Curtsies & Conspiracies

thought Sophronia, she ought to be better at hiding her emotions. Then again, acting was Lady Linette’s speciality.

“You are a scamp, aren’t you, whot?” said the vampire, not relaxing. “How much did you hear?”

“Not much.”

Sister Mattie said wisely, “A little lovage is a dangerous thing.”

“I think you mean knowledge,” corrected Vieve.

“No, I do not.” Sister Mattie was very opinionated on the subject of herbs.

Quicker than the eye could follow, even had it been broad daylight, the vampire reached out and grabbed Vieve’s ear.

“Ouch!”

“What did you hear?” he repeated, sounding much more vampirelike than Sophronia had thought he could. His mustache even managed to quiver with malice.

“Something about a technology, and whether they were interested or not. And how many.”

“Anything else?”

Sister Mattie clucked. “Now, now, Professor, don’t damage the girl.”

Vieve began to struggle. The vampire lifted her by the ear. She struck and kicked out. “Stop it, sir! There’s nothing more, I promise.”

That’s odd behavior, thought Sophronia. Not odd for a ten-year-old girl, but Vieve rarely acted like an actual ten-year-old.

Vieve began to whimper and scrabbled more, raking at the front of the vampire’s chest. “Lemme go, that hurts!”

It’s quite a show, thought Sophronia, but it’s definitively a show. Vieve was no more an actress than Sister Mattie. What is she up to?

“You realize I will have to report this transgression to your aunt?” The vampire set Vieve down, still angry.

Vieve sullenly rubbed her abused ear. “I suppose so.”

“Oh, you do, do you? You’re too young to have transgressions. Now, here, wrap this handkerchief around that finger and come along.”

With that, the two professors, trailing a protesting Vieve, walked the long stretch across the warehouse floor and left, shutting the door behind them.

The smell of blood, all that propeller noise, and Vieve’s whining had effectively hidden Sophronia’s presence. She wondered if the same trick would work on a werewolf. I must really learn more about the limits of supernatural abilities. She sent a thought of thanks after Vieve. I guess that’s a fair exchange for betraying my sootie visits to Dimity and Felix.

She was mystified as to why the girl had thrown such a tantrum. She felt around the floor where the vampire had shaken Vieve. Sure enough, as she patted, she happened upon the key to the shed. Professor Braithwope had put it into his waistcoat pocket, and Vieve had thrown her fit in order to pinch it for Sophronia. Blast it, Sophronia thought, now Vieve is one up on me and I owe her! I shall have to put some serious thought to getting rid of Shrimpdittle so she can go become an evil genius.

Sophronia put the key in the shed door and turned it slowly. The bolt clicked over, but if the cargo was that important, there would be more than a lock guarding it. Inside Sophronia could just make out that the shed was set up like a lady’s sitting room. There were multiple low couches, a very ornate chaise longue—all brass fittings and cream brocade—and fifty or more embroidered throw cushions. There was even a tea trolley near the door, complete with teapot and a plate of small cakes. She had no doubt those were from Mademoiselle Geraldine’s collection. Sophronia was not fooled by all the detail; no one set up a shed like this unless they were trying to hide something in plain sight. She checked the doorway for traps. She ran her hand cautiously along the jamb on each side and down the center for a trip wire. Nothing. Most atypical.

Cautiously, she moved into the room.

The ornate chaise across the way emitted a puff of steam from under its brocade ruffle and whirled to life. It had an affronted aspect, as though it were a mother goose and the decorative pillows strewn all about were its eggs.

The chaise charged Sophronia, who leapt to one side, bounced up onto a couch, and, in lieu of any other weapon, grabbed one of the cushions.

The chaise whirled on one of its legs, tassels flying. Its gilt decoration and upholstery disguised copious elaborate mechanisms. It faced Sophronia again, skittering from one side to the other, unable to jump up after her and unwilling to charge and break the other couch.

Sophronia waived the pillow at it.

The chaise puffed smoke out a back slat and waved two tassels with obvious menace.

Luckily, it didn’t seem to be able to sound the whistle alarm like a maid mechanical, nor the trumpeting blast like a soldier mechanical, but it was not going to let her out of the shed, either.

Its protocol probably dictates that it hold infiltrators here and not allow them to escape until someone checks. I could be at this all night.

Sophronia glanced around. There was no way out except the door by which she’d entered, and the chaise had that defended. She couldn’t see any weapons mounted on the angry furnishing. In fact, it seemed nothing more than a rather cushy—albeit autonomous—couch. Nevertheless, it looked as though it would crush her if she went for the door. It was certainly fast and heavy enough.

Sophronia considered firing her hurlie and swinging over the chaise and out like a circus acrobat, but there was no hooking point. Plus, she would not have gotten what she came for: the information Professor Braithwope and Sister Mattie had extracted from this room. There must be messages stashed somewhere in the arrangement of the shed.

They were at an impasse, Sophronia and the chaise longue.

She feinted left and the sofa followed. She feinted right. It mirrored her on the ground. She made as if to throw the pillow, and it huffed out smoke in indignation and reared on its two stubby back legs, fighting the air with it forelegs like an angry horse.

Sophronia frowned. They had been taught various forms of secret communication—quilting, knitting, crocheting, and lacework code. Perhaps the embroidery on the pillows conveyed information from active intelligencers trained at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. If it contained communiques from London, this would make for important cargo indeed.

Ignoring the enraged chaise, which was holding position, Sophronia squinted at the cushion she held. It was too dark to make out any of the crewelwork. The code was probably contained in the colors and numbers of threads as well as the details of each image. It’d be impossible to interpret the meaning without a companion cypher book. Perhaps Sister Mattie had the cypher memorized and that’s why she’d been along. Whatever the case, there was no point in Sophronia’s stealing a pillow, tempting as it may be. Sophronia suddenly remembered that Vieve had loaned her the obstructor. She wasn’t certain it would work on a mechanical without a track, but it was worth a try. She aimed at the perturbed furniture and let loose a silent blast. The sofa froze. It suffered this indignity with an aura of perturbation. Sophronia dropped the pillow, jumped down, and then leapt onto another couch before the chaise came back to life.

It whirred into animation, let out a puff of affronted smoke, and whirled to charge Sophronia at her new location.

Sophronia blasted it again and repeated the process until she perched precariously atop the tea trolley, which sat closest to the door.

She hit the chaise with one last obstructor blast before swinging herself around the jamb, crashing open the door with both feet, and landing on one knee in the warehouse beyond.

The sofa clattered back into motion and came after her but was confined to the shed. It stopped in the doorway, glaring at her and shaking threatening tassels—if an object without eyes can be said to glare. Sophronia felt sorry for the chaise longue, but she wasn’t going to risk being caught in order to mollify a gaudy piece of furniture.