Curtsies & Conspiracies

The 14th test BALLS AND CHAINS

No one—at least no one who had anything to say about it at the time—noticed Sophronia climbing down. She made her way through the crowd, ending up between Dimity and Captain Niall. She noted with relief that Pillover was still there and nodded gratefully at Sidheag, who would have forced them into continued proximity with the werewolf.

Sidheag smiled back. Genuine pleasure lit up her long, masculine face.

Professor Braithwope’s body was bent in a most unusual way. Someone had removed the helmet of the aether-suit, and the vampire’s face was gray-green in color. His mustache was deflated and floppy.

Monique de Pelouse was bent over the vampire, her face a study in tragedy. Sophronia wondered if it was a calculated expression, intentionally revealing her intimacy with the vampire to other vampires present. Was she saying, in her best Monique way: I’m in the market for a new patron? She might as well have taken out a sign that stretched across Mademoiselle Geraldine’s midship balloon.

Lady Linette was barking orders. “Get those stairs down. Quickly! We must get him onto school grounds immediately!” Sister Mattie was pulling and rearranging Professor Braithwope’s limbs, attempting to get them back into alignment. Professor Lefoux’s normal attitude of strict severity was in place, but her hands shook as she attempted to remove the aether-suit.

Then Professor Braithwope’s eyes snapped open.

The crowd gasped in titillated horror.

The vampire’s skin was drawn back flush against his skull as he opened his mouth in a silent scream, showing yellow gums and the full length of his fangs. They were a stark contrast to his fragility, all that wicked strength in such a small, sickly man.

“Oh my,” whispered Dimity, “how monstrous!”

Sophronia inched closer to the vampire, trying to listen to the quiet conversation between his female attendants.

“Monique!” said Professor Lefoux. “You’ll have to do your duty.”

Monique, composed and regal, nodded and with a single lissome movement swirled off her cape. Without hesitation she pressed one of her wrists to the vampire’s gaping mouth.

He bit down, hard. Blood splattered Monique’s white skin.

The surrounding watchers inhaled as one.

Dimity, as was her custom, fainted.

Monique gave a delicate shudder but no other reaction.

Well, thought Sophronia, that secret is definitely out. It’s a good thing she’s having her coming-out ball and leaving the school, or there would be questions from her parents after this.

It could almost be thought romantic, if it hadn’t been so gruesome. A tiny teardrop of blood leaked out the corner of the vampire’s mouth; his eyes remained wide and staring. Behind him, the great staircase of the school cranked downward, white puffs of steam escaping into the night. The midship balloon was being inflated and the fake scaffolding put back into place.

“Pull her away,” barked Professor Lefoux, without looking up from the suit. “That’s enough blood for one girl to give.”

Lady Linette yanked Monique’s wrist off the vampire’s fangs and pushed her back.

Monique swayed.

The crowd murmured in concern, but no one stepped forward to help. Monique’s cronies and sycophants looked away guiltily. Even Preshea did not want to touch her.

Then, out of the crowd, came one of the other vampires. He was an impossibly handsome man, older than he looked, of course, but one to set any young lady’s heart fluttering. Even knowing he was a vampire. For some, especially knowing he was a vampire. He took hold of Monique gently, his hands soft and supportive on her shoulders.

“There, there, pretty little nibble.”

Monique looked up at him from dazed blue eyes. “Oh, thank you, kind sir.”

Sophronia tried to memorize the man’s face. He might be important.

“More blood,” barked Sister Mattie. “He will succumb otherwise. And he needs it now.” She was looking at Professor Lefoux.

“Look at this.” Vieve’s aunt was distracted, gesturing to some section of the suit. “It’s been tampered with! And the transmitter valve, it failed.”

“Never mind that now, Beatrice. He needs you.”

Professor Lefoux finally looked up. “What? Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“Oh, very well.” Professor Lefoux rolled up one sleeve of her serviceable gown and placed her wrist to the vampire’s still dripping fangs with an air of disregard.

The girls of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, the ones still sensate, sent up a gasp. The implication was unavoidable. Professor Lefoux was also a drone to Professor Braithwope!

Everyone’s secrets are coming to light tonight, thought Sophronia, wondering how she had missed this little facet of interteacher dynamics. I should have been a better observer. That must have been Professor Lefoux in the green robe the other night.

Feeling self-conscious but knowing now was the right time to do it, Sophronia stepped forward and whispered in Professor Lefoux’s ear.

“Professor, I hesitate to say such a thing, but I believe I saw Professor Shrimpdittle going into your lab alone last night. And he certainly hates vampires.”

Professor Lefoux’s sharp eyes turned toward her. “What are you about, Miss Temminnick?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Professor. Only letting you know, if there’s sabotage…” she trailed off.

Professor Lefoux, as if she could not help herself, glanced over the crowd, focusing on Professor Shrimpdittle. The boy’s teacher stood at the very back, looking as though he might run. His boyish face was equal parts shock and horror.

Sophronia stepped back into the throng.

Sidheag, supporting the fainted Dimity under one arm, asked gruffly, “What’s going on now?”

“Wait and watch.”

Eventually, Professor Braithwope stopped feeding. He still looked awful, eyes unfocused, and remained silent. He was lifted up by a group of dandies and carried on board.

Mademoiselle Geraldine pressed a large handkerchief to her trembling lips and trailed after, whispering brokenly, “But a man of such qualit-tay !” A few of the young ladies, overcome with sentiment, followed.

Professor Lefoux, without bothering to pretend weakness, tied Sister Mattie’s handkerchief about her own wrist, rolled down her sleeve and bent once more to examine the aether-suit. Eventually, she looked up.

“It has been tampered with, the guidance valve is not set properly. Meticulous sabotage, of the kind only possible from someone who knew how the suit worked. There is only one other person who could have done such a thing.”

“Well,” said Vieve, appearing at Sophronia elbow, “that’s not entirely true.”

“Vieve, you didn’t!”

“No, I didn’t, but I should like at least you to know that I could.”

Sophronia said, “Impossible child, better keep that to yourself.”

Professor Lefoux continued, “I am saddened to have to do this publicly, but Lord Ambrose, if you might be so kind as to seize Professor Shrimpdittle?”

The handsome vampire who had been consoling Monique looked at Professor Lefoux and then, with a curt nod, flitted supernaturally fast to the edge of the crowd, scooping up Professor Shrimpdittle before the man could even start to run.

“I object!” yelled the teacher, his eyes wild.

Sophronia felt suddenly unwell. She didn’t want to witness this, not after she had driven him to do it. Because of me, she thought, the suit was sabotaged. Because of me, Professor Braithwope could be permanently damaged. And now, because of me, this man will be punished for it. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to blame Vieve and her devilish bargain. Instead, she schooled her features, swallowed down the bile, and stood witness to her own actions.

“We object,” said one of the Picklemen in an autocratic tone. “Professor Shrimpdittle is a respected member of the Royal Society, not to mention a learned teacher.”

“He is also a noted vampire hater,” said Lord Ambrose, casually picking at his fang with a cravat pin while still holding Professor Shrimpdittle with his other hand.

The crowd separated. The vampires and their drones ranged against the Picklemen. The few ladies present, the remaining girls from the school, and Captain Niall held neutral territory between the two parties.

The potentate stepped forward, flanked on either side by two very large scruffy men. Captain Niall did a strange thing at the sight. He bowed, tilting his head and baring the back of his neck in a gesture of profound submission. Sidheag did the same. The scruffy men both nodded, accepting this odd behavior as their due. Their top hats, while fine specimens to the height of fashion, were tied beneath their chins, the black velvet ribbon stark against the white of evening cravats.

“Who are they?” Sophronia asked.

“The one with the mustache on the left is the dewan, the queen’s own werewolf and the potentate’s counterpart. The other one is Lord Vulkasin Woolsey,” explained Sidheag out the corner of her mouth.

“Is there anything you don’t know about werewolves?” Sophronia demanded.

“Nope. You try living with them for a few years running. They’re not exactly subtle.”

“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 adverse reaction to the aether itself. Even if the guidance valve had been working, he was too insane to activate it. Professor Shrimpdittle’s sabotage was irrelevant. And now Professor Braithwope is a babbling madman, and they aren’t sure if it’s the result of aetherosphere exposure, the fall, or a snapped tether.”

“Are they confident that’s exactly what happened?” Sophronia held on to her guilt.

“They should have made the suit impermeable to aether, if that’s even possible, but they only thought to try to salvage his tether. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s the people who sent him up there in the first place. It’s been concluded that vampires can’t go into the aetherosphere, ever. A major scientific breakthrough, so at least he didn’t sacrifice himself for nothing.” Vieve dimpled at her hopefully.

“But if the school could have followed his fall faster? If Shrimpdittle hadn’t… if I hadn’t tricked Shrimpdittle into…”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, Sophronia.”

“Will he recover? Will he be mad forever? Will he die?”

“They don’t know. Matron has never heard of such an extreme case of tether snap, even without the added aether exposure. There is no precedent. He’ll be put under guard, but he may never regain his senses. Or he could expire within the hour.”

Sophronia did not feel any better. She thought she might rush to Professor Braithwope’s quarters and offer up her blood. She felt she should admit her guilt to Lady Linette. She wanted to do penance. Instead, numb with horror, she allowed herself to be shuffled along to a ball.

In no time whatsoever, those who had been invited to Monique’s ball, a select group of almost half the school and all the visiting Bunson’s boys, disembarked. A veritable herd of hansom cabs awaited them.

Sophronia, Sidheag, Agatha, Dimity, Pillover, and Lord Mersey crammed into one together. Felix arranged it so he could sit between Sophronia and the door.

“How are you this evening, Miss Temminnick?” He was looking quite handsome. His evening dress was impeccable—crisp whites and silken blacks.

Sophronia could hardly believe such a man as this held her in genuine regard. “Well enough, Lord Mersey,” she replied, uncomfortable with his proximity. She could feel the warmth of the length of his thigh against hers, even through all her skirts.

“Still upset, Ria, my sweet? Your gentle heart moved by this evening’s calamity?”

Sophronia studied him from under her eyelashes. “Yes, I must admit, I was shaken. To see a man fall like that.”

Felix patted her gloved hand. “Not a man, a vampire, and they are made of stern stuff. You must rise above it.”

Unfortunate choice of words, thought Sophronia. “Oh, yes, thank you for such kind thoughts.”

“To be sure, Ria, my dear. You lean on me if you are feeling unwell. Don’t tax yourself this evening. And I demand the dinner set and the last dance, in order to better see to your health.”

Dimity, on Sophronia’s other side, stiffened at this audacity.

Sophronia pretended to blush. She couldn’t blush on cue yet, but she could pretend. She lowered her eyelids and fanned herself with her free hand. “Lord Mersey. You already have the third. That would be three dances. I think not. As to the dinner, I said I would think about it.”

“Well?”

“I’m still thinking.”

Felix looked appropriately chastised.

Such games we play, thought Sophronia, rather tired of the whole thing. As if I didn’t have to hedge and speak in code most of the time, I must now do it as part of regular social interactions. No wonder Mademoiselle Geraldine’s has such success training the female aristocracy to be intelligencers. It’s most of our life already. For some inexplicable reason, in a horse-drawn carriage on the way to a ball, sitting in close proximity to another boy, Sophronia found herself thinking of Soap. He never plays any games with me.

Felix was pressed against her side, but she found herself thinking of Soap’s long arm about her waist. She crushed the upwelling of warmth ruthlessly. Soap is a friend. I don’t want to destroy that. I don’t want to change us. Some small traitorous part of her whispered back. Then what do you want?

They arrived, and Lord Mersey gallantly helped them all to descend from the carriage. Sophronia was first, so that by the time he had finished, she was already making her way into Walsingham House with Dimity. Felix was left to escort Agatha or drop the girl’s trembling hand and run after Sophronia in a most unseemly manner.

Walsingham House Hotel was beyond lavish, and the Frond Court Tea Room was particularly grand. Monique’s family must be very wealthy or very optimistic, for no expense was spared. The entire venue was decorated in a gold-and-cream tea theme. There were cream roses nested in large gold sugar bowls. The everyday chandelier had been replaced with one of lavish crystal in the shape of a massive teapot. No one but Monique had been permitted to wear gold, and she glided, in regal superiority, among the attendees in their muted pastels. A string quartet, sufficient but not boastfully large, sat in one corner near a raised dancing area. Long, lace-covered tables arrayed along one wall groaned under bowls of golden punch and cream-colored nibbles. The punch was served in teacups, the comestibles on saucers. All the food was made to look like tea cakes, whether sweet or savory. This got a mite confusing, but everything tasted delicious.

Sophronia did not want to be impressed, but she was. It made her sister Petunia’s coming-out ball seem provincial by comparison.

Several guests had already arrived—enough young men to make up the numbers, some elderly ladies to act as chaperones, and a full service of flaxen-haired, arrogant fops who could only be Monique’s relations. As the room began to fill, Sophronia noticed a bevy of dandies, slightly older and more refined than might be expected, take up position near the punch. The vampire Lord Ambrose lurked to one side. Captain Niall stood in the opposite corner. He saw Sophronia’s group enter, his top hat tilted in Sidheag’s direction like an arrow of inquisition. Sidheag nodded at him shyly.

Having played the appropriate ode to Her Majesty, the band struck up a waltz. Titters of shock permeated the room, excitement from young ladies and disapproval from chaperones. To have a small band was elegance; to commence a ball with a waltz was very daring indeed.

Nevertheless, Monique’s first partner, Lord Dingleproops, led her gamely out onto the floor, and after a stanza or two, others followed. Lord Mersey accosted Sophronia, who gave him her hand willingly, despite her earlier reticence. He was the best-looking boy in the room and probably the highest ranking. With Dimity swinging happily around on some dandy’s arm, a man almost as sparkly as she, and Pillover doing his duty by Agatha, Sophronia felt she might as well take to the floor. Besides, she was tolerably certain Felix wasn’t getting the dinner dance, so she might as well take advantage of his interest. Even Sidheag was whirling about in the arms of a boy taller and gawkier than she.

Felix was an excellent dancer, his hand warm and firm at the small of her back. His frame was a little tight, drawing her in close enough for disapproval, but there was such a crush the chaperones did not notice. Sophronia looked up into his eyes for long moment before lowering her gaze and allowing him time to recover. He did seem a little breathless for a waltz that was limited in aestheticism by the size of the venue and the number of dancers.

It was for him to open dialogue, which he did after they had learned each other’s rhythm. “You’re a wonderful dancer, Ria.”

“Mademoiselle Geraldine’s takes such things seriously.”

“Ah. And how many ways do you know to kill me, while we dance?”

“Only two, but give me time.”

“You have lovely eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“What rot. They are a muddy green. What are you about, Lord Mersey?”

Felix sighed, looking genuinely perturbed. His air of ennui was shaken. “I am trying to court you. Truth be told, Miss Temminnick, you make it ruddy difficult!”

“Language, Lord Mersey.” Sophronia felt her heart flutter strangely. Am I ready to be courted?

“See!”

“Bunson’s and Geraldine’s don’t mix. We practice, but we don’t finish, not with each other.”

“It’s happened before.”

“You mean the Plumleigh-Teignmotts? Yes, but they both had to give it up.”

“Give what up?”

“Their training.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me, Ria. I’m asking you to let me court you.”

“To what end, exactly, if not marriage?”

Felix winced.

“I’m not willing to stop learning. Are you?” Despite her guilt over Professor Braithwope’s fall, as she said it Sophronia knew this was true. “As I understand it, we serve different masters.”

“Precisely why it might be fun.”

“I will not be used as some boyish excuse for rebellion.”

“You see what I mean? Difficult! I like it.”

“You’re a loon.”

“And you’re a silver swan sailing on liquid dreams.”

Sophronia giggled. “Stop that. This is getting us nowhere.”

“So may I court you?”

Sophronia looked over his shoulder, feeling dizzy. From the waltzing, of course. She stalled for time and then…

“Where’s Dimity?”

Felix was thrown by the sudden switch in topic.

“And Pillover! Where’s Pillover?”

Sophronia scanned the crowd frantically. There was the dandy who had been dancing with Dimity; he was now dancing with Agatha. The Plumleigh-Teignmott siblings were gone! Sophronia looked to the back of the crowd near the punch bowl. Lord Ambrose was also gone. Sidheag was still with her tall partner. Captain Niall lurked on the sidelines, his eyes on Lady Kingair with an odd expression in them. With no time to analyze any of it, Sophronia broke away from Felix.

“Are you leaving me in the middle of a dance again?” She’d done exactly the same thing to him the night they danced at Petunia’s coming-out ball. He grabbed for her arm. “I’ll stop being silly. I promise.”

“This is not a cut, Felix. I must go fix something.”

“Why is it always your problem to fix, Ria?”

“Because I see that there is a problem when no one else does.”

With nothing more to say than that, Sophronia Angelina Temminnick did the rudest thing she had ever done in all her life: she left a high-ranking peer of the realm standing alone in the middle of a waltz. For the second time of their acquaintance. Oh, dear, she thought, he might never forgive me.

Sophronia was just in time. She saw the hem of Dimity’s gown, a strikingly bold peach-and-brown pattern not unlike a sun-bleached tiger, disappear inside a private carriage outside the hotel. She could also hear the sound of muffled yelling.

The driver struck up the horses but not before Sophronia hiked up her skirts, ran down after them, and leapt up to the back step, a place ordinarily occupied by footmen in livery. It was not a perch designed for a ball gown, nor were any meant to stand there when moving at speed, but Sophronia held on. No one is kidnapping my Dimity!

The carriage careened through the streets at a dangerous pace, slowing only when traffic demanded. After a relatively short distance, they drew to a halt on a quiet domestic avenue. Sophronia jumped down and to the side, turning her head away from the carriage and pretending to walk along the pavement as if out for a stroll. Alone. In a ball gown. The door to the carriage opened behind her. She could not turn without arousing suspicion, so she proceeded at an unhurried pace until she was around the far corner of the street. Once there, she inched up close to the last house and peeked back around, cursing a fashion that dictated young ladies wear pale colors and big puffed skirts. She was undeniably visible.

Her position afforded her the opportunity to watch the carriage draw around to wait, having disgorged its contents. Sophronia ruminated. Lord Ambrose, who does he belong to? Is he a rove like Professor Braithwope, or is this a hive house? How do I find out? I don’t even know which part of London I’m in. A number of fashionably dressed individuals came and went, as if it were visiting hours. The visitors were not dressed for dinner, and they did not stay long. Sophronia observed for some three-quarters of an hour, hoping for an indication of… something.

Eventually, a young man in full evening dress sauntered up to the house. He had a nondescript face, good-looking enough, with a clean, straight nose and no mustache. He took off his hat to salute whomever opened the door. In the light cast by the hallway, Sophronia recognized him. He was the man who’d tried to get the prototype from Monique and the Pickleman at Petunia’s ball. The man from Westminster. Sophronia had thought him a government employee, but now it was clear that this man was a Westminster Hive drone and this was the hive house. Lord Ambrose must be a member as well. The hive wanted Dimity and Pillover. Oh, dear, I did hope it was the Picklemen. Vampires complicate matters, being all supernatural and hard to sneak around. So the vampires wanted to press matters with Dimity’s parents. The Plumleigh-Teignmotts must be the only ones who knew how to make the guidance valves. The vampires wanted to either manufacture and sell the technology or destroy it.

Sophronia was wise enough not to take on a hive alone and without preparation. Dimity and Pillover were on their own until she could return with reinforcements. Sophronia could only hope that her two friends would be of no use to the vampires dead. Oh, Dimity, please remember some of your training.

She turned her attention to hiring transport, but the roadways were quiet—not a single hansom to be seen. Then a fly came careening down the cross street, drawn by matched white geldings and driven by two dandies of the highest order. One might even have called them fops, their trousers were so loud and their collar points so high. Sophronia glanced away; she did not want to be thought a light skirt. She had no time for shenanigans.

To her horror, the fly drew up next to her.

“What ho, little miss!” yodeled one of the dandies. His hair was a lovely pale gold, his face almost iridescent in the moonlight. He wore an outfit of silver and royal blue, accented with pure white.

The other, a young man with ebony skin like Soap, although with none of Soap’s streetside aura, looked to his companion. “My lord, we are very close to Westminster. Should we be stopping in their territory?” His outfit was all soft peaches and dove grays with cream, a perfect compliment to the other’s clear colors.

“For a brief moment, I think, Pilpo, dear. They are accustomed to my sport.”

“But, my lord…”

The gold-haired dandy smiled at Sophronia, showing a hint of fang.

I spend my whole life without vampires, and in the space of one year I’ve met far too many.

“One of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s girls, methinks,” he said. “You have the aura.”

Sophronia blinked up at him, shocked.

“My dear child, did you think you and yours were the only players?”

Sophronia narrowed her eyes in the direction of the hive house.

“And Westminster,” the vampire added, confirming her suspicions.

Sophronia said, “And Bunson’s, and the Picklemen, and the potentate, and now—who, my dear sir, are you? If you will excuse my asking directly.”

“Oh, I’m not important. Would you like a lift, little lavender bud?”

Sophronia considered this. Lavender bud?

The vampire dandy said, “Normally, my dear dewdrop, I prefer not to interfere. It’s so much more fun to observe. But even I’m loathe to leave an innocent young lady alone and entirely without protection on the streets of gay London-town.”

Sophronia thought on the matter. She might be getting herself into more trouble, accepting a lift from a strange vampire—well dressed though he might be. But he wasn’t threatening, and Dimity and Pillover desperately needed her. Besides, this man was well-informed. Perhaps he might engage in some lucrative conversation.

With a nod, she allowed herself to be helped in by the other dandy, who took up position on the footman’s perch of the fly, allowing Sophronia to sit next to the driver. Said driver gave her a charming, if fanged, smile, and whipped the horse into a trot.