“Mastering the fan—I think I want it to be my trademark weapon. All great intelligencers have a trademark weapon.”
“And you’re choosing the fan because it’s both sensible and cooling?” suggested Dimity.
Agatha, who was spending time in their room as her own was lonely, perked up. “I prefer the garrote myself.”
The others looked at her, startled. Aside from the theater, and sleeping, Agatha rarely expressed an interest in anything. Let alone something espionage related.
“You do?” Dimity encouraged.
Agatha nodded. “You can wear it as jewelry, it hides away easily, and it’s a nice clean death.”
“I hate to say it, but I’m with Preshea on dealing down, poison’s best.” Dimity was firm on the matter.
“No blood?” suggested Sophronia.
“Exactly!” Dimity twirled the bangles about her wrist and sighed. “Enough of this morbid talk.”
Agatha was looking at her small weekly planner. “Shouldn’t we be heading into Swiffle soon? Without Captain Niall to give you two a ride, the school will have to meet your transport itself.”
The two girls looked at each other. “Oh, dear me yes. Depending on where exactly we are right now, it could take weeks. I hope Lady Linette hasn’t forgotten about the fact that we are due at a masquerade in a few days.”
Sophronia agreed, “We’d best make sure.”
They shouldn’t have underestimated their teacher. Lady Linette was, after all, a mistress of information. It was her business to keep track of details.
During breakfast, which, since Mademoiselle Geraldine’s kept town hours, fell at around noon, the girls heard the unmistakable repetitive thudding of the school’s propeller cranking rhythmically below them. This could only mean one thing: the airship had a focused direction in mind. They were no longer gliding idly about the moor.
Dimity and Sophronia exchanged excited glances. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s floating finishing school was heading into town.
SESSION 5: STEALTH MUSTACHES AND STEALTHIER FLYWAYMEN
The school arrived at Swiffle-on-Exe late the following evening. It floated in over the River Exe itself, to take on water for the massive boilers in engineering. Then it took up its customary position, moored outside town, the mismatched turrets of Bunson and Lacroix’s Boys’ Polytechnique in view down a goat path.
Sophronia and Dimity were to depart early the next morning. They were excused from their last lesson of the night with Professor Braithwope, the idea being that they should get to bed before midnight. They tried to explain this to the vampire, who regarded them with a sobering eye, almost like his old self. The effect was lost, however, by the fact that he had taken it into his addlepated head to shave off his mustache.
Professor Braithwope’s mustache, which he must have had as a mortal before he was metamorphosed into a vampire, was a tiny caterpillar-like object that perched upon his upper lip with an air of great uncertainty, like an amateur diver. This seemed to trouble the professor of late, for he would sporadically attempt to rid himself of the fuzzy protuberance. Since he was immortal, this did not work, for the moment the razor was put away his mustache grew back to its exact former state.
Sometimes, like tonight, he’d only managed to shave halfway before getting distracted, so the mustache looked as if it had lost its purchase at last and slid dangerously to the side and was trying, before their very eyes, to claw its way back up. It was hypnotic and difficult not to stare because the facial hair grew as quickly as a vampire’s wounds might heal.
“Young ladies, why are you leaving my class so soon, whot? I believe we have not yet even started. Wait a moment there! Don’t I know you? Yes, I think I do, I believe you are dancers to perform this evening. Or, wait…”
Sophronia and Dimity curtsied apologetically.
“Sorry, sir,” said Sophronia, “we’re excused. There’s this masquerade, you see?”
Dimity added, “Her brother is engaged, very exciting. We have to catch transport tomorrow and we need our beauty rest.”
“Well, that is no lie,” said Preshea from her seat near the back of the room.
The vampire lost interest halfway through their explanation. “Oh, yes, well, if you insist. Don’t forget your sausage, whot.” His mustache had almost resumed full bushiness.
“Of course not, sir,” replied Sophronia with a perfectly straight face.
“I believe they are bringing Viscount Mersey, does he count as a sausage?” Preshea was inclined to be fresh.
Professor Braithwope turned on her. “Bratwurst or banger?” he snapped.
“Banger, most assuredly,” replied Preshea.
The vampire thus distracted, Sophronia and Dimity made their escape, trying not to giggle.
They had already packed, terrified that they would forget something. And once in their room, they were far too excited to sleep, particularly not earlier than usual.
So instead they lay in their nightgowns talking.
“Are you pleased Lord Mersey will be there?”
Sophronia sighed. “I suppose so.”
“He is very handsome. And very rich. And very titled.” Dimity’s tone gave nothing away.
“Yes, but you’re the one who really wants to marry those things, not me.”
“Then what do you want from a beau?”
Sophronia considered this question. It had been troubling her of late. Felix was good looking, but he rather knew that too much. And he was nicely mysterious. But as a Pickleman he would interfere with her espionage operations, and that really couldn’t be countenanced in a beau. Perhaps I can train him out of it?
Before she could answer Dimity, a timid knock sounded at the door to the parlor. The two looked at each other. They were the only ones not in class; whoever was there must know this.
Sophronia climbed out of bed and pulled on a robe. She was less self-conscious about these things than Dimity. After her foray into dressing like a dandy, she’d given over most scruples concerning public appearances in impolite clothing. After all, her nightgown nicely covered her climbing outfit, even if it was intended for the bedchamber.
“Oh, Sophronia,” said Dimity, “they can wait while you dress.”
Since dressing, at the best of times, took a quarter of an hour, this was probably not wise. That knock had definitely sounded clandestine; besides, appearing at the door in said nightgown might unsettle the visitor, thus giving her an initial conversational advantage.
So Sophronia disregarded Dimity and padded through the parlor to open the hall door. A tall, shrouded figure pushed in past her without ceremony.
“What?”
“Shut the door, quickly now!”
Sophronia did so, and the individual pushed back the shroud to reveal…
“Soap!” He’d never visited before. It was terribly dangerous for a sootie to be up top. If he were caught, he’d be summarily dismissed without references. Not to mention the fact that Sophronia and Dimity would be ruined.
“What ho, miss? Figured I’d catch you before you left.”
Sophronia wasn’t sure how she felt about this. She had, after all, been avoiding him.
“Sophronia, who is it?” peeped Dimity from the safe confines of their darkened sleeping chamber.