Curtsies & Conspiracies

“By sabotaging my assignation?”

“I don’t know what they wanted, but they weren’t Pistons. No top hats.”

Clearly, Dimity preferred to believe in her own romantic visions than to see reason. “Oh, Sophronia, he was probably in disguise! Must you ruin everything?”

Sophronia couldn’t think of anything to say. Since she hadn’t determined what the strange men wanted with Dimity, she could hardly argue that she had protected Dimity from some sinister unknown. Perhaps one of them had been Lord Dingleproops, but she doubted it. Lord Dingleproops was the type to disguise himself, certainly, but he would dress up as a jester and still wear his top hat. Those men had been after Dimity, and they weren’t lordlings; Sophronia would stake her reputation on it.

As Sophronia climbed back to quarters, she reflected that perhaps it was best if Dimity didn’t believe that someone was after her, at least for the time being. Sophronia simply would have to keep an eye on her, whether she liked it or not. Of course, the question remained: who were they and what did they want with Dimity?

The 3rd test DIAMONDS FROM SOOTIES

Given that all her female friends were aloof and noncommunicative, Sophronia took refuge in the boiler room. There, fire and smoke turned scurrying workers into creatures of shadow, and boys not much older than Sophronia worked to keep the steam engines running and the airship afloat. Among these sooties, Soap stood out as the tallest, boldest, and shadowiest. Sophronia would have sworn he’d grown a foot in the months she’d known him. She was no petite lady herself, but Soap’s lean, muscled form towered over her, his wide face made all the more handsome by its perpetual smile.

“I hear you did particularly well, miss.” Phineas B. Crow—Soap for short, sootie by profession—attempted to look serious by concentrating on Bumbersnoot, but he couldn’t hide his inherent cheekiness. He also couldn’t hide the fact that he didn’t care one whistle for her high marks.

“Soap, I wish I had access to your sources of information.”

“You do, miss. Through me, a’course!” This comment was accompanied by a flash of glee from his dark eyes. “Here you go, Bumbersnoot.” Sophronia’s mechanimal was snuffling about in black dust, his clockwork tail tick-tocking back and forth in excitement. He expressed his delight at the small bits of coal Soap dropped from above by eating them—little puffs of smoke made his floppy leather ears flap.

“Didn’t bring Miss Sidheag south with you this time?” Soap prodded gently.

Sophronia gave him a look.

“What, even her? You’d think she’d grog to the fact that you’d been pickled.”

“Not Sidheag. Takes everything at face value, that girl. It’s one of the reasons she didn’t do well….” Sophronia trailed off, realizing what Soap had said. “Even you figured out I’ve been pickled?”

Soap took offense. He stopped feeding Bumbersnoot. “Even me? I’ve been around this here school long enough to pick up a few tricks.”

The mechanimal’s tail slowed to a steady tick-tock, tick-tock.

Sophronia looked at her friend: his buoyant demeanor, his skin so dark it was often difficult to tell where he began and the soot left off. “Are you happy here, Soap?”

“Why, miss, what a question.” Soap’s ready smile faded slightly.

Bumbersnoot, ignored, puffed steam at them, as if to say, What about me? No one asks if I’m happy. You know what would make me happy? More coal. Yoo-hoo, down here. You, with the coal! There was, of course, a pile of coal nearby, but Bumbersnoot wasn’t too bright. He was only a simple mechanimal, with very basic protocols.

“I mean, are you happy as a sootie?”

“Suits me well enough, miss. Decent hours. They let me get away with fooling about a bit. Not a bad life. Both my parents were slaves, miss. Or that’s what I’ve been told. Never knew ’em myself.”

“You’re quite smart, you know.”

Soap raised his eyebrows.

Sophronia took out a little book from her reticule. It was an early primer, meant for young children. She’d been teaching Soap to read lately. They used what bits of time they had and the light from one of the boilers. “I don’t mean book learning, but smart in other ways.”

Soap began to follow where the conversation was headed. “Your school don’t train them like me,” he said, “even if they took boys.”

“Bunson’s?”

“I ain’t got the brain for science, miss. Only other stuff. Naw, leave me here; it’ll do for now.”

“But…”

“Now, miss, just because you ain’t got any projects to work on, don’t be casting them pretty peepers my way.”

“Projects? What do you mean, projects?” Sometimes Sophronia couldn’t understand a word that came out of Soap’s mouth. She got the meaning underneath, mostly. How could she not, when his own “pretty peepers” twinkled at her something terrible? Flirt.

“Miss Sidheag and them others you collect. Them as needs a little help to make it through. Them’s your projects. I ain’t interested. Course, if you wanted to make me somewhat else…” He trailed off and waggled his brows suggestively.

Sophronia cocked her head and lifted the primer. “You sure you aren’t a project?”

“Aw, miss, reading’s one thing, but I can’t be a gentleman, and that seems part and parcel of that secretive work of yours.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

Soap was not to be persuaded. If Sophronia were to make an intelligencer of him, she’d have to do it without his knowing. “Well, I appreciate your sources; that’s all I’m saying,” she said.

Soap smiled, a flash of white teeth. “Speaking of which…” His eye had been caught by someone coming up behind Sophronia.

She whirled around to see a purposeful newsboy silhouette walking straight across the boiler room, like a delivery lad.

The engineering chamber was a mere hum of activity at night, unlike the crashing cacophony of daytime. Most of the sooties and greasers were asleep, and all of the officers, but the boilers always had to be tended. The flickering orange glow from the burning coal turned the cavernous room into a waltz of light. Sophronia adored it. Sooties trotted about, but none of them moved straight across the open space between boilers—they stopped to feed them. Only one person moved with such directness—Genevieve Lefoux.

“What ho?” said the scamp, dimpling up at them. Vieve was from above stairs; she belonged to Professor Lefoux, as much as she might be said to belong to anyone. But she was rather catlike about the situation. She never sat lessons and went wherever she pleased at whatever hour. Since she liked engines, much of her time was spent in the boiler room.

After the customary pleasantries, Vieve said in a sprightly manner, “Hear my aunt got you good, Sophronia.”

Sophronia cast the primer up at the ceiling in a gesture of appeal to higher powers. “You, too? Isn’t my business secret at all?”

“Well, I might have read the report. You made them allover sticky with the highest six-month marks ever. Good on you, Miss Poofy Skirts.”

“You turning against me, too?”

“Oh, I’m not miffed. Amused you had to go up against the brunt of Aunt’s charms.”

“She’s a dragon, your aunt.”

“Sing that! Now, about—oof!” Vieve stumbled as a sootie hurtled into her, knocking her over.

“Hey!” he yelled as Vieve bounced upright. “Watch it there, runt!”