For now Sophronia elected to follow him until he collected more information. The intellectual chappy appeared in the record-room doorway, pulling on his coat and hat, and, notebook clutched under his arm, he headed after the other man.
Once he disappeared around a bend in the hall, Sophronia followed.
A CLASSICAL EDUCATION
The administrative room was Deep Voice’s only possible location. Of course, Sophronia had explored the room before. She’d investigated most of the school by now. It was rarely used, for Mademoiselle Geraldine kept no proper administrators on staff. It was a cramped, dusty place, filled with piles of forms, bootlaces, defused mechanicals, old lesson plans, and irrelevant embroidery samplers. It was an odd place to station a Pickleman, its only advantage being a front-facing location and, perhaps, the fact that by comparison to other rooms, it was unused.
It was possible, Sophronia supposed, for an infiltrator to have been living there unnoticed for weeks. Or possibly to have stashed something important there, with no one the wiser.
She watched as Note-taker let himself inside. She then ran down the hallway after. The sign on this door read ADMINISTRATOR ACCESS ONLY, NO PEONS. Under it someone had pinned a scrap of paper that read NEEDS DUSTING. Under which someone else had penned another note scrawled with a prosaic WHY BOTHER?
Sophronia ignored the notes and took out her hearing trumpet, pressing it to the crack.
“Here, take this as well,” Deep Voice was saying.
“Why on earth would I want that? You know I prefer reading to sportsmanship.”
“It’s not for you, idiot. It’s for the Gherkin. The creature seems to think it’s vital. I had a devil of a time getting it out of his claws.”
“You do realize he’s insane? What’s vital to him is likely useless to the rest of us.”
“Do as you are told, Spicer. Here, take the bolts, too.”
There was a rustling noise and a funny kind of a moan.
“Shut your mouth, fang boy,” barked Deep Voice.
Ah, thought Sophronia, I appear to have found Professor Braithwope. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the first.
“Couldn’t you be a little kinder to the poor fellow?” said another voice, this one rich and female. “He may be lost about the mind, but I assure you he is a gentleman and quali-tay.”
And Mademoiselle Geraldine is here, too.
Even realizing that her teachers were in trouble, Sophronia was relieved that at least she knew they were still alive. It made her feel less isolated. By her calculations, there were fourteen Picklemen, plus three younger runners, and half a dozen flywaymen, one of whom was Madame Spetuna. Against them Sophronia had about two dozen sooties, enslaved in the boiler and propeller rooms, and now, Mademoiselle Geraldine and Professor Braithwope.
I now know all the players and their locations. At last I can start to plan.
It was unfortunate that the enemy was spread all over the ship, making them harder to eliminate en masse. But it had one great advantage—it slowed communication. While she had been surveying the situation, the airship had kicked up speed, and they were heading to London at the fastest float possible. Admittedly, it wasn’t very fast. Last time, the float to London took four days, but they had taken layovers and been under steam cloud cover. Pressing the issue, she thought it would be two and a half to three days.
Well, she thought, if London is the target, at least I know I have some time.
Not at the moment, however, for footsteps were heading toward the door. Once more she raced away. That was the one good thing about dancing slippers—at least she was soft-footed.
She heard Spice Administrator Note-taker shut the door, and she could guess what path he would take. The end of this hallway was a staircase down to the middle level. It was impossible to go directly the length of the ship on the upper level, unless one had a hurlie and the will to climb. So Sophronia ran ahead of him, heading for the classrooms.
She chose the first classroom after the stairs, Lady Linette’s. It was open, as she’d left it during her search, dark and quiet. Sophronia dropped Bumbersnoot outside the door, in the hall, with a command to stay. She could only hope he would obey. She and Vieve had never determined all of Bumbersnoot’s protocols—as a result, he pretty much did as he pleased. Leaving the door ajar, Sophronia arranged herself inside the room. She opened the curtains so the moonlight would kiss her face. Then she sat down at Lady Linette’s large harp, fortunately undamaged. Staging, in seduction, is almost as vital as the seduction itself. She dabbed a bit of lemon tincture on the floor so the scent permeated the air, and began playing softly.
Sophronia was perfectly well aware that she made the most absurd picture. She was still wearing the pinafore over her ball gown. Not to mention the fact that there was a wicker chicken strapped to her back. She angled so the chicken wasn’t entirely visible, determined to make the best of the situation. She imagined its little wicker head peering over her shoulder suspiciously at the harp.
Sophronia was an abysmal harpist. She’d only had a few lessons in tinkling for torture and diversion and had done badly at those.
Nevertheless, when Note-taker came down the stairs to find the door open and a loose mechanical, how could he help but investigate? It was pure temptation.
And there he was, as predicted, peering myopically into Lady Linette’s classroom.
The room alone was a shock to anyone, being a combination of conservatory, boudoir, and house of ill repute. It featured a good deal of red fringe, highly questionable artwork, and long velvet fainting couches shoved to one side by the crash. Lady Linette appeared to have evacuated her three fluffy cats, so at least they weren’t in residence giving Sophronia’s harping the yowls it deserved.
Sophronia looked up, arrested, as if caught on canvas by a master painter. She used the moonlight and the angle to her advantage, targeting an ethereal effect. She stopped playing as though interrupted in deep reverie. She floated one white hand gracefully up to push back a stray lock of hair, still maintaining its curl despite the trials of the evening. This exposed her neck, which Lady Linette said was a sign of vulnerability.
“Oh, dear.” Sophronia gave a tremulous smile. “Did my playing disturb you, sir? I do apologize.” Tremulous smiles were very effective when applied to the right victim.
Nothing could be more confusing to the poor man than Sophronia at that moment. He fell back on etiquette. What else was an Englishman to do when confronted with a wicker-chicken-wearing leather-clad tremulous smile? He drew the only ready weapon he had—manners. “Good evening, miss…” He trailed off.
Sophronia rose, sweetly innocent, and moved toward him as if she were a ballerina.
He, in turn, stepped into the room, as politeness demanded. Bumbersnoot scuttled in after, looking pleased with himself. He went to snuffle about the fringed carpet to see if it might be susceptible to singeing.
“Miss Pelouse. How do you do? Are you visiting for the party?” Sophronia’s voice was breathy—due to the euphoria of her own transformative harp playing, of course.
The young man had a largish nose and floppy hair and the appealing gawkish posture of the literary-minded. He might also, Sophronia realized, have a gun. Difficult for him to reach for it, however, as he was carrying his notebook in one hand and Professor Braithwope’s miniature crossbow and three bolts in the other.