“No, I did not!” agreed the aggrieved Handle.
“Think of it as valuable experience for your prospective switch in professions.”
Handle was thoughtful. “Bloodletting?”
“Exactly.”
He was somewhat mollified.
Sophronia stood and tried to stretch. She ought to feel better after resting covered in Sister Mattie’s poultices, but every part of her still ached. Now all the little muscles, strained from hanging and climbing and falling, also hurt. She hobbled like an old lady.
“I’m going to check the lay of the land.” She headed onto the balcony.
They were flying quite low now, rooftops clearly visible although the moon was not yet up. At least with the moon no longer full, some werewolves are available this evening if Agatha manages to get ahold of them.
Ahead twinkled a vast number of lights. London.
Sophronia suppressed a shiver of apprehension. Tonight I crash an airship. On purpose.
She squinted into the lights. Was that…? Yes, a small dirigible was approaching them at speed, under cover of darkness, flying stealthily, a dark shape against the twinkling background.
Somehow, Sophronia knew that this was her friends. There was something about the way the ship weaved through the air—intent, stylish, almost a waltz. It stank of Geraldine’s training.
Sophronia unhitched the miniature crossbow from her belt. She took one of the valuable targeting bolts and created a satchel for it by weaving it through the lace edge of her red doily. Into this she stuffed a hastily scribbled note, torn off the corner of her map.
“Meet at soapy entrance. Bring this bolt back.”
Only her particular friends would know what that meant. Even if she was entirely wrong and that ship was full of enemy reinforcements, nothing bad would come of her message.
The crossbow was so small she only needed one hand to fire. But still, everything took twice as long as it ought. She’d have to remember that in her calculations. She took careful aim and fired the bolt at the side of the gondola section of the approaching dirigible, now clearly visible.
There was a distant shout, and then a pause, and then the ship dropped down and altered its approach. Success!
Sophronia limped back inside. “Change of plans! Handle, you are with me. We take out the propeller room and free the sooties there first. Headmistress, if you and the good professor would meet us outside engineering? He’ll help you get there.”
“What good could I possibly do?” protested Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“I believe we have a rescue incoming. If all works out as I hope, they will be meeting us just outside the boiler room hull.”
“Capital. How did you manage that, my dear girl?”
“I have capable friends,” replied Sophronia.
Handle said, “That our tea cake angel?”
“Dimity? Yes, I believe so. Or someone sent by her.”
“Good.” Handle went all cheerful. “She’s prime at pinching a tasty pastry.”
“Not quite certain how that skill set has any bearing on this situation,” objected Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“And yet how do we know it doesn’t?” reasoned Sophronia.
Handle only tossed one of the explosive fake pastries up into the air suggestively.
There was no one in the hallway outside their room. In all probability, the Picklemen were occupied with their invasion, in the storage room readying their attack mechanimals.
With no time to waste, Sophronia saw Mademoiselle Geraldine off, carried by a docile vampire in the direction of engineering. She and Handle headed toward the rear as fast as she could hobble.
Eerie and empty as the school had been before, it was more so now. All the mechanicals were gone, their tracks abandoned. Her obstructor remained unused. It was a worry, but also a relief, for it allowed them to move quickly. With the excitement of the hunt back on, Sophronia’s aches faded somewhat to the background. Or perhaps Sister Mattie’s poultices were finally taking effect.
They found the propeller room, which was much smaller than engineering, manned by six sooties with one Pickleman supervisor. The man in question sported a nasty expression and held a crop, rather than a whip, and a smallish gun.
Sophronia’s good arm was sound. Handle was enough of a boy to have hurled stones at random things in order to break them—as boys do. So when two fake pastries went flying, the world around that Pickleman exploded.
He collapsed, unconscious.
The sooties cheered, weakly but with real joy.
Sophronia trussed the Pickleman up with a strip of her shirt—she was running out of hair ribbons and curtain cords—and nabbed his gun. She gave his crop to a sootie with an equally nasty expression. He seemed delighted.
Handle explained the situation to his compatriots. They instantly shut down all boiler activity. Propeller work didn’t keep the ship afloat, just headed it in the right direction, but this would stall the approach to London. The great whump-whump vibrations of the propeller slowed. It would take a while for the heat to work out completely, but it was a start.
The group of eight then dashed back through the ship, avoiding the area around the hold.
Mademoiselle Geraldine and Professor Braithwope were waiting for them, thank goodness. Near them was a limp body—the final runner. There were puncture wounds on his neck, and Professor Braithwope looked like a man who had overindulged in the cook’s claret. He sat motionless on the hallway carpet, slumped back against one wall, hand over his belly.
“Is he dead?” Sophronia asked Mademoiselle Geraldine, who was hopping about on one leg, looking annoyed.
The headmistress made a disgusted nose. “No, gone to the cats.”
“Not Professor Braithwope. The runner.”
“Oh, him? Not yet.” Even though it was said in an offhand manner, the headmistress sounded dangerous.
The sooties gave both Mademoiselle Geraldine and the vampire a wide berth.
That’s two more off my list. Sophronia mentally crossed them off her map.
Professor Braithwope let out a belch. He was useless for the moment.
Sophronia gave Handle the gun. He passed it off to a tall muscled boy who looked like he’d grown up in dark places where guns were common. She and Handle armed themselves with exploding pastries. The other sooties were ready to grab whatever tools they could once in the room.
“Ready to reclaim your territory, troops?” Sophronia asked.
They nodded, grim-faced, eager.
The two Picklemen in the main boiler room were taken entirely by surprise by a coordinated attack from above. With one charge, Handle and the four unarmed sooties eliminated the supervisor on the platform overlooking the activity below. He tumbled over the edge with a shout, landing with a sickening crunch and sizzle on top of the biggest boiler.
Meanwhile, Sophronia and the sootie with the gun ran to the edge of the platform, knelt, and took aim. He fired and she threw. The man below was concentrating on his whip, fearing rebellion from within. Either fake food or bullet must have hit, because he folded into a heap. The sooties around him seized the moment, removing both his gun and his whip and administering a few well-earned kicks.
Just like that, the night was theirs and the remaining sooties were free. Sophronia’s tiny invading army climbed down the stairs to greet them.
Sophronia assisted Mademoiselle Geraldine with her uninjured shoulder. By the time they arrived, Handle had all the sooties abreast of the situation and bustling about shutting down the boilers.