Etiquette & Espionage

LESSON 14: ON INTERMINGLING THE CLASSES

Professor Braithwope took on some of their weapons training, giving them tips on how to wield a cane versus a parasol versus an umbrella, and the correct application of each to the skull or posterior as occasion demanded. Like Captain Niall, he seemed particularly pleased with Sidheag’s abilities in this arena.

“Some slight advantage to being raised by soldiers.” After lessons, Sidheag was self-effacing about the extra attention.

“So sad there don’t appear to be any other advantages.” Monique sniffed.

Sidheag’s shoulders slumped.

Sophronia and Dimity exchanged a look and caught up to the other girl, one on each side.

“Don’t let Monique bother you. You know how she gets,” said Sophronia sympathetically.

Dimity was more direct. “She’s a pollock.”

Sidheag looked back and forth between the two of them. Then she shrugged. “I don’t intend to be here much longer, regardless. She may do as she pleases.”

Sophronia decided at that juncture that she’d had enough of Sidheag’s recalcitrant nature. She’d put up with it for months. Preshea and Agatha were hopeless. But Sidheag had the makings of a decent friend if she would only open up a bit. Sophronia grabbed the taller girl by the arm and steered her out onto a balcony, rather than to their next lesson.

“What are you—?” The Scotswoman was clearly startled.

So was Dimity, who, with a little eep! noise, followed.

Sophronia braced herself, put her hands on her hips, and faced Lady Kingair. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s did not encourage unequivocal confrontation under any circumstances. But Sophronia had a feeling that it was necessary with Sidheag.

“You must stop being so afraid of us,” she said.

Of all the things Sidheag had been expecting, this was clearly not one of them. The taller girl actually sputtered. Finally she managed, “Afraid? Afraid!”

“Sophronia, what are you doing?” hissed Dimity, backing away from both girls.

“Sidheag, whether you like it or not, you are stuck here for years. Slouching about like a grump won’t get you anywhere. You might as well learn what is being taught and attempt to get along with some of us.”

“It’s all chattering behind one another’s backs. I dinna ken how females manage it.”

Dimity said, timidly, “Like it or not, Sidheag, you are actually a girl.”

“For my sins.”

Sophronia had an idea. Perhaps Sidheag simply wants to be included in something. With a guilty look at Dimity, she asked, “How good are you at climbing, Lady Kingair?”

Sidheag was startled by the change of topic. “Do ya ken that’s what I mean? Why ask me an obscure question? Why not tell me forthright what you think we should do and why it might help?”

Sophronia wondered, what with Vieve skulking about, how she ended up at a finishing school surrounded by girls who would rather be boys. Well, except Dimity, of course.

Dimity said, even though the conversation had already moved on, “What’s wrong with liking girly things? I like petticoats and dancing and perfume and hats and brooches and necklaces and—” Her eyes glazed over slightly as she contemplated sparkles.

She seemed likely to continue in this vein for some time, so Sophronia interrupted her. “I have someone I think you should meet, Sidheag. By way of a coal supplier.”

Dimity blinked. “How could coal possibly help, Sophronia? Are you cracked?”

“Have faith, Dimity. Well, Sidheag, can you climb?”

“Of course.”

“Tonight, then?”

Which was how Sophronia ended up introducing Lady Kingair to a group of sooties.

“Good evening, miss!” Soap grinned at her as she climbed up through the hatch. She’d tried to visit once every other week ever since the school had gone to gray. Soap, as a result, was only becoming more and more familiar, and more and more captivating. Sophronia would rather she didn’t enjoy his company so much—he was so very dirty, and so very unsuitable, and so very boy, but there it was: liking him couldn’t be helped.

“Good evening, Soap, how’s the boiler room treating you?”

“Topping, miss, topping! You’ve brought a friend. You’ve never brought a friend afore now. I figured you didn’t have any. Save us, a’course.” He chuckled.

“This here is Miss Maccon. Sidheag, this is Soap, and these are the sooties.” Sophronia made a wide gesture to include both the small collective hovering around Soap and the others scurrying back and forth behind him. She didn’t give out Sidheag’s title, afraid Soap and the others might be cowed by rank.

Sidheag didn’t object to the demotion. She’d climbed up through the hatch and inside and was looking around with eyes as big as saucers. “What is this place?”

“Boiler room, miss. Ain’t it grand? Lifeblood of the ship down ’ere. How-d’ye-do? I’m Phineas B. Crow. But most calls me Soap.”

Sidheag grinned at him. A real grin, with no caution or stiffness to it. That’s more like it, thought Sophronia.

While Soap pointed out the wonders of the boiler room to their new visitor with great pride, Sophronia turned to the other sooties. She emptied her pockets of the treats and nibbles she’d filched at high tea the day before, passing them out to the waiting group. It had taken her a few visits to realize the sooties were not, in fact, fed so well as the students, instead subsisting mainly on porridge, bread, and stew.

She pretended to be fully absorbed in distributing tiny lemon tarts so that Soap could work his inexplicable charm on Sidheag. No one could help but like Soap. Anyone not immediately set against him for the color of his skin or his station in life was bound to enjoy his company. And Sidheag might be many things, but Sophronia didn’t think her particularly bigoted.

The tarts were Dimity’s idea of reform. Sophronia had agreed to distribute them to the sooties so long as Dimity agreed not to try anything else altruistic. Nevertheless, Dimity had watched her creep out that night with an expression that was part fear and part jealousy. “Why take Sidheag, but not me?”

“But Dimity, you can’t climb.”

“I could try!”

“And you don’t like getting dirty.”

“I could wear my oldest dress.”

“And you aren’t interested in boiler rooms.”

“But they clearly need my help! If I am to be a proper lady I must practice charitable endeavors as soon as possible. I want to be good.”

“Be sensible instead!”

Dimity had only pouted.

So Sophronia was stuck passing out lemon tarts. She was paying so little attention to Sidheag and Soap that when the scuffle started, it took her a moment to react. They were fighting! Oh, no, did I misjudge Sidheag?

But a quick observation proved the fight was not with any real intent.

Sidheag and Soap were squared off, fencing, each with a stoking pole and a fierce expression. They were almost matched to each other by height, and they were also causing a stir of excitement. The sooties about them began to place bets, wagering the lemon tarts Sophronia had taken such care to distribute fairly.

“What are you two up to?”

“This is brilliant, Sophronia. Did you know this boy knows proper streetside fisticuffs?” Sidheag’s dour face was animated with delight.

“Does he?” Streetside, but he lives in the air?

“Dirty fighting. It’s capital! Look at this!”

Soap ducked in under Sidheag’s swing and kicked her ankle.

Sophronia was shocked. One is not meant to ever kick during a fight! It isn’t gentlemanly, isn’t proper, isn’t done! “Soap, that’s unscrupulous!”

Soap stopped and turned to grin at her. “Yes, miss, but it works.”

While he was distracted, Sidheag poked him in the side with her pole.

Soap let out a woof and doubled over.

Sidheag came up next to him, and after he managed to straighten, threw a companionable arm around his soot-covered shoulders. She was more relaxed than Sophronia had ever seen her. “It makes sense. Why should we fight like gentlemen? After all, as you keep reminding me, Sophronia, we aren’t gentlemen. We aren’t even soldiers. We’re supposed to be intelligencers. We should learn to fight dirty. We should learn to fight any way we can.”

Sophronia tried to put her doubts aside and be sensible. It was more difficult than she thought. “That’s reasonable, I suppose. But kicking?”

“Well, miss, not to be rude, but you ladies aren’t sooties or soldiers. You don’t have much in the way of arm muscle. You ought to be kicking more; you’ve got more power in your legs, don’t ya? And you’re usually wearing them sharp-toed boots.”

Sophronia nodded. “Good point. But we’re also wearing lots of skirts.”

“Could get special boots made with metal reinforcements and attachments,” said Sidheag.

“Sidheag Maccon, did I just hear you mention designing a fashion accessory?” Sophronia made her tone all-over appalled, but she was thinking, Vieve could do something along those lines.

Sidheag grinned. Another one of those genuine smiles that made her look, if not pretty, at least less plain. It crinkled up her remarkable caramel eyes and softened her normally harsh features. Sophronia, at that moment, decided that the idea to bring Sidheag among the sooties was a resounding success.

But then a looming shadow appeared above them and said, “What’s this, what’s this?”

“Greaser—scatter!” yelled Soap.

Sophronia and Sidheag did as directed, running hard alongside the sooties down and around the back of one of the coal piles and squeezing into a crevice.

Soap, who was a noble idiot, intercepted the greaser.

“He isn’t going to get booted off school grounds for this, is he?” Sophronia asked, her heart sinking.

“What, Soap? For stopping and engaging in some mock swordplay?” One of the other sooties scoffed.

“So long as they didn’t mark you ladies as Uptops, the most he’ll get is an ear-boxing,” added another.

“Greasers like him. He keeps us all in line, and he works harder than any two of us put together,” explained the first.

Sophronia and Sidheag both let out sighs of relief.

Sidheag turned to her. “This is fun!”

“Finishing school’s not all bad, now, is it?”

“It’s not fair. I’m your first friend here! Why is it you persist in skulking off with Sidheag all the time?” Dimity was clearly trying not to whine.

“I hardly persist; we only go off once a week or so.”

“And you two keep giggling together about things.”

“I do not giggle without purpose. Lady Linette says you should never misapply a giggle. And Sidheag never giggles at all.”

“Well, it’s definitely not fair.” Dimity was perched on the edge of her bed, looking down at her feet sadly.

“She’s been helping me with fighting techniques.”

“I could use extra fight training.”

“Dimity, you don’t even want to learn. You told me you decided to entirely give over that subject. That you really only wanted to be a lady.”

Dimity sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

Bumbersnoot, who was snuffling around the bed frame looking optimistically for a stray lump of coal or perhaps a small spider he might incinerate, came waddling over.

Dimity patted him on the head, and he blew a little blast of smoke out one ear.

Sophronia nibbled a fingertip in thought. “I tell you what—how about you help me with etiquette in court and ball settings? You’re much better at remembering the order of precedence than I.”

Dimity brightened.

Which was how Dimity and Sophronia ended up doing extra practice in the evenings. After some initial reticence, Sidheag joined them. Dimity managed to recover from her jealousy and, as a result, attacked the Scottish girl with her customary rapid-chatter teasing, which prodded Sidheag out of her awkward ways. In exchange, Sidheag started showing Dimity some of the easier knife tricks. No blood, of course. Nothing further was said about mysterious late-night jaunts.

“I don’t feel like I’m really contributing to our little study group,” Sophronia said to Dimity one night before they went to sleep.

“Don’t be silly, Sophronia; you’re the best of any of us.”

Sophronia could feel herself blushing. “I’m not!”

“ ’Course you are. We simply haven’t covered your subject yet in classes.”

“Oh, really, and what’s that?”

“You see opportunities. And you learn things and combine them in ways the rest of us don’t.”

Sophronia contemplated this. “I do?”

“I wager you’ve made a million connections in that brain of yours that I’ve never even considered. You say things to teachers that I know you’ve never told me. You’ve gone places on this airship I don’t even know exist. Then again, you aren’t always the most ladylike about it.”

Sophronia remained silent.

“For example, your two best petticoats are missing. They vanished the night of the play.”

“You noticed that?” How embarrassing. If Dimity noticed my lack of proper foundation garments, why, anyone else might have as well—Monique, or Professor Braithwope!

“I always notice clothing. I can’t imagine you sat around all evening in this room alone that night, either.”

“But…!”

Dimity lay back on her pillow and sounded self-satisfied. “I know you think I’m only paying attention to the etiquette side of our training, but I can’t help picking other stuff up along the way. I may want to be a lady, but I’m learning how to be an intelligencer whether I like it or not. And you are my closest friend.”

“So you spy on me?”

Sophronia could only just make out the movement of a shrug under Dimity’s covers. “I’m not Monique. I’m not going to use it against you.”

“She hasn’t done anything to me directly since she turned me in.”

“I know. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Yes. I think she’s still trying to get a message off the ship. Luckily, she’s as stymied as I am.” Sophronia felt, rather fancifully, that they were lost forever, floating in the mist. Time had taken on an atmospheric quality.

“Do you think she knows that we know?”

“I certainly hope not.”

The two girls went silent.

Finally Sophronia said, “You really do care about clothing and fashion, don’t you, Dimity?”

“Very much. It’s important—even Lady Linette says it’s a method of manipulation. You can dictate what people think of you simply by wearing the right gloves, not to mention jewelry.”

Sophronia was lost in remembering that second flywaymen battle. “What would you say of a man who went floating in fine evening dress and a top hat with a green ribbon about it?”

“Run,” Dimity answered instantly. Her voice, normally full of bright fun and mockery, had taken on a completely sober tone.

“Why?”

“I don’t know about you, Sophronia, but I’m certainly not ready to meet a Pickleman face-to-face. Not yet.”

“Ah, of course. And what, exactly, is a Pickleman?”

“You don’t know?”

“How would I?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you’re a covert recruit. You seem to be so very much one of us.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“Careful—wouldn’t want Monique finding out you like it here. She’ll make it her business to get you turned out. Anyway, Picklemen are sort of in charge of all kinds of important things. Not exactly legally, and rarely nicely. They like to collect money and power. That’s pretty much all I know. Oh, and their leader is called the Great Chutney.”

Sophronia’s eyebrows arched. “Well, if you say so.”

Dimity sat up, looking worried. “Do you think Monique might be working for them?”

“No, they’re clearly backing the flywaymen, or employing them. And remember, Monique refused to cooperate. If she were working with them, why the theatrics in the road? Why not just hand over the prototype? Why hide it at my house?”

“So if she’s not working for them and she’s not working for our school, who is she working for?”

“Herself? Her family? I don’t know—the vampires, maybe? Even the werewolves. Or perhaps one of the teachers is a traitor. We already know she has one of them defending her.”

Dimity looked nervous. “Are you sure we should be involving ourselves? Isn’t this something for the adults to sort out?”

Sophronia gave an evil little grin. “I’m thinking of it as training. Besides, if the prototype is at my house, I am involved. Monique involved me.”

Dimity only nodded. “I still don’t like how quiet she’s been. We should be on our guard.”

“Agreed.”

Dimity’s warning came none too soon, for having finally given up on trying to send a message, Monique turned her unwelcome attention once more to being a plonker.

Sophronia was minding her own business and running late to luncheon, as was her custom. She’d yet to learn the advantage of punctuality. As she told Sister Mattie the third time she was late to household potions and poisons, nothing interesting happened until after an event commenced. Her natural tardiness was compounded by the fact that she was trying to find time for all her classes; extra work in fan languages and how to plan a five-course meal; visits to sooties; and practicing with Sidheag and Dimity when no one was watching. There never seemed to be enough time.

So she was late to the dining hall, dashing in through the door, when someone stuck out one booted foot and she went flying.

Luckily, they’d learned some tumbling. Sophronia went head over heels, landing in a crouch on one knee with the other bent in what might be considered a mockery of a full court bow. It could have been graceful, except she tore her hem as she tried to rise, tripped to the side, and crashed into an unsuspecting senior girl.

By that point, the entire school had turned to watch her, and a wave of giggles rippled through the hall.

Sophronia was absolutely mortified. She’d been trying so hard to learn to at least pretend to be proper and well-mannered.

Mademoiselle Geraldine said, “Miss Temminnick! Is there a problem?”

“No, Headmistress.” She could feel herself blushing furiously. It reminded her of the incident with the dumbwaiter and the trifle—only now she cared. Stupid finishing school, she thought, teaching me to care about such things.

“Where is your poise, young lady?”

“I seem to have misplaced it on someone’s boot, Headmistress.”

Professor Lefoux glared at her. “What was that? Excuses? Don’t be smart, young lady.”

“No, Professor. Apologies, Headmistress.”

Lady Linette said with quiet firmness, “Miss Temminnick, go back out and reenter the room properly.”

“Yes, my lady.” Sophronia turned and marched from the room, and then came back in. This time she kept her eyes firmly to the ground, even though she knew everyone was watching her and they had recently had lessons in how to walk with one’s nose in the air.

She saw a boot twitch as if it wanted to head out and trip her a second time. The boot was of peach-colored kid leather, with pink ribbons for laces and a shockingly high heel. The person attached to it was Monique de Pelouse.

Monique smiled sweetly at her and then turned and said in a very loud voice, “Isn’t it so intelligent of Miss Temminnick to wear blue? With her complexion, it really is the only safe color. How unfortunate the dress couldn’t be cut a tad more modern, poor dear.”

Sophronia, stewing gently in annoyance, went to sit at the other end of the table. Why does Monique impose upon us, she wondered, just for torture? I know she’s been demoted, but I’m certain she could still sit with the senior girls. Give them the benefit of her scintillating conversation.

“Don’t worry, Sophronia,” said Monique, “I’m sure no one saw your gaffe.” At which Preshea tittered obligingly.

Sophronia didn’t point out that Monique had tripped her, as she knew it would only sound defensive.

Dimity said, “You’re not usually that clumsy.”

“No, that’s my role,” added Agatha with a shy smile.

Sophronia looked down the table at Monique. “You’re right, I’m not.”

Monique wasn’t finished, either. After tea, distracted by the prospect of a quadrille lesson with Mademoiselle Geraldine during which they had been instructed by Lady Linette to try passing secret messages without being caught by the headmistress, Sophronia and the others neglected to notice that Agatha wasn’t with them. The poor thing wasn’t exactly a friend, but they did try to keep an eye on her, as they might Bumbersnoot.

When Agatha finally joined them, some ten minutes late to class, her eyes were red. Mademoiselle Geraldine gave her a stern talking-to on the subject of tardiness, which started her crying.

“Now, dear, there is no use wasting tears on me; I’m not a man. Besides, you are clearly not the kind of young lady to cry with any form or grace. Your skin becomes blotchy.”

Monique slid into the room gracefully at that juncture and glided to the back of the assembled girls without being observed. She was used to manipulating Mademoiselle Geraldine.

“Yes, Headmistress,” Agatha replied, trying to stop her tears.

“No, no, not with the sleeve. Dear, how many times do I have to tell you? You must never wipe any part of your face with your sleeve. That is what a handkerchief is for. And even then we dab. Ladies dab! Where is your handkerchief?”

Agatha fished about hopelessly in her reticule.

“No handkerchief, Agatha Woosmoss? What kind of young lady of qualit-tay are you?”

“I am sorry, Headmistress.”

Mademoiselle Geraldine turned to face the class. “Ladies, where do we always stash a spare handkerchief?”

“In our décolletage,” sang out everyone in unison.

The headmistress smiled brightly, tossing her red curls and thrusting her own substantial décolletage forward as if in agreement.

“She could stash a whole cotton mill in hers,” Sophronia whispered to Dimity.

Dimity pursed her lips to stop herself from laughing.

Mademoiselle Geraldine continued, “Show me, ladies!”

Obligingly, all the girls reached into their cleavage and pulled out squares of fine muslin. Being only thirteen or fourteen, few had sufficient cleavage to fish handkerchiefs out of, except Monique. Sidheag was a veritable beanpole. Sophronia felt her own wasn’t bad. Preshea, of course, was perfect. Dimity said she thought the smaller girl stuffed. “You understand. With rosemary sachets.” Dimity described herself as “lamentably undersized.”

Sidheag seemed to be having difficulty following Mademoiselle Geraldine’s instructions.

“Lady Kingair, where is your handkerchief?”

“Well, blast it. I put it in. It seems to have slipped down inside my corset.”

Mademoiselle Geraldine fanned herself. “Lady Kingair, there is no need to go into detail. A lady of qualit-tay does not mention such a thing out loud.”

“What? What did I say?” Sidheag was genuinely confused.

“Corset,” hissed Sophronia.

“Miss Temminnick! Not you, too.”

“I beg your pardon, Headmistress.” Sophronia executed an almost perfect curtsy. This seemed to mollify Mademoiselle Geraldine.

“She doesn’t have enough to hold it up, Headmistress,” said Monique.

“Hush now, Miss Pelouse. We do not talk about another lady’s endowments in public. Lady Kingair, my dear, did you put the handkerchief in before or after you laced this morning?”

“Before; otherwise I forget,” Sidheag answered promptly.

“Well, you must wait to put it in after. Then it won’t disappear on you. Miss Temminnick, lend Miss Woosmoss your spare, please? Then at least she will have something. Now, ladies, where was I? Oh, yes, the quadrille.”

Agatha took her place in the set with Sidheag and Dimity. Sophronia stepped in to be her partner and passed her the handkerchief. Agatha stuffed it down her bodice with a muttered “thank you.”

“Ladies, we begin with the Le Pantalon. And a one, two, three, four. Step forward, salutation to your partner—no, Miss Buss, you’re playing the man, remember? You bow.” The headmistress was making up the fourth in the other set with Monique, Preshea, and a mop dressed in a hat. They were having a much more difficult time trying to pass notes back and forth without her noticing. The mop, of course, was of absolutely no help.

“What happened, Agatha? Are you feeling quite the thing?” Sophronia asked when the dance permitted conversation.

“It’s nothing to concern you.”

“Let me guess—Monique?” While she talked, Sophronia slipped Dimity a small, folded bit of paper. There was nothing on the paper; it was only for technique.

Sidheag said, “I saw that.”

Dimity whispered, “Perhaps note-passing is better done during L’été?”

Agatha said, answering Sophronia’s question, “She’s evil. And not in a good way.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing of import.” Agatha’s face was red. “Not for you, anyway.” The way she said it implied that Sophronia was somehow to blame.

They moved on from Le Pantalon to L’été. As Dimity had predicted, it was easier to pass the notes, but Agatha kept dropping hers. Every time she did so, everyone had to stop the pattern while she looked under her full skirts to try to find the scrap of paper. It was decidedly not covert. They had to pretend she was lacing her boot.

At the end of the hour, Mademoiselle Geraldine clapped her hands to get their attention. “That was adequate, ladies, but only adequate. You are to practice the first two sections of the quadrille ten times over this evening. In our next lesson, we will move on to the La Poule, so I expect you to have the Le Pantalon memorized.”

“Do you think,” Sophronia wondered to Dimity as they left the headmistress’s classroom, “that she realizes she is saying ‘the’ twice?”

Dimity raised an eyebrow. “Why, Sophronia, are you implying Mademoiselle Geraldine is not actually French? Shocking suggestion.”

“Any more than Lady Linette is a lady?” added Sophronia.

“Oh, come now, she could be a lady, you can’t be certain of that. After all, Sidheag is a lady, and no one would ever have guessed that.”

“Oh, thank you very much, Dimity,” said Sidheag from where she stalked along behind them.

Dimity tilted her curly head back and over one shoulder, looking up at the tall girl with a cheeky grin. “Oh, don’t pretend to be offended. I’ve figured you all out now. You’ll take that as a compliment. You don’t really want to be a lady. That’s your whole difficulty.”

Sidheag muttered something about who would want to be a lady when she could be a werewolf, which everyone politely ignored. Such an idea was patently ridiculous. Everyone knew girls couldn’t be werewolves.

It was Dimity who found out what happened to Agatha. Dimity might not be very good at finding out anything about prototypes, or world domination, or next day’s tea cakes, but she certainly had an ear for gossip.

“Did you hear Monique cornered Agatha in the hallway this afternoon? Apparently she said she wondered how someone of Agatha’s vulgar proportions even got admitted to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. She said that Agatha probably wouldn’t be asked back after the winter break, even if she did come from a long line of intelligencers. She said you would take Agatha’s place, since there was no one better.”

“Oh, dear, no wonder Agatha was mad at me. It’s not true, is it?” In normal finishing schools, the general attitude was the more students the better, but this one was different. Perhaps on an airship number restrictions have to be followed.

Dimity chewed her bottom lip. “It’s possible. Not that you’d take her place, but that she might not make it through. I don’t mean to be unkind, but she really isn’t very good. She might be better off at a real finishing school, and even then… I mean to say, have you seen her? It’s not so much her figure as her confidence.” Dimity shook her curly head in sympathy. “If only her posture were improved.”

They heard a little gasp from the doorway and looked up to see Agatha’s round, crestfallen face as she ducked away.

“I thought you closed that!” Dimity said to Sophronia, horrified.

“I thought I did, too. Perhaps she’s not so bad an intelligencer as you thought.”

Dimity was clearly upset with herself. Dimity was many things, but no one would call her mean-spirited. “Should I go after her, do you think?”

Sophronia sighed. “Perhaps we both should.”

They went to knock on the other girl’s door. Sidheag opened it, wearing a sour expression. Well, more sour than usual. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“We came to apologize.” Dimity looked hopeful.

“Well, it’s a bit late for that.” Sidheag crossed her arms over her bony chest and glared at them.

“Oh, don’t take that attitude with us, Sidheag Maccon. We know you’re not so bad as you make out.” Sophronia pushed past the taller girl and into the room. Dimity followed, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Agatha and Sidheag’s chamber was much the same in structure and layout as Sophronia and Dimity’s. Which is to say it was small, with two beds, two wardrobes, and a vanity with a wash basin, and not much else. It did not, however, have Dimity’s touch. Dimity’s touch in their sleeping chamber involved draping brightly colored silk scarves on all the surfaces and pinning sparkly glass brooches to them. Sophronia didn’t mind, although she did think it made the place look a little like an opera singer’s boudoir.

Dimity approached the bed where Agatha lay facedown in a hunch, head buried in her pillow. “I’m sorry, Agatha, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Agatha didn’t move.

Sophronia came over and said, “Couldn’t you let us help you, just a little bit? I mean, we are trying with Sidheag.”

Sidheag snorted.

“Well, we are. She helps us with boy-type stuff, and we coach her in how to be a girl.”

Sidheag snorted again.

Sophronia gave her a look. “Well, we do. You’re simply bad at it!”

Dimity patted Agatha on the back. “We could do it with you, too.”

Agatha sniffed and rolled over. Her face was, as Mademoiselle Geraldine had pointed out, very blotchy indeed. “But what can I exchange?” she asked shakily.

Sophronia and Dimity grappled for a reply.

Finally Sophronia said, “You’re good at sums and calculating household management. I heard Sister Mattie compliment you the other day. And we could all use help being more mild-mannered. You are particularly good at that.”

Dimity came in to assist. “Yes, I talk too much, and Sophronia is overly bold.”

“How kind of you to say, Dimity.” Sophronia raised her eyebrows.

“And of course Sidheag is perfectly hopeless,” added Dimity.

“Yes, thank you, Dimity.”

“Well, it’s true!” Dimity was truculent.

Agatha started to chuckle damply. “There you go, talking too much again, right, Dimity?”

“See, that’s the spirit!” said Sophronia.