Waistcoats & Weaponry
Page 17

“But for Sidheag to leave with no word to us? No word to the teachers?”
Soap shrugged. “Bet she’ll try to send word, soon as she can. I’d keep an eye fixed.”
“On the other hand, could be she doesn’t trust someone here at school. In which case, she might try to reach me at home at that dratted ball of my brother’s.” Sophronia stood, brushing down her trousers. “It’s getting late, I should go to bed.”
Soap followed the movement of her hands; her legs were plainly visible without formal skirts and petticoats.
Sophronia stopped, self-conscious.
Soap looked away, muttered something to himself. Then abruptly he said, “You’ll be dancing with that Felix nobbin, won’t you? At this fool ball of your family’s?”
“I will.” Sophronia, surprised by the question, temporarily forgot her policy of evading all things romantic around Soap.
“He’s a snoot-airing toff.”
“He is.” Sophronia was at a loss to do anything but agree with Soap. She’d never seen him in such a tetchy mood, and they’d already argued once this evening. She didn’t want to push her luck.
“Dad’s a Pickleman, you recall that?”
“It’s part of the attraction, I suppose.”
Soap glared at her. “Never thought you would be one to steam in for naughty boys, miss.”
Sophronia stiffened, annoyed that Soap was pursuing this subject so doggedly. “There’s a certain level of appeal.”
“Oh, yeah, what’s that?”
“Soap, I can’t have this discussion with you!”
“Oh ho, why not? I wager you talk with the young miss projects about it.”
“They’re girls!”
“And I’m not.”
“I certainly hope not, or you’ve been acting a better hoax than Vieve ever pulled.”
Soap moved in close, quick as a supernatural; perhaps he was halfway to werewolf already. He certainly looked fiercer than she’d ever thought possible. “Happy to prove it by tossing that Felix blighter out the hatch anytime.”
Sophronia couldn’t help but giggle at the image—poor Felix would be so surprised, clutching his top hat and floating through the air. “Oh, Soap, you are droll.”
Soap blinked and slid back into familiar friend territory. “Well, then, miss, you tell that to the other sooties? Lately they been taking me seriously.”
“That’s ’cause you been all over moody,” barked one sootie, moving past them at a trot.
“Goodness, Soap, imagine taking you seriously!”
“Yes, imagine that?” said Soap, all smiles, but Sophronia detected an edge of bitterness.
Sophronia made good her escape, unsettled by the whole conversation. Sidheag going to London. Soap becoming a claviger and then a werewolf! She wanted her old silly boyish Soap back. The one who didn’t care for the state of the world. The one who made no plans to be immortal, who took no grave risks. The one whose eyes merely twinkled with mischief and nothing else. She wanted things as they were. And I thought it would be such fun to grow up. I can’t tell Dimity about it, either. Dimity wouldn’t understand. Dimity would tell her to stop visiting engineering. But as much as Sophronia was unsettled by the new Soap, she felt a sharp pain at the very idea of not seeing him at all. Oh, bother, thought Sophronia, why is he trying to ruin everything?
Next morning they told Lady Linette that Sidheag had disappeared. They said they thought she’d simply gone off to mope somewhere alone with her thoughts and her disturbing letter.
“You didn’t see her leave the ship?”
They all shook their heads.
Dimity twirled a lock of golden-brown hair.
Agatha looked at her feet.
“You’re quite certain? She wasn’t with anyone? This could be important.”
“Perhaps if we knew something of that letter?” replied Sophronia, knowing it wouldn’t work, but drawing a kind of battle line in the intelligencer sand.
“Indeed. Perhaps. But I’m afraid I don’t know myself.”
Sophronia narrowed her eyes. Lady Linette’s cornflower-blue ones were impassive. They both inclined their heads in acknowledgment. At least we both know where we stand, thought Sophronia.
“Very well, ladies, off with you. Breakfast won’t wait.”
For a fortnight they learned nothing more. There was no mail delivered. With Captain Niall gone, there was no one capable of running to Swiffle-on-Exe for the pickup. They didn’t go groundside, either. Professor Lefoux took over their bladed fan lessons. They had never before realized how integral a land-bound werewolf was to their collective mental stability. Floating in the gray drizzle—the general aspect of Dartmoor in January—with nary a peep from the rest of the world gave them all a malaise of the emotional humors. Even Dimity, who might have held to her bubbly nature with a birthday and a ball in her immediate future, remained troubled by Sidheag’s absence and stayed quiet.
Sophronia did not visit engineering. She was uncomfortable with moody Soap. Perhaps they both needed some distance. She wasn’t sure if she was punishing him for the gripes and hungry looks, or scared that she might unwittingly apply some of her seduction lessons to him. And the last thing she wanted to do was encourage her friend in a hopeless cause. His intent to turn werewolf felt near to a betrayal.
Dimity noted Sophronia’s lack of evening jaunts, as her repository of filched sweets grew ever larger with no clandestine distribution. Dimity felt it her ladylike duty to dispense tea-cake charity unto boiler room unfortunates. “Had a falling-out with your sootie beau, have you?”