Manners & Mutiny Page 3

  Vieve bowed low over Sophronia’s gloved hand.

  Sophronia pretended nervousness at having been discovered by a stranger. “Oh. Um, how do you do, Mr.…?” But her green eyes sparkled with delight. She could not deny a real affection for the funny creature, and had genuinely missed her company. Still, she did not break Agatha’s character, nor did she pretend they had met before. She was, after all, a Geraldine’s girl.

  Thus it was for Vieve to open the conversation. “Good evening, miss. Please excuse me for approaching you without introduction.” Vieve was in full impeccable evening dress from head to toe. Her dark hair was cropped short. She did not sport the mustache she once coveted, nor had she faked a deeper voice—as yet she had no need. Even with dimples and a feminine cast to her cheekbones and nose, she had the manners and movements of a young man. It was impressive.

  “Mr. Lefoux, at your service, Miss…?”

  “Temminnick,” said Sophronia tremulously.

  “Indeed, yes. Although I did think, for a moment, from certain descriptions prior to this greeting, that you might be Miss Woosmoss. Quite apart from the hair color, of course.” In addition to a head for engineering, Vieve had an eye for fashion. Not to mention a familiarity with most of Sophronia’s age group.

  Sophronia allowed a hint of a smile. “I can see how you might make such an error.”

  Thus they understood one another. Vieve knew Sophronia was under an assignment to act like Agatha. Sophronia knew that Vieve had probably figured out who the others were as well.

  “Would you care to dance, Miss Temminnick?” offered Vieve, gravely, as though to a wallflower cousin.

  Sophronia knew such a dance could only lend Vieve’s disguise credence. She also knew Agatha might dance with Professor Lefoux’s nephew if pressed. So she agreed.

  Vieve was an expert at the reel and a decent lead. She’d obviously been practicing, or been made to learn. They danced the first pass through in awkward silence, as befitted Agatha.

  On the second, Vieve said, dimples flashing, “I understand we share an acquaintance?” Her eyes shifted to Monique.

  Sophronia hesitated. She needed the information Vieve implied she had, but she also needed to stay in character. “Unusual, don’t you feel, for an ex-student to return to a dance such as this?”

  “Very,” agreed Vieve. “And we have had other visitors, of late.”

  Here comes the important part. “Have you? How fascinating. Do tell?”

  “Very well-dressed visitors. Except, they strangely insisted on green bands about their hats.”

  Picklemen! Sophronia’s slight panic showed in a missed step. Fortunately, it lent credence to her Agatha. It was at about this point in any dance that Agatha became uncomfortable, stumbled, and found a way to end the prolonged contact with a member of the opposite sex.

  “How recently, if I may ask?”

  “Oh, you may.” Vieve was gloriously mild in her delivery. “They could still be here, on school grounds.”

  Ah-ha! So Monique wasn’t here for the ball, she was tracking Picklemen. But what business would they have with Bunson’s? The crystalline valve was in their possession and under production. True, some of them had sons at the school. Where else would an evil secret society send its progeny? But to visit in person? Particularly as the boys were about to head home for the holidays.

  Does Monique know why they’re here? Or is she following them because she doesn’t? Sophronia found herself, much to her disgust, contemplating arranging a conversation with the dratted blonde.

  The reel was coming to an end. There was no way to stay Agatha and converse further with Vieve. Throwing caution briefly to the wind, but keeping her voice hesitant, Sophronia said, “Perhaps a consultation, later this evening, Mr. Lefoux?”

  “I am at your disposal.” Vieve guided her respectably off the floor.

  Where to meet? Sophronia didn’t know Bunson’s well enough to get around after hours. Vieve would have to break curfew and leave the grounds. “Behind the Nib and Crinkle? An hour before dawn?”

  Vieve gave her a grave look. Then a sharp nod.

  “Mr. Lefoux, I shall have my Italian reticule with me.”

  Vieve was suddenly more interested. “Is it still stylish?” Code for whether Bumbersnoot was in working order.

  “Indeed. But I should like you to perform some modifications, if possible.”

  “I shall bring my tools.” With a perfunctory bow that suggested the dance had not been up to snuff, Vieve drifted off to approach one of the newly minted debuts for the next dance. A pretty little blonde with big violet eyes looked hugely flattered at the attention of such a handsome young man.

  Sophronia was about to skulk back to her corner when a voice behind her said, “That was an unexpectedly lively conversation, Miss Temminnick.”

  Sophronia turned to find Professor Lefoux looming.

  “Well”—she injected a tremor of fear into her voice—“we know each other, from before, you understand.”

  Professor Lefoux frowned, unsure as to whether Sophronia was hinting that she knew that the professor’s niece was illegally pretending to be her nephew as a threat, or whether Sophronia was pretending to be Agatha to such an extent that she would blunder into mention of this delicate subject in public.

  Nevertheless, Professor Lefoux was intent on reprimand, and Sophronia couldn’t really fault her for it. “That dance, Miss Temminnick, was too much. I expected better from you. Are we understood?”

  Sophronia said, as Agatha, “Yes, Professor. I do apologize, I am afraid I forgot myself. I—” She hesitated, wondering if she should risk telling Professor Lefoux about the Picklemen. The professor was drone to Professor Braithwope, and, as such, allied with the supernatural. By rights she should be against the Picklemen. Then again, becoming a drone to a rove vampire would be excellent cover. She had, after all, worked with Professor Shrimpdittle on the contraption that failed to protect her vampire when he was flown into the aether. She could be sabotaging her own master.

  Best not to tell. “Would you, by any chance, have a spare lace tuck?” Sophronia asked, hunched and meek.

  Professor Lefoux, who favored high-necked dresses, even for a ball, and thus never needed a tuck, gave her a dirty look. “Certainly not. Now, go rectify yours having slipped. The necessities room is that way.”

  Sophronia bobbed a perfectly executed slightly bad curtsy—which caused her teacher to snort and say something about this kind of assignment encouraging regressive behavior—and went in the direction indicated.

  She spotted Dimity holding court near the punch bowl, surrounded by admiring young men. Dimity said something, no doubt cutting, and the boys around her laughed. They were mostly Pistons, a Bunson’s club known for churning out new Picklemen. At a school for evil geniuses, these were the most evil and the least genius. Pillover waltzed by and gave his sister a disgusted glare. The Pistons had made his first year at Bunson’s miserable. His attention returned to his partner. A lively Agatha looked up adoringly into his face. Pillover’s expression went soft—still glum and morose, but certainly soft.

  The dance ended and Sophronia sent a longing look at all the happy flirting, hoping Professor Lefoux saw. She paused to watch Pillover lead Agatha off the floor. He pressed a tiny parcel into her hands. Agatha colored, looking as self-conscious as normal. Then she faked a laugh and tucked the gift down her cleavage in a flirt so blatant Pillover looked as if he might faint.

  Lady Linette caught the maneuver and moved purposefully in Agatha’s direction. Whether intent on praise or reprimand, it was difficult to predict. Sophronia, mindful that Professor Lefoux’s eyes were glaring, could not linger. She made her way out into the hallway.

  Felix did not try to speak to her again. Vieve contented herself torturing the debuts. Monique didn’t stay much longer, and Sophronia wasn’t blessed with the opportunity to engage her in conversation. Pillover danced with Agatha twice, much to Agatha’s pleasure. And possibly to Pillov
er’s as well. Hard to tell with Pillover—he had an almost spylike ability to maintain a sulky expression.

  Such a public preference for Agatha, however, afforded Sophronia the ideal excuse to cry off her engagement with Pillover. Which she did, by letter to both him and her own mother, as soon as possible. The missive was prettily penned and very civil, stating only that she felt—given his two dances and provision of a bosom-worthy gift to another young lady—that they were no longer suited. He was young, she forgave him his transgressions, and hoped he would accord her the courtesy of never renewing his addresses. She could only suppose that Pillover’s delight upon reading her note would balance out her mother’s misery.

  The gift he’d given Agatha turned out to be a Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification. “Don’t you think it kind of Mr. Pillover?” Agatha was disposed to be chatty after her euphoric all-conquering ball. “Did you know he’s reached Nefarious Genius? He’s developed the technique of having most everything he makes explode upon contact. The Pistons have stopped bothering him. Lord Dingleproops nearly lost an eye to Pill’s exploding hair tonic applicator. Pillover is ever so proud.”

  “His hair did look nice,” said Sophronia.

  The girls were preparing for bed. If preparing for bed could be characterized by lounging about in nightgowns, caps, and robes, sipping tisanes and gossiping.

  Even Preshea had joined them, in a rare moment of camaraderie. “Sophronia, I must say, being you was unexpectedly fun, for someone who never says what she actually thinks.”

  “Difficult to hold back on the barbs, was it?” asked Dimity, in an indisputably barblike manner. Her Preshea characteristics seemed to be taking a while to wear off.

  Preshea noticed. “Clearly you enjoyed being me.”

  “Somewhat. It was frankly exhausting to insult everyone all the time. And hard never knowing one’s real friends.”

  “Now, Dimity, don’t be rude.” Preshea’s smile was glassy with contempt. “Who needs real friends?”

  Sophronia was struck with a sudden pang. Was Preshea’s nastiness a front? They had never given her a chance, as she’d allied with Monique from the start. After Monique left, Preshea had organically assumed the position of cruelest pretty girl. But there was something wistful in her tone. Perhaps it was only a lingering bit of Sophronia. No one ever doubted that Sophronia valued her friends above all things.

  Lady Linette was prone to saying that if Sophronia had any major weakness, it was her unswerving loyalty. To which Sophronia always responded that she intended to prove that was a strength.

  Preshea couldn’t tolerate even a moment of sympathetic expressions. “Oh, stop it, all of you.” She stood. “As if I should trade my status and standing for the likes of you.”

  Just like that, they were back on familiar ground.

  “I, for one, do not want to be scolded into bed by Professor Lefoux. Good night.” With which Preshea left. As older students, they had been moved into more luxurious accommodations, and each had her own private room. Sometimes Sophronia missed sharing with Dimity. As she’d grown up sharing with sisters, this was her first foray into the unparalleled privilege of a solitary bedchamber. But she did have Bumbersnoot to warm her toes.

  The remaining three huddled in for whispered gossip, knowing Preshea was more likely to listen at her door than actually seek her bed.

  Sophronia told the other two about the Picklemen and that Monique was likely there in pursuit. “I’m only waiting until lights-out before I go back down. I’ve arranged to meet Vieve for a quick consult on Bumbersnoot. And I have a letter to post.”

  Dimity worried easily. “Is he ill?”

  Bumbersnoot was contentedly sitting in a corner of the parlor, nibbling a small bit of coal. Steam leaked out his carapace slowly, in a sleepy manner.

  “No, but I have a theory about the crystalline valves that I want to discuss with Vieve. Also, it’s an opportunity to see if she has anything more on the Picklemen. I must say, Agatha, it is difficult being you. I mean, it’s easier to have clandestine meetings on the sidelines, but harder to exchange information during dances.”

  “Well,” said Agatha, “I had a marvelous time being Dimity. Thank you.” She turned bright eyes to the object of her impersonation.

  Dimity grinned. “It was a pleasure to watch you butterfly about. My brother seemed suitably intimidated.”

  Agatha blushed. “Oh, do you think?”

  “You like him, don’t you?” teased Dimity.

  “Younger man, careful there.” Sophronia teased as well.

  Agatha looked to Dimity, worried. “You don’t mind?”

  “Mind? ’Course I don’t mind. You’re a great deal better than those silly chits that keep hurling themselves at him. No offense meant, Sophronia.”

  Sophronia was quick to defend herself. “That was all Mumsy’s idea.”

  Dimity continued, “Frankly, I don’t understand it. It’s not like he has much consequence. And he is a human gumboil.”

  Sophronia nibbled her lip. “For once I think the ladies don’t notice his lack of consequence.”

  Agatha’s hands clasped together in a maneuver they had been taught by Lady Linette, but which Sophronia suspected in Agatha’s case was instinctual. “He’s very fine to look at.”

  Dimity put her hands to her ears. “Oh, dear me no, none of that. I couldn’t bear it, not after such a long evening.”

  Sophronia changed the subject. “And how did you find being Preshea for a night, Dim?”

  “Horribly easy. I simply said any nasty thing that came to mind, so long as it wasn’t indiscreet. Best if it cut some other girl down. I’m afraid I might have been very cruel about both of you.”

  Sophronia and Agatha shrugged. That was the assignment.

  “It was an interesting place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there,” Dimity concluded. “Preshea’s personality is quite putrid. Poor thing.”

  Sophronia wondered if that was part of the logic behind the assignment, that by dancing in each other’s shoes, they might develop sympathy for their fellows, as well as further their subterfuge abilities.

  “Well, I enjoyed the opportunity to spend most of my evening observing.” Sophronia rested her head on Agatha’s shoulder affectionately. “You were fun to be.”

  Agatha blushed in pleasure.

  Any further praise she might have meted out for Agatha’s self-worth was cut off prematurely as Professor Lefoux let herself into their parlor.

  “Bedtime, ladies. You know the regulations.”

  The girls stood and bobbed curtsies. “Yes, Professor,” they chorused. Under her austere glare, they traipsed off to their respective beds.

  ENEMIES IN THE ROSES

  Vieve was waiting for Sophronia behind the Nib and Crinkle as arranged. She smelled as though she had managed to persuade the proprietor to serve her a pint—and then gone swimming in it.

  “Really, Vieve, ale?”

  “It’s the kind of thing a boy would do. I spilled most of it intentionally, caused a fuss, and got myself booted out. Now if Bunson’s discovers I’m out, they have a story about where I’ve been.”

  “All that for little old me?”

  Vieve winked at her. “Never say I don’t care, green eyes.”

  Sophronia laughed. Clearly Vieve was also working on how to flirt like a boy. Following in the footsteps of Pistons, was she? “Vieve, you’re turning into a rake.”

  “Do you really think so? Topping.”

  Bumbersnoot chose that moment to shoot a bit of smoke out his ears, flapping the leather in greeting. He didn’t like being ignored. Sophronia had him flung over her neck and one arm for transport. He was still wearing the frilly lace reticule disguise they’d devised for the ball.

  Vieve’s attention was diverted. “There you are, my beautiful boy.”

  Much as she adored Bumbersnoot, Sophronia would never describe him as beautiful. Vieve, however, possessed an indescribable love for technology. She saw Bumbersno
ot not for his dented and rusty carapace, his patchwork metal bits, or his mismatched leather ear flaps, but for the work of mechanical genius beneath all that. Inside, Bumbersnoot had a high-grade aether-tapping miniature boiler and a steam-processing mechanism so sophisticated the rest of Europe still hadn’t discovered the technology. Vieve loved him for the cranks and valves that made him move with realistic smoothness and for the cyclical protocols and punch commands that told him how and where to go. She appreciated the two ways he could swallow—into storage or into his boiler. Vieve saw Bumbersnoot for what he really was—a technological masterpiece. She’d had the care of him ever since he came into Sophronia’s possession. While they both knew mechanimals were a Picklemen product, Bumbersnoot had never yet led them astray.

  Vieve set the mechanimal reverently on the ground and popped him open to check his internal workings.

  Sophronia let her tinker in silence. They were secluded near the pub behind some large rosebushes. A good spot, for it afforded them a decent view of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, anchored outside of town. The massive dirigible bobbed quietly. It was low to the ground, fortunately for Sophronia. She’d be able to get back on board using the sooties’ rope ladder.

  “Everything looks in order.” Vieve drew Sophronia’s attention back to Bumbersnoot. “What was it you wanted adjusted?”

  Sophronia tossed Vieve a small object. It was a faceted crystal valve, almost like cut glass with metal components embedded within. It was awfully familiar looking to those who knew the style.

  Vieve knew it. “One of the newest crystalline valve frequensors. Where’d you get it?”

  “You heard about my train misappropriation last winter?”

  “I heard you eliminated a shipload of these pretties. Terrible waste.”