Soap said, “I’m going to need to sleep soon, too. Sun isn’t as difficult for me as for vampires, but I’m young and it’s challenging. My heart, please don’t tell anyone else about me? The dewan wants it secret. Not only do I have to obey him, but it’s better for us this way.”
“I wouldn’t worry.” Sophronia made her voice as calm and reassuring as possible. “Lord Akeldama is like that. And he won’t talk. He never talks about important things.”
Pilpo appeared at that juncture. Sophronia had met him before. A lifetime ago, it felt like. He was dark skinned like Soap and dressed impeccably, as was always the case with Lord Akeldama’s drones. As if by magic, he offered up a beautiful brocade robe for Soap. Relieved, the werewolf put Sophronia down long enough to pull it on.
Pilpo let them into a large drawing room that was gorgeously—if not comfortably—furnished. This was clearly the hub of Lord Akeldama’s household, although empty at present.
“Where is everyone?” Sophronia asked as she and Soap made their way over to a small sofa.
They sank down on it gratefully.
“My lord has us all out hunting.” Pilpo flashed a beautiful white smile. “Except me, of course. A lot happened last night, and he expects to know everything there is to know by sunset today. I suspect you two will be most helpful in this matter.”
“No wonder he invited us in.” Soap settled himself on the couch. Then, because he had no manners, he curled up with his head in Sophronia’s lap.
She let him. Her lap didn’t hurt. And this way she could play with his hair.
Pilpo manfully ignored Soap’s feet on the furniture. “But first, what do you need, my dear? Food? Tea? Something stronger?”
Sophronia sighed with pleasure. The very idea that she was safe and could rely on this capable gentleman to see to her immediate needs was a pure joy. “Tea would be lovely. And, unfortunately, I should see a physician, if you have one you trust. Also, my friends think I’m dead. Could you send a message stating the contrary to Miss Agatha Woosmoss? I believe Lord Akeldama is familiar with the young lady and should have her address. She can tell the appropriate authorities that any rumors as to my demise are grossly exaggerated.”
Pilpo nodded. “It shall all be done exactly as you wish.” And went to fetch the tea.
By the time he returned, Sophronia was also asleep, leaning precariously sideways on the sofa, her good hand on Soap’s head where it nestled in her lap. They both looked very young.
Pilpo covered Soap with a blanket and placed a pillow so Sophronia would not awaken with a crick, and then went about putting as much as he could to rights before luncheon.
Sophronia awoke at noon, ravenous, and alone—but for a sleeping Soap—in Lord Akeldama’s blindingly golden drawing room. She managed to extract herself from her lover’s heavy head without waking him. This required no real skill, for he, like most supernaturals, slept like the dead during daylight. She found a little gold bell next to her elbow that tinkled sweetly when she rang it.
Pilpo appeared. “You’re awake? Good. Feel better? What would you like first?”
“I’ll take that tea I missed before, if you would be so kind? And some breakfast, please, if it’s not too late? And then, more than anything else in the world, I want a bath.”
Pilpo laughed. “Of course, my dear.”
Other drones were home now, and one of them appeared with a piping-hot pot of some gorgeous tea, a mound of bacon and eggs, a fried kipper, buttered toast, and a scone with raspberry jam. Sophronia ate it all. After that, Pilpo helped her up—she was quite stiff—and showed her to the bathing chamber.
Sophronia spent longer than she should soaking in the fabulous hot water, though it hurt at first and all her wound dressings had to be removed. Pilpo checked on her twice, to make certain she hadn’t fallen back asleep. The third time he appeared, eyes averted, and deposited a beautiful day dress on a marble statue nearby. He said not to bother doing up the bodice, as the doctor had arrived and would want to look at her shoulder. There were assorted filmy white underthings, but no corset, which was good, as Sophronia couldn’t have possibly done it up herself.
She struggled out of the tub and dressed with care. It seemed to take a very long time. The dress was dark teal silk, with black lace trim and a skirt of three tiers. It had a jacket with tiered sleeves that closed up the front, but even so, Sophronia wished for a lady’s maid. It had been chosen with care as easy to put on, but everything was a challenge with only one arm. Nevertheless, Sophronia was on her own, for Lord Akeldama didn’t keep female staff. She wondered where the dress came from.
The doctor waited for her in the dressing room. He was a genial elderly gentleman with an air of discretion, very little hair, and sad eyes. He did not ask how she had acquired her injuries, merely treated them with care and concern as to her resulting appearance.
“Such a pretty girl must, perforce, be left without scars.”
Certainly, he was exactly the kind of doctor Lord Akeldama would keep on retainer for his drones.
He left her with a cataplasm for her eyes, a sling for her arm—“Keep it on this time, young lady!”—and bandages for everything else. He then fastened her bodice for her, in the manner of a man proficient in fashion, because with her arm back in a sling she couldn’t do it herself.
Sophronia returned to the drawing room to find Pilpo in his element, entertaining a chattering gathering that included Lady Linette, Sister Mattie, Pillover, Agatha, several sooties, Smokey Bones, and, best of all, Dimity. Soap was still there as well. He was also still asleep.
Dimity ran to Sophronia, looking as if she very much wanted to hug her, but settling for cheek kisses and cooing noises. Despite her bath and visit with the doctor, Sophronia knew she still looked awful. From the thinly disguised horror in Dimity’s eyes, she suspected it was worse than even she could imagine.
“Oh, Sophronia, what you must have been through!”
Agatha followed, no less pleased, but not so effusive about it. She clasped Sophronia’s good hand briefly with her old shy smile. “Welcome the returning hero.”
“Oh, stop,” said Sophronia, charmed.
Pillover mooched after the two girls. He was grinning, of all absurd things, a wide genuine smile. Sophronia would never have believed it if she hadn’t seen with her own eyes.
Agatha seemed pleased with life. “Pillover is a hero, too, did you know?”
Dimity recovered her composure at that, enough to say, under her breath, “Oh, really. He’s no better than a mangel-wurzel.”
Sister Mattie, however, agreed with Agatha. “Indeed he is. Helped us to escape, he did. Bunson’s was in league with the Picklemen, as we suspected. Well, if not in league, at least complicit. Anyway, Agatha’s young man here helped to free Lady Linette and me.”
This worried Sophronia. “Oh, dear Pill, will it detrimentally affect your school standing?”
Pillover shook his head. “No, increase it. Bunson’s doesn’t hold traitorousness against a fellow. After this, I’ll have moved up to Reprobate Genius. One step closer to true Evil.”
“Where’s Vieve?” Sophronia asked, assuming that the little inventor would have been involved in any Bunson’s escapades.
Pillover shrugged. “Said she didn’t want to see large-scale destruction of her beloved technology. Said she knew it’d be necessary, that you’d probably see to it, but she’d rather not know the details.”
Sophronia wondered if Vieve had been thinking of the Picklemen’s mechanicals or if she was smart enough to have realized all along that the airship was the target. It hardly mattered, and even if Sophronia asked, Vieve wouldn’t tell her. Sophronia respected her all the more for that.
“I left Bumbersnoot with her to be fixed.” Dimity’s tone was questioning.
“Good decision.” Sophronia approved, especially as London was likely rife with anti-mechanical sentiment right about now. “So why’d you do it, Pill? I thought you didn’t enjoy adventure.”<
br />
“Did I say I enjoyed myself?”
Sophronia did not point out that he was grinning, nor did she say anything about the fact that he kept casting little sideways glances at Agatha.
“Happy to have you here, Pill.” Sophronia hid her own smile.
“Well,” groused Pillover, resuming his normal dour expression, “so you should be.”
Dimity tutted. “Heaven forfend you enjoy yourself, you wombat.”
Agatha said nothing, although she did look a tiny bit smug.
Dimity inched close to Sophronia and clasped her good hand fervently. “What happened after Monique left you? Please don’t keep us in suspense any longer. We were so worried.”
She led Sophronia over to a cluster of chairs around a tea table, some distance from the sleeping Soap. Sophronia chose a seat that allowed her to keep an eye on her werewolf. She wasn’t ready to let him out of her sight again. The bath had taken long enough.
Still full from her breakfast, Sophronia figured there was always room for more tea, and allowed Dimity to pour her a cup. Sipping gratefully, she leaned back and told them the story of the death of the airship.
“I do apologize, Lady Linette. There seemed no other way.”
Her former teacher shook her head, blonde curls bouncing. “We knew it was coming to an end soon, my dear. Geraldine’s girls, I’m afraid, are creatures of the past. Admissions have declined steadily over the years. No one wants their daughter to be an intelligencer anymore.”
“You won’t be starting it back up again?” Sophronia was saddened by this.
Lady Linette and Sister Mattie exchanged looks.
“Not as such,” Lady Linette explained. “Mademoiselle Geraldine now has a bee in her bonnet about starting a school for underprivileged boys, training them up to be physicians of all things. Professor Lefoux is intent on returning to France—she says England has gotten too complicated. Sister Mattie was muttering something about Cornwall, weren’t you, dear? I don’t know what I’ll do. Fortunately, I’m trained for pretty much anything.” She waggled her eyebrows, and for the first time, Sophronia noted that she wasn’t wearing her usual heavy face paint. “I am a mite exhausted by the work. I’ve been at this for three decades now.” She gave a delicate little shudder.
Agatha looked sober. “Thirty years is a lot of Sophronias to deal with.”
“My point exactly,” said Lady Linette with feeling.
A bell at the door drew Pilpo away, which was when Sophronia noticed how many drones had gathered to hear her story. It was a mark of how discombobulated she was that her guard was so far down. Some were entertaining the sooties at cards. It was hard to tell who would do better out of that deal. Smokey Bones had taken possession of a hassock near the coal scuttle, which was probably why he liked that particular spot. The drones no doubt approved of an animal so innately well dressed. They had brushed the little black-and-white cat to a glossy shine heretofore unheard of, and popped a tiny cravat about his neck. They cooed over him in a manner the sooties took as approval of not simply their cat, but themselves as well. It was lending an air of conviviality to the gathering, only improved upon by the fact that unlimited tea, scones, and sardines were on offer. Neither Smokey Bones nor the sooties had ever had it so good.
Sophronia supposed she should have been more discreet when telling her story, but Lord Akeldama probably knew most of it and could guess the rest, even asleep. Sophronia aspired to be like that herself one day. And the sooties deserved to learn what they had been party to. They’d suffered the whip for it, after all, scones or no scones.
Pilpo returned, trailed by Monique de Pelouse.
“I thought I should find you here,” she said.
“You’re better at your job than I suspected,” replied Sophronia.
“Nice to see you haven’t suffered too many ill effects, Miss Temminnick. I brought you the morning paper. You might be interested in the headline.” Monique flipped it open and read out: “‘Secret Society of Picklemen Exposed.’” Then she stopped and paraphrased. “Apparently, the popular press received irrefutable evidence of a secret society of elites engaged in treason and misconduct. Evidence came straight to them, notes in the leader’s own hand. My queen is a little upset that I missed getting hold of the Chutney’s notes and the intelligencer records.”
Sophronia gave her an arch look. “You can’t have it all, Monique.”
“Lord Akeldama may feel similarly.” Pilpo was looking at Agatha, who blushed faintly.
“Ah. You gave them to Dimity, then, I take it?” Monique was no fool.
Sophronia inclined her head.
Monique sighed. “Well, the repercussions are good so far as my countess is concerned. What with that and the rebellion last night, not to mention two reputed deaths, there is wide-scale public outcry against mechanical technology. Mobs have dug up the tracks all over London. People are ripping them out of their houses and piling them in the streets. There’s scrap metal to be collected on every corner. It’s a pity we couldn’t control it, but the Picklemen are shamed and disbanding, and that’s all my queen really cares about.”
She tossed the paper at Dimity, who caught it easily.
“Beautifully done, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott.”
Dimity saluted her with the paper.
There was a long awkward silence. Monique stood, poised. She showed no repercussions from the previous evening’s activities. Her skin was flawless. She even looked well rested. It was revolting.
Sophronia reached for her nose, wincing at the touch.
Monique stayed, expectant, her attention on Lady Linette. Monique’s posture was perfect, not a hair out of place. Her visiting dress was an expensive French design of printed blue muslin that looked almost like the pattern on Sophronia’s mother’s fine china. Her sleeves were wide and fringed. Perhaps the gown was a little too spring, but Sophronia realized with a jolt, they were headed into spring anyway. New Year’s was over.
A silent battle of wills occurred between Lady Linette and Monique.
The teacher nodded. “Very well. I pronounce you finished, Monique de Pelouse.”
The lovely blonde relaxed at that, as if she had been waiting a long time. Perhaps she had. Then, without another word, she strode from the room.
Lady Linette sighed. “Not that it matters anymore.”
Dimity said, bravely, “What about us, Lady Linette? Surely Sophronia deserves recognition, at the very least?”
Lady Linette gave a half smile. “She’s already finished, which I believe she knows.”
Sophronia nodded.
“And you and Miss Woosmoss as well, my dear. It was a brave rescue and a daring charge across the countryside on wolf-back. I could not have devised a more taxing exam.” Sister Mattie took pleasure in the pronouncement.
Lady Linette added, “Not to mention the initiative needed to seek help of a hive. Particularly after they once kidnapped you, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott.”
Agatha smiled. “We’re finished?”
Dimity looked like she wanted to cry. “We’re really finished? Mummy will be so proud.”
Lady Linette patted Sophronia on the knee. “We shall overlook that you destroyed my entire school, shall we? Just this once, my dear. Try not to do it again to any other school, all right?”
Sophronia took the recommendation to heart. “I’ll certainly try, Lady Linette, but I’m not making any promises.”
That night was remembered in infamy as the Great Pickleman Revolt of 1854 and among the untutored masses as the Mechanicals’ Uprising. No household in England ever again employed mechanized staff. Most mechanicals were willingly destroyed in the space of six months. The government hunted down the rest. Bumbersnoot, the only mechanimal to survive eradication, was gifted to Queen Victoria in a secret ceremony. He was specially exempt from destruction. Due to Vieve’s modifications, he became the Royal Alarm Dog, in case mechanicals rose up again. Queen Victoria grew terribly fond of the little chap, and through
him, dogs in general. As a result, the royal household kept a number of canines through the years, a passion that persists to this day. Rumor is that Bumbersnoot still rattles about, well loved and carefully tended, shedding small ash piles in Buckingham Palace—the old family retainer, just in case.
Poor Vieve never forgave England for the technological destruction. She stayed long enough to graduate with distinction from Bunson’s and then left in pursuit of further education at L’École des Arts et Métiers in France—still disguised as a boy. She eventually set up shop with her aunt in Paris, producing a respected line of domestic women’s gadgets, all of them highly functional and quite deadly. Sophronia, Agatha, and Dimity visited her establishment for all their needs—after all, ladies of quality always shop in Paris.
The school was demolished for scrap. There was no sign of Professor Braithwope, and no one ever saw him again. This was, perhaps, a good thing. If he survived, with so many kills under his cravat, even the most militant of hives would have called for his execution—he was no longer civilized. If, on occasion, Professor Lefoux returned from Paris, and took a long train ride, and then a long carriage drive far out into the wilds of Dartmoor, it was thought mere sentimentality for a life she had lost. If Swiffle-on-Exe heard rumors of a very odd hermit, no one connected the two. If, on the occasional evening, stories of that hermit wearing a top hat and waltzing with the rabbits percolated through the town, scaring schoolboys, he was thought no more than the local drunk. And then the local bogeyman. And then mere myth. For no one thought to wonder that their dancing hermit had lived a very long time, whot?
Mademoiselle Geraldine formally adopted Handle and saw him through medical training. Together, they immigrated to America—fewer vampires—where he wrote a popular, well-respected book in his later years entitled Plain Home Talk Embracing Medical Common Sense, directed at young ladies of quality. It went into multiple editions and allowed him to retire a wealthy man.
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