Manners & Mutiny Page 5

  While she labored under the consequences of lack of evidence—Oh, why was the satchel empty?—her friends concentrated on their lessons. As older students, they were encouraged to focus on their strengths. Agatha was showing affinity for Encrypting with Flower Arrangements with Sister Mattie, which surprised everyone, including Agatha. She was doing a special study on tussie-mussies and airborne poisons, creating stunning—in all ways—nosegays. Dimity focused on Millinery and Machinations. She would never admit to decorating her own hats, but there was something to be said for the concealment possibilities inherent in a well-endowed bonnet.

  The only lesson they had together anymore was weaponry with Professor Braithwope and Professor Lefoux. In the old days this would have been Captain Niall’s purview, but since the werewolf teacher had left to clean up a pack mess in Scotland, the school hadn’t replaced him.

  Today the class was working with crossbows, much to Sophronia’s relief.

  After her near miss on the goat path, she had gone from indifference to guns to outright dislike. She could not shake the memory of Felix lying bleeding from a gunshot wound, and later, Soap dying of one. Not to mention the fact that guns were loud and terribly hard on one’s gloves.

  Strangely, it was Preshea who put it best. “If I am going to kill someone, I should be more elegant about it. Guns seem sadly crass.”

  Dimity was the only one who actually liked the French-issue ebony-stock percussion muff-pistols that the school provided for student training. “They are easy to use. And all the mess is some distance away.”

  By which Dimity meant blood. Occasionally, she still fainted at the sight of it, but she had mainly gotten over the response after Soap went down. Now her inclination to faint was only overwhelming when blood spattered on her clothing. A sensation that Sophronia could almost understand. Dimity was developing a style that involved shooting her target and then instantly looking in a different direction. Professor Lefoux despaired of her.

  For some reason, Sophronia did not feel bad about the crossbow. Possibly because it was a weapon most often applied to vampires. And while she had made her peace with the hive temporarily, she didn’t trust them as far as she could throw them—not after they’d kidnapped Dimity. Truth be told, even with Sophronia’s arm muscles, vampires could hurl her a great deal farther than Sophronia could hurl vampires. A great tragedy of life, no doubt.

  The others noticed Bumbersnoot’s absence but accepted Sophronia’s excuse that he was with Vieve getting a special holiday overhaul. With extra Professor Lefoux classes, this was a relief. Sophronia spent a great deal of time making certain Bumbersnoot and Professor Lefoux never encountered one another. Even when Bumbersnoot was disguised as an unbelievably frilly reticule, Professor Lefoux was too gadget-savvy to see the sausage dog as anything but a mechanimal. Unregistered mechanimals were illegal, even groundside in regular society. Professor Lefoux would not be understanding in this matter.

  With Bumbersnoot off ship, Sophronia no longer had to be constantly worried about what he might be up to. It was a relief knowing there was currently no way he could get into trouble. She wondered if that was a bit of how the teachers felt about her sometimes.

  Professor Lefoux was giving them crossbow lessons on one of the midship decks. They were shooting at handkerchief targets, held in the claws of soldier mechanicals arrayed on the inside of the deck. This allowed the bolts to go through the material and embed themselves in the pitted wall behind.

  “You ladies are developing into passably good shots.” Professor Lefoux indulged in a rare moment of praise.

  “We should be,” muttered Preshea. “We’ve been at it for ages.”

  Preshea could hit the handkerchief well enough to knock it out of the soldier mechanical’s grip, but not to pin it against the wall. Agatha missed one out of every four shots. Dimity struggled to get the bolt loaded but after that did fine.

  “Everyone, see how Miss Buss holds her bow?” Professor Lefoux instructed. “But her stance, too angled. Square up, Miss Buss.”

  Agatha was staring off into space, fingering her Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification.

  Sophronia caught her at it and couldn’t resist. “I suppose that could be considered a courting gift, from an evil genius.”

  Agatha dropped the lens as if it burned.

  Professor Lefoux focused on them. “Miss Temminnick, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate the draw?”

  Sophronia hefted her crossbow, loading the bolt and pulling back on the string. Then, without much thought, she raised her arm, pointed, and fired—hitting a dead-on bull’s-eye through the handkerchief. This was a surprise to Sophronia. If she had known she would be that good, she might have purposefully failed. It seemed to be a surprise to the soldier mechanical as well, for it puffed out smoke from beneath its neck attachment in a little stutter of shock.

  “There she goes,” sniffed Preshea under her breath.

  Professor Lefoux approved, as much as her personality would allow. “Adequate, Miss Temminnick. But consistency is also vital. I want both accuracy and precision. Do it again.”

  Sophronia loaded, pointed, and shot, casually, hoping she would miss but not willing to do it on purpose now that the teacher was watching her closely.

  “Another bull’s-eye. Have you been practicing extra hours, Miss Temminnick?”

  Sophronia shook her head.

  Professor Lefoux grunted. “I suppose natural talent happens. I will move you up to a more weighty draw.”

  Agatha dropped her bow with a clatter while Professor Lefoux was talking to Sophronia, then bent over to pick it up, spilling cleavage everywhere willy-nilly.

  “Miss Woosmoss, act like a lady!” remonstrated the professor.

  Agatha modified her bend into a crouch, stays creaking.

  Professor Lefoux rummaged about in an immense carpetbag with six little wheels affixed to its bottom, producing a teakettle-like object, an embroidery roll of wrenches, and a few other tools. Eventually, she found another crossbow, larger and heavier than the others. She handed it to Sophronia.

  “Now, class, note how much stiffer the string is on this one? That will yield a more forceful bolt. This is more deadly and more accurate at distances. Go ahead, Miss Temminnick.”

  Sophronia gave it her best effort, but it was impossible to pull back the string. It snapped forward several times, nearly taking her fingertip with it. She finally managed it by bracing against the wall with her foot and using both arms. Shooting the higher-impact crossbow was fun—the bolt flew with satisfying force and fairly tore the handkerchief in half before hitting the wall behind with a loud thunk.

  “Miss Temminnick, keep with that one. Now, class, after sunset prepare for a co-lesson with Professor Braithwope, at which point we will use a moving target.”

  “What target?” Preshea looked wary.

  Professor Lefoux looked at her as if the answer should be self-evident. “Professor Braithwope himself, of course. He’ll hold up a large wood trencher. We’ll use metal bolts so as not to do any permanent harm should you actually hit him.”

  Dimity trembled in agitation. “We have to shoot directly at a living target?”

  “Not exactly living, but yes.” Professor Lefoux was remarkably unperturbed.

  Sophronia felt bound to object. “I, for one, should prefer not to shoot at someone I like.”

  “Admirable scruples, Miss Temminnick. Get over them, for you will do it anyway.”

  “Yes, Professor.” Sophronia wanted to object further. Professor Braithwope wasn’t in his right mind. It didn’t feel sporting to shoot at a crazy person, even if that person was a vampire who’d agreed to the job. Then again, mental fragility might make him unpredictable and harder to hit. Still, Sophronia would hate to add crossbow injury to her long list of transgressions against a teacher who, in the end, was nothing more offensive than undead with excellent taste in clothing and a curiously unstable mustache.

  “I suppose she’d know if it
weren’t a good idea.” Agatha was obliquely referring to the fact that Professor Lefoux, as the vampire’s drone, was responsible for his well-being. She was his food source.

  They continued the crossbow lesson until sunset, at which point they were allowed a short rest. It was one of those rare clear nights on the moor—a midwinter rain had washed the mist away. Soon the fog would be back. It was like table settings. The skies of Dartmoor were perpetually set for visitors, rarely bare of decoration.

  The girls, tired from their physical exertions, leaned against the rails and watched the sun sink over the upland heath, gossiping quietly. There was some argument over an article in last week’s popular papers, retrieved for analysis by the teachers in Swiffle-on-Exe. Gossip columns were a vital part of training, as one had to read between the lines not only to understand the way society worked but also to puzzle out aristocratic machinations, determine the bias in the press, and look for encoded missives within the back promotionals. An advertisement for muffs was getting a great deal of attention. A few girls were contemplating essays on the subject. Sophronia thought it was simply an advertisement, but others believed there was an embedded message concerning Scandinavian infiltration into northern Scotland. Something about the muffs’ looking more like the hats favored by the Danish guard. Add to that the fact that the Scandinavians had been keeping an awful lot to themselves recently, and many were left wondering if they could be trusted. Pickled herring was, in the end, a hugely suspicious food.

  Professor Braithwope joined them after sunset. He was dressed quite somberly, his dark burgundy cravat tied neatly in the waterfall style, his waistcoat, jacket, and trousers all charcoal gray. His eccentricity of mind sometimes reverberated in his attire, causing him to wear odd items like a stovepipe beaver hat or a satin cape, but he never wore them badly. He might have lost his mind, but never his fashion sense. Tonight, however, he looked more undertaker than vampire.

  The girls were tentative about the assignment, but it became clear that Professor Braithwope, while batty enough to insist on dancing an Irish fling the entire time, still had all his reflexes in working order. It was impossible to shoot him. He either dodged or intercepted the dart with his wooden trencher.

  “Do you see? Not so easy to kill a vampire, is it?” Professor Lefoux sounded smug.

  Sophronia wondered if the vampire had noticed anything different about the pilot’s bubble recently. She decided to try to converse with him. She hoped Professor Lefoux would see this as an attempted diversion tactic for getting in a shot.

  “Professor Braithwope, have you seen anything interesting dancing ’round the school recently?”

  “Condiments are scarce in the skies, whot.” The vampire was serious on this subject.

  “Not so much as you would think,” Sophronia contradicted, wondering if he was aware enough to actually be referring to the Pickleman break-in. “Lost your mustard powder, have you?” She loaded in a bolt, taking her time.

  “No, relish.” The vampire twirled away. Preshea’s shot went wide.

  “Thought as much,” said Sophronia.

  The vampire’s eyes focused on her. “Why would I have lost anything? Not all wandering mechanicals are lost. Besides, often you’re left with a hold full of pets, whot.” He said this as though offering a special tidbit of information.

  Sophronia took it as such. “I’ll keep that in mind, Professor.”

  “Sooner your mind than mine, little miss. Mine seems to be full of holes, like a tea strainer.”

  Professor Lefoux interrupted. “I don’t think your tactic is working, Miss Temminnick. Take your shot or try something else.”

  “How about a variation on the fan and sprinkle?”

  “For a vampire?” Professor Lefoux was skeptical, for that was a werewolf manipulation.

  Sophronia produced a cream puff from within the confines of her pagoda sleeve. She broke it open to reveal the white filling. With her left hand she tossed this at the professor’s immaculate trouser leg. Occupied as he was, fending off crossbow bolts, he did not expect an attack of low-flying stickiness.

  With a cry of distress, he registered the smear of cream on his shiny shoe.

  When he bent to examine the carnage, Sophronia shot.

  She was still not fast enough.

  He got the trencher up and caught her bolt at its center with one hand while his other was occupied extracting a handkerchief to repair the damage.

  It was Sophronia’s last bolt. But she followed her shot with a charge, whipping out her bladed fan into an arc of deadly metal, the leather guard off and fallen to the deck.

  She had it in and against the vampire’s neck before he could straighten upright.

  He let her, surprised.

  Professor Lefoux tutted. “Did I say other weapons were allowable? Besides, what good is that fan? It’s not wood.”

  Sophronia snapped the fan closed and backed off. “I wanted to see if I could get that close.”

  Professor Braithwope gave her a funny look. Well, funnier than usual. “You know, pretty little miss, you could have simply offered me your carnet de bal. I would be delighted to dance with you.”

  “Oh, really, Sophronia, now you’re in the way of everyone else,” Professor Lefoux reprimanded her.

  Sophronia turned to return to the line, but the vampire caught her hard about the waist and dragged her close.

  Sophronia swallowed suddenly, frightened. Professor Braithwope’s eyes, absent of intelligence, followed the movement of the muscles in her throat.

  Why didn’t I wear a high-necked gown?

  “Sophronia.” Professor Lefoux’s voice was soft but firm. “Cover your neck and back away slowly.”

  Sophronia could wriggle enough to bring her fan up and flick it open in front of her bare throat, but the vampire’s arm about her waist was like iron. She could not shift it, and she certainly could not back away.

  “Don’t you want to dance, little one?” Professor Braithwope’s voice was a seductive rumble. His funny little mustache, always one to lead the charge, looked menacingly fluffy. It was like a cat with its back arched and its fur bristling. Below the bristle, Sophronia could see the points of fangs sticking out of his mouth.

  “Your neck is very white,” complimented the vampire.

  “Thank you.” Sophronia was pleased her voice didn’t shake. “I’ve worked hard over the years with lemon and buttermilk under Mademoiselle Geraldine’s guidance. I started out with freckles, you know?”

  “I’ve always been fond of freckles.” Professor Braithwope leaned in. “Little spots of delicious seasoning, whot.”

  Then Professor Lefoux was there, crowding in on them. She stuck her arm right in front of the vampire’s face. She had nicked her wrist slightly, probably on a crossbow bolt.

  The arm around Sophronia’s waist slackened.

  She spun out and dashed away, shaken.

  Dimity hugged her with one arm. “You all right?”

  Sophronia nodded.

  Agatha’s eyes were huge with concern and she patted Sophronia’s shoulder in awkward sympathy.

  Preshea muttered, “They ought not let him stay on board. He’s not safe. This is a school, for goodness’ sake!”

  Sophronia jumped to the vampire’s defense, surprising everyone. “You think the outside world is so very safe?”

  “You say that, after nearly being bitten?” Preshea was shocked.

  “It’s happened before and it will happen again.” Sophronia reached for calm. Part of the training. Only Dimity could feel her shiver.

  They watched—crossbows slack at their sides, resting among the folds of wide skirts—as Professor Braithwope sucked at Professor Lefoux’s wrist. It was oddly intimate and embarrassing and disgusting.

  Sophronia looked away, busying herself by holstering her fan.

  Dimity allowed herself to be shrugged off. “Sophronia?”

  “I’m perfectly spiffy, thank you.” Sophronia’s voice was steady, though
her brain kept reliving her brush with fang. She forced herself to analyze the encounter as Lady Linette instructed. After every unladylike action, there must be an equal and opposite reaction. Consider the necessary, analyze the consequences, clean up the mess.

  Sophronia thought about the vampire’s movements and the strength in that arm encircling her waist. Professor Braithwope’s reflexes were good enough for the crossbow, but they weren’t what they once were. And he seemed only able to focus on one task at a time.

  She moved away from the others, pretending to hunt for new bolts but really trying to control a sudden pang. Fear. Guilt. Grief. The vampire’s condition was deteriorating. It wasn’t only his self-control—it was his supernatural abilities as well. She had hoped a vampire could recover from tether snap. That if he stayed within his home territory of the airship, his tether would reestablish, and he would find his full wits once more. It seemed, instead, that he was getting worse. How did I miss that until now? How much have the other teachers been working to hide his condition?

  She stared at Professor Lefoux, who was bandaging her wrist and leading the vampire away from the students. She looked tired and older than before.

  Will he become even more dangerous? After all, werewolves went mad at full moon. What might happen to a vampire who was losing his mind? Preshea was correct, for even Geraldine’s girls weren’t equipped to deal with that. The debuts, for example, were at risk. She hoped the teachers were locking the vampire down after the students went to bed.

  After his snack and a brief rest to digest, the vampire seemed able to continue the lesson. By the end of two hours the girls had sore arms and fingertips and were eager for supper. The incident seemed to have been largely forgotten as simply another one of Sophronia’s pranks—except by Sophronia.

  They changed and then had a half hour for contemplation. Sophronia spent it staring glumly out the porthole window. Agatha spent it in indecision over jewelry. Dimity read a novel of some woefully romantic persuasion.