Manners & Mutiny
Page 67
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“I always thought it silly to have a female on board with us. After all, any woman could be working for the enemy.”
“Now, now,” said the head flywayman, “I vouched for her.”
“And your cooperation was predicated on us allowing her aboard. And yet my men have been going missing. The prisoners have not been recovered. We have a traitor in our midst.”
Oh, no, thought Sophronia. They are blaming her for my actions.
Madame Spetuna spat in disgust. “And you pick me because I am a woman? I’ve hardly left this room. How would I accomplish this miraculous interference?”
“But you have left the room a few times, to use the facilities, you claim. I find it interesting that Spice Administrator Bawkin disappeared after we sent him to the record room. As if someone on board had something to hide that school records might reveal. The only possible person… is you.”
Madame Spetuna turned to her lover for aid, but even the head flywayman was looking at her distrustfully now.
“It would be exactly like this place to put their best agent in our midst. And you would have to be one of their best.”
Madame Spetuna made no further protestations.
Sophronia realized that she was trying to take the blame, so that she, Sophronia, would remain safe. She wished they’d had time to consult, but decided she would honor the woman’s wishes. In the end, Madame Spetuna knew more of what was going on than she did. Clearly, this inside intelligencer thought it more important for Sophronia to remain an unknown element and to destroy the center of the Pickleman operation herself. Sophronia put the wicker chicken down, tucked it against the wall with her foot, and slipped back out the door before anyone could see her. Then, fast as she could, she climbed outside to one of the upper portholes so she could see what transpired next.
The Chutney was saying something curt, issuing an order. Then he signaled his two bully boys and a runner to follow and strode from the room. This left Madame Spetuna with the gangly Pickleman, one runner, and five flywaymen. Several of the flywaymen closed in on her.
Madame Spetuna leapt away, managing to evade capture long enough to scoop up the wicker chicken.
With a manic look in her eye, she waited, clutching it to her chest, while the men closed in on her. Sophronia, horrified, realized that the intelligencer intended to sacrifice herself!
The chicken exploded.
Sophronia saw blood splatter everywhere. Top hats and flywayman scarves went flying. Madame Spetuna flew into the air, like a child tossed by an enthusiastic uncle.
And the window through which Sophronia was looking shattered outward into her face.
Sophronia jerked back, so shocked by the blast she let go of her perch and fell off the side of the dirigible.
Instinct had her shooting her hurlie at the side of the ship, grabbing on to the rope. Good thing, too, as she couldn’t see anything. There was something in her eyes—she could only hope it was mostly her own blood and not glass. Thankfully, the hooks of the hurlie found purchase on some protrusion stable enough to support her weight. Then her arms were jerked almost out of their sockets and she crashed into the side of the ship, face-first.
The dark red of pain shredded through her brain, and then, blessedly, a bleak vacant black.
FALLING DOWN ON THE JOB
Sophronia had no idea how long she dangled, but it must have been a very long time.
When she awoke, the arm from which she hung—upon which she wore the hurlie—was entirely numb. Her face hurt like nothing she’d ever experienced before. A tender touch with her working hand suggested her nose was likely broken and much of her skin sliced by glass. She tried not to think about the consequences of scarring. Any future as an agent provocateur would definitely be impossible. She was thirsty and hungry, yet stomach-sick from the scene before she fell: Madame Spetuna exploding. All that blood. It was almost as painful as her shoulder out of its socket.
Mademoiselle Geraldine must have taken out the two guns on the squeak decks, or surely they would have seen her. At least Sophronia hadn’t become a target while she dangled.
Every part of her hurt—belly, head, face, back, arms—but what could she do? No one was going to rescue her. She had to ignore the pain and get herself to Sister Mattie’s classroom to rendezvous with the headmistress and the vampire. And she had to do it by climbing, for she’d given Mademoiselle Geraldine her obstructor. Sophronia and climbing, under normal circumstances, were old chums. But now? The very idea made her want to scream.
When asked afterward, Sophronia never could articulate how she made that nightmare of a climb. Somehow she traversed two-thirds of the ship with eyes partly closed from the hit to her face—thank goodness the glass hadn’t blinded her—and only one working arm. It made her rethink all previous hardships in her life. I’ll never complain of cold tea again.
Eventually, she made it to Sister Mattie’s balcony, collapsing in a heap among the potted plants. She was grateful for the leaves canopied over her, an odd kind of protection. The sky was turning gray beyond them, the sun soon to rise. Never in her life had it taken so long to climb anywhere. She hoped fervently that there was a vampire in residence to carry her to safety, because as she crawled with one arm toward the balcony door, she was convinced she would never walk again.
The door was locked and bolted. She knocked, but no one answered. She fumbled in her pocket for lockpicks, but the world seemed to be turning fuzzy as well as gray. Now her good hand wasn’t working, either. And then she found, to her surprise and embarrassment, that she was lying flat on her stomach, shaking. She wondered, around an odd buzzing in her brain, if she was the first to arrive. Shouldn’t the others have completed their tasks hours ago? Was it possible that they were in worse trouble than she?
“Now, now,” said the head flywayman, “I vouched for her.”
“And your cooperation was predicated on us allowing her aboard. And yet my men have been going missing. The prisoners have not been recovered. We have a traitor in our midst.”
Oh, no, thought Sophronia. They are blaming her for my actions.
Madame Spetuna spat in disgust. “And you pick me because I am a woman? I’ve hardly left this room. How would I accomplish this miraculous interference?”
“But you have left the room a few times, to use the facilities, you claim. I find it interesting that Spice Administrator Bawkin disappeared after we sent him to the record room. As if someone on board had something to hide that school records might reveal. The only possible person… is you.”
Madame Spetuna turned to her lover for aid, but even the head flywayman was looking at her distrustfully now.
“It would be exactly like this place to put their best agent in our midst. And you would have to be one of their best.”
Madame Spetuna made no further protestations.
Sophronia realized that she was trying to take the blame, so that she, Sophronia, would remain safe. She wished they’d had time to consult, but decided she would honor the woman’s wishes. In the end, Madame Spetuna knew more of what was going on than she did. Clearly, this inside intelligencer thought it more important for Sophronia to remain an unknown element and to destroy the center of the Pickleman operation herself. Sophronia put the wicker chicken down, tucked it against the wall with her foot, and slipped back out the door before anyone could see her. Then, fast as she could, she climbed outside to one of the upper portholes so she could see what transpired next.
The Chutney was saying something curt, issuing an order. Then he signaled his two bully boys and a runner to follow and strode from the room. This left Madame Spetuna with the gangly Pickleman, one runner, and five flywaymen. Several of the flywaymen closed in on her.
Madame Spetuna leapt away, managing to evade capture long enough to scoop up the wicker chicken.
With a manic look in her eye, she waited, clutching it to her chest, while the men closed in on her. Sophronia, horrified, realized that the intelligencer intended to sacrifice herself!
The chicken exploded.
Sophronia saw blood splatter everywhere. Top hats and flywayman scarves went flying. Madame Spetuna flew into the air, like a child tossed by an enthusiastic uncle.
And the window through which Sophronia was looking shattered outward into her face.
Sophronia jerked back, so shocked by the blast she let go of her perch and fell off the side of the dirigible.
Instinct had her shooting her hurlie at the side of the ship, grabbing on to the rope. Good thing, too, as she couldn’t see anything. There was something in her eyes—she could only hope it was mostly her own blood and not glass. Thankfully, the hooks of the hurlie found purchase on some protrusion stable enough to support her weight. Then her arms were jerked almost out of their sockets and she crashed into the side of the ship, face-first.
The dark red of pain shredded through her brain, and then, blessedly, a bleak vacant black.
FALLING DOWN ON THE JOB
Sophronia had no idea how long she dangled, but it must have been a very long time.
When she awoke, the arm from which she hung—upon which she wore the hurlie—was entirely numb. Her face hurt like nothing she’d ever experienced before. A tender touch with her working hand suggested her nose was likely broken and much of her skin sliced by glass. She tried not to think about the consequences of scarring. Any future as an agent provocateur would definitely be impossible. She was thirsty and hungry, yet stomach-sick from the scene before she fell: Madame Spetuna exploding. All that blood. It was almost as painful as her shoulder out of its socket.
Mademoiselle Geraldine must have taken out the two guns on the squeak decks, or surely they would have seen her. At least Sophronia hadn’t become a target while she dangled.
Every part of her hurt—belly, head, face, back, arms—but what could she do? No one was going to rescue her. She had to ignore the pain and get herself to Sister Mattie’s classroom to rendezvous with the headmistress and the vampire. And she had to do it by climbing, for she’d given Mademoiselle Geraldine her obstructor. Sophronia and climbing, under normal circumstances, were old chums. But now? The very idea made her want to scream.
When asked afterward, Sophronia never could articulate how she made that nightmare of a climb. Somehow she traversed two-thirds of the ship with eyes partly closed from the hit to her face—thank goodness the glass hadn’t blinded her—and only one working arm. It made her rethink all previous hardships in her life. I’ll never complain of cold tea again.
Eventually, she made it to Sister Mattie’s balcony, collapsing in a heap among the potted plants. She was grateful for the leaves canopied over her, an odd kind of protection. The sky was turning gray beyond them, the sun soon to rise. Never in her life had it taken so long to climb anywhere. She hoped fervently that there was a vampire in residence to carry her to safety, because as she crawled with one arm toward the balcony door, she was convinced she would never walk again.
The door was locked and bolted. She knocked, but no one answered. She fumbled in her pocket for lockpicks, but the world seemed to be turning fuzzy as well as gray. Now her good hand wasn’t working, either. And then she found, to her surprise and embarrassment, that she was lying flat on her stomach, shaking. She wondered, around an odd buzzing in her brain, if she was the first to arrive. Shouldn’t the others have completed their tasks hours ago? Was it possible that they were in worse trouble than she?
