Curtsies & Conspiracies

“Shush,” said Captain Niall, coming out of his bow.

The dewan said, his voice gravelly, “You have an accusation to make, Professor Lefoux?”

Professor Lefoux looked up from the aether-suit. “I do.”

Professor Shrimpdittle struggled. “He bit me!”

One of the Picklemen instructed, “Say no more, Algonquin!”

Shrimpdittle was wild-eyed in desperation. Lord Ambrose lifted him as if he weighed no more than a lady’s muff, and carried him forward, depositing him into the even stronger embrace of Lord Woolsey. Vulkasin looked mean, even for a werewolf. His mouth was a hard line, and there were no smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“I had to protect myself!” cried Professor Shrimpdittle, wiggling futilely in the werewolf’s grip. “I had fang marks on my neck!”

“Poppycock,” said the potentate. “Professor Braithwope would never bite without invitation.”

“Shame on you,” said Lord Ambrose, “to cast aspersions on a vampire who has recently risked so much for his country!”

“Hear, hear!” cried the vampires in the crowd.

“Lies!” screamed Shrimpdittle, spittle spraying from his mouth. “All lies!”

One of the other Picklemen shook his head. “Stop now, Shrimpdittle.”

But the man was beyond reason. “I had to stop him! I had to.”

Lord Woolsey had heard enough. His lip curled. “I arrest this man in the name of the queen, for sabotage and attempted murder. You will let me know, Captain Niall, how the fallen vampire fairs. Whether I must change the charge to murder?” He clearly did not care either way. Vampires and werewolves might not like each other, but when it came to running of the country and preserving the good name of supernaturals, they always found common ground.

Captain Niall saluted the other werewolf. “Sir!”

Sophronia closed her eyes involuntarily. Vulkasin was one of the nastiest-looking supernatural creatures she’d ever seen. What have I done, delivering poor Shrimpdittle into his clutches?

“Any challenge?” The dewan looked over at the crowd of Picklemen.

They murmured briefly among themselves.

“Bad form,” Sophronia heard one of them say, “confessing like that. Very bad form.”

Finally, the oldest of the lot tilted his hat politely at three of the most powerful supernaturals in England and said, “We will, of course, provide legal counsel, but we cannot object to the arrest. It is justified. He will be immediately removed from all teaching responsibilities.”

With that, Lord Woolsey and the dewan walked away. Lord Woolsey carried the frantic Professor Shrimpdittle under one arm like a rolled umbrella.

Sophronia glanced at Felix’s face. The boy was shocked, but he did not look over at her, so he must not suspect her involvement.

Pillover, on the other hand, was glaring at her. “He really was one of the better teachers. It isn’t fair! Take it back, Sophronia!” With that, he grabbed his sister, still in a deep faint, and stormed off to the airship—half carrying, half dragging Dimity.

Sophronia, still worried about their safety, gave Sidheag a lips-compressed head tilt of encouragement.

“What am I,” grumbled the Lady of Kingair, “the nanny?” But she trotted after the Plumleigh-Teignmotts. She might have been a grumpy old thing, but she liked Dimity and she trusted Sophronia’s instincts.

Vieve, on the other hand, glanced up at Sophronia with shining eyes and said very softly, “All this for me? You’re too kind.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Sophronia, riddled with guilt. “I ruined one man and by doing so nearly killed another, all so you could go to school. You had better earn the sacrifice.”

“I shall be brilliant,” said Vieve with confidence. “What happened up there?”

“The blasted guidance valve failed. Or the professor was too crazed to remember to trigger it. It was awful. It was as if he went mad. And when he fell it took our ship forever to respond.”

Vieve tried a smile. “Don’t worry, both the professors will be fine.” She had all the optimism of a child.

Captain Niall, supernatural hearing and all, stared down at Sophronia and Professor Lefoux’s niece with a suspicious look. Apparently unable to fathom why or how Sophronia might orchestrate the visiting teacher’s mad act, he simply sighed deeply and said, “Why did I get involved with this kind of finishing school? Espionage is not for werewolves.”

Vieve said, pertly, “Boredom, sir?”

Captain Niall cuffed her ear gently and wandered off.

Lady Linette began marshaling the girls back on board. “Some of you,” she reminded them, “have a ball to dress for!” That got them moving with much greater rapidity than anything else.

Sophronia, truth to tell, was having an internal crisis. She hadn’t meant to drive Shrimpdittle to such lengths, but it was her fault. She had convinced the poor man that Professor Braithwope had bitten him. She had driven him to sabotage the guidance valve in the aether-suit. If Professor Braithwope died, she was to blame. Are character assassinations always this awful? she wondered. Will I have to learn to live with such consequences all the time? Am I really cut out to be an intelligencer, if this is part of it?

She responded like a mechanical to Lady Linette’s instructions.

On board the ship, everything was forgotten in the excitement of a ball. Girls rushed between chambers, rendering gown judgment and borrowing accessories. Only Sophronia stayed worried about Professor Braithwope’s condition.

Vieve showed up in their parlor, damning and approving the state of hair fobs and follies with great authority for a girl who only wore boys’ clothing.

“No, Dimity, you should leave yours as loose as possible but still up in a ladylike manner. It’s a real scorcher, your hair. Best display it to maximum efficiency. Agatha, try curls. No, bigger curls. Bigger!”

Monique and Preshea emerged from their room, and everyone stopped and gasped appreciatively. The two girls looked truly charming. Monique was all tall blonde elegance, with Preshea the velvet night to her moon. Blast it, thought Sophronia, they look so good I’m coming over poetic. How humiliating.

“Gold brocade?” said Vieve’s little voice. “A bold choice for the first gown of the Season.”

That broke the spell, because Monique turned sharply, squeaking due to the tight bodice of that gorgeous gold gown, and threw her fan at the young girl.

Vieve laughed, batting it away. “Oh, very ladylike. Aren’t you all grown up?”

Sophronia was wearing her new sage dress with the evening bodice and the fancy overskirt. Her hair was up, though not very done, and her jewelry was minimal—paste pearls borrowed from Dimity. She looked lovely in her simplicity, or so Dimity insisted. “Like a fresh green sunflower sprout.”

“I look like a sprout?” Sophronia pretended offense and tried to join in the excitement. But she felt distant and alone. She kept seeing Professor Braithwope’s blank eyes and broken form.

Vieve came to stand next to her. “Aren’t they a sight?”

“Who?” Sophronia was a tad short with her friend.

“All of them. You’d think this ball the most exciting thing to ever happen ever.”

“When a few short moments ago a vampire fell from the sky?”

Vieve turned, tilted her cap back, and looked out from under it at Sophronia. “You may have arranged matters, but the actions of others are not your fault. You know that, yes?”

“How is he, Vieve?”

“We should talk in there.” Vieve gestured casually to Sophronia and Dimity’s room.

As soon as the door was closed, she said, “I overheard my aunt and Sister Mattie chatting with the potentate and Mr. Giffard. Despite Shrimpdittle’s tampering, they don’t think that was the cause of Prof B.’s condition. Giffard said the vampire went crazy the moment they entered the aetherosphere. One second he was standing there in his suit, the next he was gyrating around the deck as though on fire. It was as if he had an