Waistcoats & Weaponry (Page 53)

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?”

Like some strange form of fruit from a floating trifle, the heart of the flywaymen’s dirigible spilled forth vast numbers of crystalline valve frequensors. Hundreds of them scattered everywhere. They must have been all set up, below the airship deck, in hundreds of little cradles, all linked to one big aetherographic transmitter. It explained everything, including why the airship could only boast a skeletal crew—the weight alone!

The frequensors, which were like faceted milky glass, sparkled, rolling everywhere. Some fractured into thousands of pieces, some were smashed under the wheels of the train as it completed its destructive charge and emerged unscathed, leaving carnage in its wake. Again, thought Sophronia, not unlike me and that trifle.

The dirigible’s balloon, along with the top portion of what remained of the gondola, bobbed higher. Sophronia and Dimity stuck their heads out their respective doors; Dimity, pushing Monique carelessly aside as if she were a curtain, craned to look behind. Monique was still screaming, but that might be due to the indignity of being treated like drapery.

Dimity yelled, “The duke has left Lord Mersey and is trying to collect prototypes—sorry—frequensors. Oh, dear, it’s as if he’s lost his marbles.”

Sophronia said, “I wager the pickled duke is none too pleased and is going to demand an explanation from his son.”

Sidheag looked at her, face somber. “Will Felix rat us out?”

“I begged him not to.” It was the best answer Sophronia could give, because she didn’t know. Would her Piston beau reveal who they were and where they came from?

Soap said, monotone, concentrating on the track in front of them, though it was clear now and not worthy of such focus, “Don’t have much faith in your sweetheart, there, do you?”

Sophronia said, “I’ve no illusions as to my consequence. If forced to choose between me and family, I don’t know if he has the backbone to go up against the duke. I hadn’t the right to ask that of him. Why should he do that for me? We’ve no formal engagement. I tried to encourage change, but in the end a man can’t be blamed for his nature.”