Waistcoats & Weaponry
Page 62

Sophronia began her own fit in earnest, waving off bees. The three girls used the distraction to back—or, more correctly, gyrate—away from the duke, Felix, and the two confused flywaymen.
And then, delightful music to the ear, Sophronia heard the dulcet sounds of a locomotive cranking to life.
SESSION 13: A ROUSING GAME OF MARBLES
The duke noticed that there was a train heading slowly but inexorably in their direction. “What’s going on, boys?” he shouted over the resulting hubbub.
Sophronia said, “Sorry, Felix, but you’re in safe hands now. I figure you don’t want to stay with us, at this point.”
“Mr. Temminnick, what are you about?” Felix’s voice was deeply suspicious. He leaned up on one elbow to see her. The three girls had managed to wiggle impressively far.
Sophronia thought he looked heart-wrenchingly vulnerable.
Then he turned to the duke. “Father?”
Sophronia immediately regretted any sympathetic feelings.
The train moved relentlessly toward them, picking up speed.
Felix lay across the tracks.
Sophronia said, “Sir? You might want to move your son.” She paused, significantly. “And your dirigible.”
“You wouldn’t!” the duke protested. “Stop this immediately! How on earth did you get a message to your driver? You’ve been here the whole time. What is going on?” He turned to glare at Felix. “Son, order this little friend of yours to stop. What’s he doing taking charge like this, anyway? You rank him!”
Sophronia, still backing away, made a deep—almost courtly—bow.
Felix said, “Never doubt Mr. Temminnick’s word on the matter of immediate actions. Father, if you would be so kind, I think I ought to move off the rails now?”
The train kept on coming.
The duke said a rude word and bent to part lift, part drag his son up the berm on the side of the tracks.
Sophronia, Dimity, and Sidheag moved to the other side, staying as close as safety might allow.
Shaggy shot his gun at the oncoming locomotive in a futile effort at stopping it. Then he and his companion raced for the airship.
The locomotive charged forward. The girls spaced themselves and braced to leap.
The engine was in front of them, and then the cab.
Dimity went first, grabbing the jamb of the open doorway on the driver’s side and swinging herself in behind Soap.
Sidheag swung in right after. Sophronia barely made it, stumbling on her dismount. Falling forward, she crashed against Soap. She barked her chin on his shoulder, causing them both pain, but quickly tried to extract herself. Soap, having reflexively embraced her with one arm, refused to let go, as though reassuring himself that she was safely back with him. He wasn’t even looking at her, his other arm and his attention focused on the work of crashing a train. Sophronia allowed the embrace; she was relieved, too. She even enjoyed that for the briefest of moments she could examine his adorable, familiar face, absorb his warm, firm presence, without fear of romantic repercussions.
He said, letting her go gently, still without looking away from the various levers, dials, and gauges, “Welcome back. Did I interpret Bumbersnoot’s message correctly, Sophronia, or do I owe our fine friends here an apology?”
“No apology necessary.” Sophronia rubbed her chin.
“So you say, but you’re not about to hit their dirigible with a ruddy great train.” Soap donned a slightly maniacal grin.
Sophronia stuck her head out, took a look, and shared his glee.
Dimity ran to the other side of the cab to look out, around Monique. “Lord Mersey is clear!”
“More’s the pity,” muttered Soap.
“Now, now,” Sophronia reprimanded, “he was unexpectedly connected, as it turned out. His father was on board that airship. Caused some useful confusion.”
Dimity said, “There they go! Bye-bye, gentlemen.” She waved cheerfully at Felix and his father as they flashed by.
The dirigible was directly in front of them now and struggling to lift off in time to avoid being hit.
It wasn’t going to make it; it was too slow. The train had gotten up speed faster than Sophronia thought possible. Clearly, she would have to learn more about trains.
“Brace yourselves!” yelled Soap. He didn’t bother to brake.
Sidheag said, voice wobbly, worried about the train, “Soap, you could slow down a little!” Her little pal, Dusty, was happily stoking the boiler up into the red; he didn’t even register what they were up to.
The train wasn’t going all that fast—a horse at full trot might have kept pace—but it still relentlessly plowed into the dirigible. Sophronia held the doorway behind Soap, leaning out just enough to watch the carnage. She was reminded of the time, what seemed like an age ago, when she had tumbled out of a dumbwaiter and landed in a trifle.
The dirigible was designed to float easily and with minimal effort, not to withstand a train-sized battering ram. The gondola was only made of thin wood, and splintered around the locomotive much as the custard and strawberries had once done over Mrs. Barnaclegoose’s favorite bonnet.
They thrust easily through the one-room interior of the dirigible, leaving bits of propeller, small steam engine parts, and wood scraps scattered behind. The train didn’t even try to derail.
The balloon section, suddenly free of a deal of weight, bobbed upward, swaying wildly from side to side.
Dimity gasped. “Would you look at that?”