LESSON 7: THE PROPER PLACE FOR SOOTIES

The rest of the evening proceeded in a much milder manner. They moved from classroom to classroom, each room having been arranged to that teacher’s particular taste. Each time the lesson was more in the manner of a visiting call or an intellectual salon than any school lesson Sophronia’s siblings had ever relayed to her.

Sister Mathilde Herschel-Teape’s room, which led out onto a small deck, was half potting shed, half manor-house kitchen. Their lesson was on emulsification and the fine art of egg whites as applied to sugared violets, fake eyelashes, skin care, and poison control. She left them with the wise, if somewhat confusing, “Now, remember, my dears, a separated egg is worth two in the bush.”

Lady Linette’s room was a combination conservatory, boudoir, and house of ill repute. It featured a good deal of red; three chubby, long-haired cats with funny, scrunched-up faces; fringe wherever fringe might be stuck; and some highly questionable artwork. The girls sat in prim rows on long velvet fainting couches. A stuffed duck in a lace mobcap stared austerely down at them from the mantelpiece.

By the end of Lady Linette’s lesson on how to faint properly at any event and in a manner to cope with varying types of undergarments, Sophronia was yawning hugely. It had, after all, been a long day full of travel, excitement, and now classes that persisted well past her regular bedtime.

“Ladies don’t yawn in public,” Monique said loudly, so as to draw Lady Linette’s attention to the transgression.

“You’ll get used to the London hours eventually, country girl,” Preshea added.

“I suppose you’re from London?” Sophronia had a countryside suspicion of towns.

“My parents keep progressive hours,” the girl replied, avoiding the question in a manner that suggested this was a sore point.

“Miss Temminnick, Miss Buss, Miss Pelouse, if you’re quite finished? Miss Buss, it is as embarrassing to remark upon a behavior as it is to enact it. Of course, Miss Pelouse is, as always, correct, Miss Temminnick. Perhaps, Miss Pelouse, as you know everything so well, you would like to demonstrate fainting in a crowded ballroom in a manner that might attract only the attention of a specific gentleman? Without wrinkling your dress.”

Sophronia was enthralled by the odd way in which the teachers treated Monique. They made it clear her demotion was a punishment, yet sometimes it was almost as if Monique had a kind of control over them. Which must tie into how she has gotten away with not revealing the prototype’s location. Then there were times like this, when she was called out and made an example of.

Monique stood and did as instructed.

Lady Linette critiqued the faint closely as Monique executed it.

“Note both hands raised to the forehead. A classic maneuver, but perhaps overly dramatic for a large crowd; you might draw too much attention. Try only one, pressed to the breast. That has the added benefit of drawing a gentleman’s gaze to your décolletage. Not that you younger ladies have any yet, but we can hope. No, not pressed so hard. Miss Pelouse, you’ll skew your gown’s neckline. Very nice. Now, a short breath and a small sigh. Eyes rolling slightly back. Only slightly! Otherwise one looks like a dying sheep. Flutter the eyelashes. Flutter them! More fluttering. Lovely. And sag back slightly. Always backward, ladies, never topple forward. And be certain to situate yourself so that if the gentleman does not respond appropriately, you can pretend to catch yourself against the wall or mantelpiece and make a recovery. Very nice, Miss Pelouse. Very realistic.”

Sophronia yawned again.

“Sophronia,” Dimity whispered, “what are we going to wear to sleep in tonight?”

“Goodness knows. Our petticoats, I suppose.” For all Sophronia knew, their luggage still lay scattered in the road leagues away.

Such was not the case, as it transpired. After being let out from Lady Linette’s class—“Practice your eyelash-fluttering, ladies. Six rounds of one hundred each before bed”—she and the other girls went to supper in the back part of the school. The recreation section, as the others called it, was much the same as all the others, only with larger, grander, and fewer rooms. Supper completed, their manners closely monitored by the teachers and Sophronia’s knuckles rapped twice for her misuse of a fish knife, they returned to their quarters. The debuts found Sophronia’s battered portmanteau and Dimity’s cases neatly stacked in their parlor.

The girls were divided into two per room, Preshea seeming honored to have been selected by Monique as the best of a bad lot of options. Sophronia was delighted to find Agatha willing to vacate her abode to settle in with Sidheag so that Sophronia and Dimity might share.

“Do you think Monique has some kind of control over the teachers?” Sophronia asked the moment they were left alone. Bumbersnoot had woken upon their return and followed Sophronia dutifully into her new room, then paced back and forth as she unpacked.

“How could she?” Dimity pulled out her underthings furtively and stuffed them quickly into a drawer.

Sophronia gave her a look.

“Her family, I suppose. Although I’ve never heard of them, so they can’t be that important or that evil.” Dimity moved on to less embarrassing apparel: dresses, pinafores, petticoats, slippers, and boots.

Sophronia unpacked her own bags. For the first time in her life, she was slightly embarrassed by her own wardrobe. Her family was largely considered, by the surrounding gentlefolk, to be one of means. But she was still the youngest of four girls, and with three older sisters to clothe, she found her own dresses deficient. She was already composing a begging letter home in her head.

“What if she didn’t hide the prototype but gave it away?” Sophronia suggested.

Dimity was prosaic. “Well, no sense in speculating. We’ll simply have to find out more.”

Unpacking complete, the girls prepared for slumber—Dimity’s nightgown was bright yellow!—and settled down for the evening.

Bumbersnoot sat next to Sophronia’s cot with a little wheeze of distress. She picked him up and put him at her feet. He wasn’t exactly cuddly, and she was sure to bark her shin if she rolled over, but the little mechanimal seemed pleased, and the mini steam engine within made him quite an excellent foot warmer, if nothing else. Sophronia wondered idly if he required a diet of coal and water, and if so, where she would get the coal. The airship must have a boiler room. The last thing she heard as she closed her eyes was the tick-tock of Bumbersnoot’s mechanical tail wagging back and forth.

Unlike her fellow students, Sophronia awoke early in the morning and decided she might take the opportunity to explore. She supposed there would be mechanicals trundling about and sounding the alarm if they encountered her, so she determined to figure out a way around the massive ship that did not cross any tracks. She chose her most basic dress, with the fewest underskirts and the shortest top skirt, and pulled on her boots with the india-rubber strapping.

She had to use the hallway to get to any exterior decks, so she ran as quickly as possible, sticking to the sides of the passage, away from the tracks that ran down the center. Luckily, she didn’t stumble upon any mechanicals. This allowed her to escape out onto one of the lower decks and over the rail to cling on the outside with no one, human or constructed, the wiser. She was left breathless and leaning out and in a manner she was certain would be thought most unladylike.

In the early morning, the moor below was still mist-shrouded, but there was no longer any other cloud cover. Sophronia looked down, considered for a moment, and then decided it was probably better not to look again.

She inched around the banisters and along the outside of the railing. The deck extended around the dirigible’s side and then in, before another deck rounded back out again, like flower petals. The difficulty was how to get from one to the next, over the small gap in between. Sophronia had a system developed soon enough: a little twisting movement as she thrust herself willfully over the abyss.

Several of the decks, smaller and more like private balconies, did not have mechanical tracks. Sophronia climbed over the railings of these and explored, peering in at the round windows. It would be good to know, for secrecy’s sake, which balconies were safe from mechanical spies, not to mention vulnerable to attack because they lacked mechanical defense. She was also nosy.

As Sophronia made her way, one deck at a time, around the edge of the ship, she eventually left the students’ residential area and found herself in the classroom area. There the decks changed, some of them made of strange and mysterious materials, and they did not always have rails. She passed the one that featured Sister Mathilde’s greenhouse, and another with long tassels and fancy wicker furnishings that must belong to Lady Linette’s classroom. Funny; Sophronia hadn’t noticed a door from the classroom out onto the balcony during lessons.

Lady Linette’s was the last classroom before the next balloon. There was another balcony, almost touching it, in the forbidden section. There was a little walkway to that balcony.

Lavishly decorated, thought Sophronia, so probably Lady Linette’s private quarters. She had, as yet, not determined how to get up or down to any of the upper or lower decks, but from the sculpted railing of that particular private deck, a tempting rope ladder hung down to the lower levels.

Sophronia hesitated. She couldn’t see any tracks, and she guessed Lady Linette wasn’t an early riser. It was a risk. She didn’t want trouble on her second day. Then again, there was that rope ladder.

Sophronia made the switch to the forbidden section, shimmied along the outside of the railing over to the ladder, and began to climb down.

The ladder was pegged inward at the next level. Sophronia considered getting off there, but at the very bottom of the ship there had to be an engine chamber. She could see the steam emanating from below. And where there was steam, there would be boilers. And where there were boilers, there must be coal. Bumbersnoot was probably hungry. So she kept climbing down. There were no decks at the bottom level; only small portholes which she could press her face against. The glass in these was too filthy to see through, and not from the outside world, but from something within.

The ladder ended at a hatch in the side of the ship. After a brief hesitation, Sophronia twisted the handle and climbed inside. Boiler room!

The boiler room of the school was loud, and hot, and as soot-covered as Professor Lefoux’s classroom had been after the fake prototype exploded.

Sophronia’s entrance caused little reaction. It had to have been noticed, for she let a blast of light and fresh air into the dark, musty interior. But there was a controlled chaos all around her, and very few bothered to acknowledge her presence.

There were a number of larger men, who must be the firemen or engineers, and two dozen or more very grubby boys, covered in black soot, running about with fuel and scurrying up and down stacks of boxes, piles of coal, and ladders to the upper levels. A few of these doffed their caps as they passed Sophronia, but none bothered to stop or properly greet her.

She simply stood, taking in the bedlam and the massive boilers and wondering why the place was not staffed by mechanicals. Perhaps the tasks are too complicated? Or too vital to entrust to machines? The work seemed to be quite labor intensive, yet once or twice a bark of laughter issued forth from one side of the room, where a group of boys were hard at work shoveling coal into an immense boiler.

Sophronia made her way cautiously over to them, bending to scoop up some small pieces of coal, which she stuffed into the pocket of her pinafore.

“What’s that one run?” she asked, once she arrived at the group.

“Propeller,” came the answer, and then, “What-ho! What’s an Uptop doing messing about down south?”

“Only curious,” replied Sophronia. “No lessons until the afternoon, so I thought I would explore.”

“You mean, you’re an actual student?”

“ ’Course she is, don’t she look as like?”

“Naw, her dress ain’t fancy enough by halves.”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Sophronia, pretending hurt.

“Asides, students ain’t permitted south.”

“Well, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sophronia. And you are?” She figured introducing herself couldn’t be considered impolite, given that these were manual laborers and, judging by their accents, from equally manual upbringings.

“Ships’ sooties, us, miss.”

A yell of “Oy, up!” came from behind them, and the boys scattered like a group of very excitable partridge. Sophronia followed their lead. A new sootie, riding astride a great pile of coal in some kind of wheelbarrow-like contraption, came hurtling toward them. The wheelbarrow rattled headlong at the maw of the boiler. The boy remained proudly atop it, whooping enthusiastically. The others hooted him on.

Sophronia gasped, certain the thing would go crashing right into the impossibly hot boiler, dumping both coal and boy inside. At the last minute, the sootie jumped off and somersaulted away, leaving the cart to rush forward; tip in, unloading all of its coal inside; and bounce off.

“Pips! It worked!” The boy jumped to his feet.

The others all returned and gathered around him, proving that he was taller than most.

“Takes you twice as long to load it full. We’re still stoking more per hour,” commented one.

“Yes,” said the tall one, “but ain’t this invention?”

“How’d it bounce back like that?” Sophronia asked, joining the crowd as if she had always been there.

The boy turned in her direction. In addition to being taller than the others, he seemed to be more thickly coated in soot. His eyes were startlingly white in a dark face. Her question solicited a flash of equally startlingly white teeth. “Ah, yes, a spring rebound mechanism without india-rubber fixings. Vieve worked a whole week on that. Wait a minute there…. They letting girls be sooties now?”

“She’s an Uptop.”

“Came exploring.”

“Found us.”

“Ah, not so good at exploring, then?” The tall boy hooted at his own joke.

“I beg your pardon!” Sophronia took mild umbrage.

“No offense meant, miss. We sooties aren’t exactly upmarket chappy chaps.”

“Yet that contraption of yours was rather topping. Not to mention your dismount. I’m Sophronia, by the way.” Sophronia decided to practice a bit of her eyelash-fluttering lesson.

The tall one didn’t seem overly impressed by the eyelashes. “How-d’ye-do, miss? I’m Phineas B. Crow.”

Sophronia gave him a curtsy, and for the first time since she’d arrived at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Quality, no one commented on its poor implementation.

“Though everyone calls me Soap,” added Phineas B. Crow. “Because I needs it more than most.”

Sophronia continued batting her eyelashes at him.

“You got some soot in your eye, there, miss?”

Clearly I haven’t mastered the art yet. “No, practicing.”

“What, miss?”

“Never you mind.”

“That india rubber you got wrapped about them little stompers?” Soap’s tone was full of avarice.

“Yes. Got it off a dumbwaiter. But you can’t have it; I need it.”

“What’s an Uptop need with india-rubber shoes?”

“Climbing, of course.”

“That how you got here? Never heard of a girl who climbed afore.”

Sophronia shrugged, pleased at the compliment. Soap, she thought, has a pleasant smile.

A yell came from behind them. One of the large men—Supervisor, most likely—marched in their direction.

“Oh, blast it,” said Soap. “Greaser. Scatter!”

The boys ran in various different directions. Soap tugged Sophronia after him, to crouch down together behind a huge mound of coal.

“We ain’t got long back here afore they suss us out.”

“Is this what you do all day—shovel coal?”

“Ain’t a bad life. Used to work Southampton docks,” replied Soap with one of his grins. “Still can’t eat fish.”

Sophronia said, “You know, it is nice to meet you, Mr. Soap. I got myself an unexpected mechanimal, so I imagine I might have to pop down here regularly.”

“After the coal, are ya?”

“Rather. Poor Bumbersnoot; he must be starving by now.”

“I thought them mechanimals weren’t allowed.”

“Said he was unexpected, didn’t I?”

Soap let out a bark of laughter that was sure to attract attention even in the noise of the boiler room. “You’re all right for a girl, Miss Sophronia. Pretty, too.”

Sophronia snorted. “I only recently made your acquaintance, Mr. Soap. No need to fib.”

“Whoa ho ho,” said a booming voice, “what have we here?”

Soap stood immediately, his back ramrod straight. Sophronia followed his lead.

“Just taking a breather, sir.”

“Soap, you ain’t never doing just nothing. Who’s that you got with ya?”

Sophronia stepped forward. “How do you do, sir? Sophronia Angelina Temminnick.”

“An Uptop? Down ’ere? Best get her along right quick, before the Junior Sixth Assistant Engineer sees ya. I’ll pretend you was never ’ere, shall I?”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Sophronia with a curtsy.

Soap led her back to the hatch. “He’s not a bad kind of greaser, Old Smalls.”

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Soap.”

He twinkled at her. “Aye, it was, miss. Supposing I’ll be seeing you again.”

“Perhaps.” Sophronia let herself out.

Before she could close the hatch, Soap’s dark head stuck out. “Oh, miss, best change that pinafore. Wouldn’t want people knowing you went south.”

Sophronia looked down at her front. The crisp white of her apron was covered in smudges. “You’re probably right.”

In the bright light of the morning sun, Sophronia noticed something else about her new friend. He wasn’t simply dirty; he was actually black. Sophronia had heard, of course, of people with odd-colored skin, but she’d only seen pictures in her papa’s books. She’d never actually met one before. But Soap is just like a normal boy!

She wasn’t certain it was polite to mention, but she couldn’t help herself. “Why, you’re all over soot-colored by nature!”

“Yes, miss. A creature from darkest Africa. Wooo, wooo.” He weaved his head around, pretending to be a ghost.

Sophronia had read about Africa. This was a subject upon which she was fully conversant. “Oh, my, is that where you’re from?”

“No, miss. Tooting Bec, South London.” At which he returned to the noisy, musty darkness of the boiler room.

Sophronia made her way back to her quarters safely from balcony to deck, spending only a brief time running through the hallway. No one was awake upon her return except Bumbersnoot. He was absolutely delighted by the piece of coal and dish of water she placed before him. He nibbled and slurped away happily, tooting small gusts of appreciative steam. Sophronia changed her pinafore and checked the state of her face and hands. Luckily, the maids had brought in the washing water and, being mechanicals, had not registered her empty bed. After much scrubbing, most of the boiler room’s smudges were eliminated.

She practiced batting her eyelashes in the small hand mirror for the next half hour, until Dimity finally awoke.

“You’ll never guess what I did!” said Sophronia while her friend blinked blearily and stretched.

“No, probably not. Could I wake up first, please?”

“Certainly.” At which Sophronia paused. She had no idea how to dispose of her dirty bathing water. At home, she would have simply tossed it out the window, but here there was no window to their chamber. She excused herself, took it to the privy, and returned to hand the basin to Dimity.

Dimity poured herself some fresh water out of the pitcher and said, “Well?”

“I visited the land of soot and fire.”

“Sophronia, really. Do you mean to traumatize me with riddles first thing in the morning? If so, I should warn you, I’d consider that grounds for rescinding all offers of friendship.”

“It’s almost noon. I’ve been up for ages.”

“A habit you may come to regret.” But then Dimity put it all together. She emerged from washing her face with a gasp. “Sophronia! Did you visit the boiler room?”

“Yes!” Sophronia casually leaned back on both elbows.

“You aren’t allowed to do that!”

“So I learned.”

“But all the engine parts down there are exposed. A girl can see exactly how things work. It’s undignified.”

“It’s full of boys.”

Dimity paused, giving that statement its due consideration. “Yes, but the wrong class of boy, to be sure? I really wouldn’t if I were you. Terribly bad for one’s reputation. Then again, I don’t suppose there are any proper boys on board this school at all.”

“Not unless you count Professor Braithwope.”

“Certainly not. Now, Captain Niall, mind you, I’d count him.”

A knock came at their door. Sidheag stuck her head in. “Breakfast in ten minutes.” The tall girl looked much the same as she had the day before—her dress dowdy and her hair in one simple braid. She positively lounged against the doorjamb.

Sophronia wondered how she would fare during posture class.

“We won’t have him for a few days at least,” said the Lady of Kingair.

“Have who?”

“Captain Niall, of course.”

“Have him for what?”

“Lessons, silly. Did you think they only kept him on retainer for ground support?” With which the tall girl drifted away.

Sophronia and Dimity exchanged startled looks.

“What on earth could we girls possibly learn from a werewolf?” Sophronia wondered.

“How to keep a hat on no matter what the circumstances?” hazarded Dimity.

“We need to nip to the post,” Sophronia stated firmly as they left breakfast.

“We do?” Dimity was confused.

“My soiled glove, remember?” She produced the offending article from her reticule.

“Oh, yes, we were going to send it to my problematical brother for analysis. I should warn you, it’s unlikely anything will come of it. He’s very forgetful, my brother. Rather a nascent absentminded academic.”

Sophronia hesitated a moment, and then approached one of the older girls. “Pardon me, could you point us in the direction of the postal service?”

The girl looked down her nose at her. “Head steward handles that.”

“And where would I find him?”

“Steward’s quarters, of course,” she said and turned away.

I guess we have been dismissed. “Dimity, any idea where the steward’s quarters might be?”

Dimity cocked her head. “Well, on a boat it’s one of the upper decks, midship, you know, to catch people boarding and the like.”

“But we boarded from below.”

“True.”

Sophronia frowned. The steward would be in charge of all the mechanicals for servicing and maintenance, as well as all the human household staff. “We need to find the main hub.”

“Follow the tracks?” suggested Dimity, pointing down to where the single track became multiples at the entrance to the dining hall, allowing various maid and footman mechanicals to service the tables.

The servants’ quarters of any house are an odd place to explore, full of derelict machinery and broken tracks, not to mention the personal items of the human staff. Not wishing to be late to class, Sophronia and Dimity moved along the main hallways quickly, following the track when it split off and delved to the side into what was clearly a servants’ area.

“Uh-oh, look,” Dimity said, pointing.

Ahead of them, rounding a far corner in the narrow hall, they could see the back of some very flowery skirts of the kind no human maid, and certainly no mechanical, would wear. It was a dress familiar to them both, for there had been praise of it over breakfast.

“Monique,” hissed Sophronia. “I wager she’s trying to get a message off the ship, too.”

Dimity nodded wisely. “To tell her contacts the location of the prototype, perhaps?”

“Or warn them of the delay. If I were her, I’d wait until I was free to hand it over in person. Too many other people want it. Any message, even one in code, could be intercepted.”

They drew back and followed the older girl at a discreet distance.

Peeking round the corner of the next corridor, they spotted her entering a large white door and closing it firmly behind her. After an exchange of glances, Sophronia and Dimity ran to the door. On it were written the words STEWARD’S OFFICE, CORRESPONDENCES SENT AND RECEIVED, MECHANICAL MISBEHAVIORS HANDLED, NO SILLINESS.

Sophronia cracked the door, and the two girls put their ears to the gap.

“But we must be going near Bunson’s before then!” they heard Monique whine.

“Not for three weeks at the very least, miss.”

“But I must get a message home to my mama. It is vital. This season’s glove order!”

“I understand, miss, and yet, the float is away, nothing to be done.”

“Couldn’t Captain Niall…?”

“The captain is not your personal message boy, young lady.”

Monique switched to a more wheedling tone. “Well, could I leave it with you, to send as soon as possible?”

“I can’t make any guarantees, miss.”

Sophronia pushed Dimity away from the door and down the corridor. It seemed like the conversation would be ending soon. They made it round the corner just in time to hear the door open and peek out to see Monique striding quickly, and in a most unladylike manner, back the way they had come. She was clutching a letter in one hand, clearly having decided against leaving the missive in the dubious care of the steward.

“I bet he has to report messages to one of the teachers,” said Dimity.

“Or one of them has him on the payroll,” said Sophronia.

“Bribery? How crass.”

“Useful, though.”

“Shall we still try to send the glove?”

Sophronia considered the dangers and implications. “Best not, I think. Try again later. We’re late for class.”

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