetable box full of Brussels sprouts. She lay on her back watching the carnage she had wrought flash in the sky above her and smelled the cabbage-fart scent of fresh Brussels sprouts. All her brain could contemplate was the fact that, of all vegetables, she was rather fond of sprouts.
IN WHICH WE ARE ALL FINALLY FINISHED
When the school exploded above London that night in early January of 1854, there were fewer witnesses than there might ordinarily have been. Many were occupied with a mass mechanical shutdown. Those who did see, dismissed it as one more eccentricity in a very eccentric night. Few knew what it was that died. Those who did, set out to find where the school landed when it fell from the sky.
The werewolves got there first. By the time the others arrived, they’d snuffled through the wreckage and extracted Picklemen and flywaymen—some already tied up, some bloodied, some bashed, some burned. All were annoyed with life, except, of course, those who were dead. The werewolves stacked them neatly in three piles—dead, not dead, and snack-sized.
Conveniently, one of the dead Picklemen had turned ghost and proved willing to cooperate. After all, he had nothing left to lose. After the werewolves found a vast number of illegal mechanimals, the ghost explained the whole invasion plan. The werewolves sent off for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, various government representatives, the Staking Constabulary, and all manner of other authorities who might be spared from one mechanical crisis to see about another.
Soap was there. A wolf none of the others knew, a loner unwilling to fraternize with a pack. He hunted long after the others had stopped. His nose, although miraculous in its abilities, couldn’t find the one scent it was looking for. The scent that lingered with him even when she wasn’t near. So his hope turned to fear.
The hive’s rescue dirigible arrived, full of sooties and Mademoiselle Geraldine. The headmistress explained everything she knew, or at least pretended to, under the solicitous attention of various large gruff men. She made for an excellent front, in more ways than one, while her students and sooties quietly avoided questioning.
Even Monique showed up, a great deal later, after she had reported to her hive. It was a miracle she came at all. At first they thought it remnant loyalty to her old school. But then, after she filled in some details concerning the last of Sophronia’s adventure, she demanded the return of her airship. “That dirigible is my responsibility. I should like it back now.”
Since it wasn’t part of the investigation, the authorities permitted her repossession. She left, with a few sooties paid to help float, but with no more information about Sophronia’s survival than anyone else.
At which point, Soap panicked.
The skinny, black-furred loner wolf started weaving back and forth, a whine he couldn’t control keening out. The Staking Constabulary thought he might be mad, and prepared their silver to attack if necessary.
Soap thought he’d know. If Sophronia died, he thought, somehow he would be aware of that fact—feel it in his bones. But there was nothing, no clue, no message she’d left in the wreckage, just a few of her dresses and some bits from her room in a pile. Her scent was on one or two of the prisoners, their bonds were her handiwork, but nothing more.
Dawn was soon to come—Soap could certainly feel that in his werewolf bones. There was only one more possibility. So he left.
He was too far gone in beast to care that Dimity and Agatha stood sobbing to one side, clutched together, certain their friend had died. He registered his old enemy, Felix Mersey, crying, the charcoal smell of wet kohl from the lines about his eyes as it ran down his face. What right had he to cry? His father had survived, although both the duke’s legs were broken. Soap spared the duke a glance—the man who had killed him once was in the Bureau of Unnatural Registry’s custody amid mutterings of high treason. Wolf Soap found it all petty and inconsequential when his Sophronia was missing.
His beast brain could remember but one thing: Regent Square an hour before dawn. And dawn was coming. So Soap ran back into London as fast as supernatural speed could take him.
Sophronia extracted herself from the Brussels sprouts and thought about the time. She wondered what she should do and how she was going to get anywhere to do it. Her plan had finished with the ship. With no other ready options, she headed to Regent Square on the off chance that Soap would remember their meeting place—because really, what else was there to do?
She had to walk, and it was a long walk, because she hadn’t any money and no hackney would stop to pick her up—a roughed-up boy with two black eyes, a useless arm, and a slight limp. Perceptions, thought Sophronia as she hobbled along, really are everything in this world.
She didn’t quite make it in time. It was about half an hour before dawn when she finally stumbled into Regent’s Park. Sophronia had never been so tired, or so thirsty, or so hungry in her life. She tumbled onto a small patch of ground under a thorny bush and lay there, aching. Every bone in her body had something to say about the state of the universe, loudly and likely profanely. Her skin hurt all over, and her mind was pressed down with the weight of the lives she had taken. Like the mechanicals who had gone before her, she simply shut down.
Soap, who was running a pattern about the park, nose forward, found her sleeping. He entirely forgot he was still a wolf and licked her face all over.
Sophronia awoke to slobber and wolf breath.
She couldn’t have been happier. She wound her good hand through his thick black fur and rested her chin atop his ruff. Foolish boy, he wriggled about onto his back, tail wagging in an excess of delight. It was almost embarrassing, if it hadn’t been so cute.
Then Soap remembered himself—or at least that there was another half of himself to remember—and transformed. Only now he was naked, crouched on the ground next to her, and that really was embarrassing.
“Soap, what are you—”
And then they were both kneeling, and Sophronia was in his arms. Embarrassment didn’t really matter, for he was kissing her fiercely and that was awfully nice, although also embarrassing. Her lip had been split at some point and her face really did ache, but she hadn’t the strength to stop it even if she’d wanted to.
Eventually, he paused, tilted her back, and took a good long look at her.
“I thought you were dead.”
“Evidently not, or I’m a rather substantial ghost.”
Soap kissed her again, because he could, and because she wasn’t a ghost, although this time carefully on the uninjured side of her mouth. Sophronia liked that so much, she forgot about her injuries, for a short space of time, and kissed him back.
Finally he drew awa
y. Both of them were out of breath, as if they had been swimming in a cold lake. Though that was not at all how Sophronia felt.
“It won’t work, Soap. The dewan. My parents, society, no one will permit—”
Soap put his hand over her mouth. “Enough of that. Think of it as a challenge.”
Sophronia cocked her head.
“No, listen to me for a change. What you have forgotten is that we are both already outside of society. I don’t have to fit into your world, and you are already in mine. We share these shadows. What did you think would happen with your indenture? The dewan knows that you’re better in the field. You’d be wasted on marriage to some prince or duke. Why do you think he’s kept me secret? He wants us teamed up—intelligencers to the Crown, Geraldine’s trained and werewolf strong. I think we’d make a great pair, in more ways than one.”
Sophronia really considered what he was saying. And, shockingly, it seemed almost possible.
She stuck her tongue through her lips to lick his hand. With a start, he dropped it.
She looked into his eyes. “Marriage would not be possible. No office would provide a license, not to you and me, not for any bribe.”
“Did I ask to wed? I was rather hoping we could live happily in sin for a very long time. Lovers has a nice ring to it.”
Sophronia huffed out a startled laugh. “How very French. No one of any rank would receive me if they knew.” But she kind of liked the idea. I would never have to lose my freedom to a husband. I thought Soap would insist on being honorable, because he is such an honorable person. Silly of me not to remember he can also be sensible.
“Shadows, my heart. No one need know.”
“Endearments, already?”
If he could have, Soap would have blushed. “Too soon? I’ve said it so often in my head, it slipped out.”
Sophronia tried a tentative smile. “I don’t mind. It’s only, what do I call you?”
Soap’s face lit up. He knew she wasn’t trying to evade the conversation, that she liked the idea. “I’m rather partial to honey-sop piggle-wig.”
Sophronia raised an eyebrow.
Soap grinned at her. “You’ll come up with something, but it has to happen naturally.”
“Very well, dear… No, that doesn’t work.”
Soap wrinkled his nose. He had a very nice nose. “Most certainly not. Too stiff.”
“I’ll give it consideration, honey-sop piggle-wig.”
“Please don’t. When you think about things, Sophronia, they only get more complicated. This thing between us could be so very easy, if you let it.” He spread both his hands over her waist, daring to move them in a circular caress. Sophronia felt warmer than she ought where he touched her.
“If I choose you, Soap, I intend to honor the choice. We will have to determine, together, what that means.”
“I don’t want to hold you through loyalty, my heart.”
Sophronia cocked her head. “Yes, you do. Loyalty is the only moral compass I have. It’s our best foundation. And you have earned it.”
Soap’s face fell. “And what of love?”
Sophronia was uncomfortable with the intimacy of the question, but she also knew that this would be part of their future. One couldn’t live in shadows without some clarity. Soap would need to know her heart. Sophronia examined it closely. Am I strong enough to risk giving it to him?
“Yes, that, too. We always did belong to each other, didn’t we?” With which she finally took on the responsibility of allowing him to love her.
“Took you long enough to accept.” He’d heard the vow under her words.
It seemed almost ritually sacred to kiss at that juncture. It was also terrifying and overwhelming.
And because Soap understood her so well, he drew back, giving her time to realign her perspective on the way the world worked.
He changed the subject. “How did you get here?”
“Oh, you know, I happened to be in town. I hear the new muffs are in from France.”
Soap started to smile and then wouldn’t let himself. “Oh, but really, my heart, what did you do to yourself?” He whispered fingers near her eyes and nose, careful not to apply any pressure.
“It’s a very long story.”
“Two black eyes?”
“And a shoulder out of its socket. Not to mention various other assorted bumps and bruises. I did jump out of an airship, I’ll have you know.”
“And take on a whole mess of Picklemen and flywaymen, said Mademoiselle Geraldine.”
“Oh, good, she made it down safely? And Dimity and Agatha and the sooties?”
“All in far better condition than you, I’ll have you know. Even the appalling Felix Mersey. Not to mention the dratted Monique.” Soap’s lip curled on those names.
Sophronia sighed. “I’ll have to give her a different moniker. She did, kind of, save my life, in the end.”
“How awful for you.” He stroked her matted hair with one callused hand.
“I know!”
Soap became plaintive. “Do you think you might leave the world to right itself for a while now?”
“I don’t know if I can afford to. What’s happened since I fell from the sky?”
“I’ve not been paying the best of attention. I’ve been looking for you. We thought you died.”
Sophronia struggled to sit up on her own. “Dimity and Agatha think I’m dead?”
Soap nodded, nuzzling her neck on her good side. That did feel nice. It was the only part of her not injured.
But this was serious—her friends were in distress. “I can’t have that. Poor dears, we must go to them immediately.” She was also worried about the oncoming dawn. “And we should get you indoors.”
“Mmm. Quite apart from my werewolf condition, the city will be waking up soon. As it stands, we are both likely to be locked up for indecent exposure. The dewan is at the palace with the queen, has been since the mechanicals attacked. He’s no use to us.”
Sophronia was hesitant. “We could go to my sister’s, but I don’t think she could cope with my appearance. I’m certain she couldn’t cope with yours. I wouldn’t want to shock her into early childbirth.”
Soap agreed. “You know the nearest discreet location as well as I. Should we chance it?”
Sophronia was skeptical but willing. “At least I can be assured a bath and a nice change of clothes. We’d better go now, before sunrise. His drones won’t let us in without his approval.”
Soap stood, and Sophronia looked away quickly, as yet not entirely prepared. A girl can know too much about the man she loves, Dimity once said.
He bent and scooped her up.
“I can walk.”
“I must carry you to disguise my lack of clothing.”
“Oh, very well, although I suggest that when you pull the bell rope, you stop trying.”
Soap only strode off. Her weight was nothing to him, and he certainly moved a great deal faster than she could at that point.
The vampire himself answered the door, wearing a robe of royal-blue quilted silk with teal embroidered peacock feathers and gold lace trim, clearly near to taking his repose. Despite this, there was a hum of activity to the house behind him that suggested things were afoot.
“Kitten! Is that you? Horrid eye paint, my pet. You should fire your maid this instant. And here I was just about to retire. Yet I’m certain you are full of delicious stories and know everything there is to be known about everything. It’s too bad of you. Couldn’t you have come a little bit sooner, poppet?”
Sophronia gave a little smile. “Dear Lord Akeldama, I’m afraid I was all tied up. Or do I mean tying up? But please, may we seek refuge for the day? As you can see, I’m not quite the thing.”
Lord Akeldama’s eyes were hooded. “My dear girl, you aren’t in serious legal trouble, are you?” The hesitation referred to Soap. They had not been introduced, so the vampire could not address him directly. Lord Akeldama’s reluctance was to be expected. After
all, it wasn’t normal, even in his long lifetime, to have a naked black man carrying a badly beaten girl turn up on one’s doorstep.
Sophronia presented her bribe. “If I told you that the dewan is my patron and Soap here is the reason, would you let me in to hear the story?”
Lord Akeldama threw the door wide. “Do come in—I insist!—and your fine young man. Oh, my, is he wearing anything at all? Sophronia, did you bring me a present?”
“No,” said Sophronia, cheerfully. “I brought you a werewolf, but he entirely belongs to me.”
The vampire pouted at her and didn’t look the least surprised. “Selfish girl. Lucky but selfish.” However, he also stepped back so they could enter. “Welcome—yes, you are adorable—welcome.”
Soap, who had just walked through London carrying her and wearing nothing, looked embarrassed for the first time that night under the vampire’s appreciative gaze.
Still, an invitation from a vampire was never to be treated lightly. Soap knew enough to say, “Thank you kindly, my lord.”
“My very great pleasure.” Lord Akeldama closed the door behind them. “Of course I knew the dewan had a new pup.”
Soap started at that.
“Don’t worry, my beauty. Your secret is safe in my household. But the fact that my little kitten here was involved, that I did not know.”
Sophronia was ready to fulfill her part of the bargain. “Few do. Soap was injured badly, shot by a Pickleman. I leveraged my indenture to convince the dewan to bite Soap outside of claviger status.”
Lord Akeldama evaluated Soap again, with something more than appreciation. “And he survived? Remarkable. And quite romantic. You two make for an unusual pairing.”
Soap began to bristle at the implied criticism, his arms tightening around Sophronia.
“Now, now, little wolf, I like unusual pairings.” The vampire smiled without showing fang.
Soap relaxed slightly.
“Just back there, my sweethearts, into the drawing room. And now, much as I would delight in hearing positively everything else that has happened to you lately, I’m afraid I am about to drop dead. Bed awaits. Pilpo will look after you.” Without further ado, Lord Akeldama whisked up the stairs, seeking his private chamber.
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