Curtsies & Conspiracies

Sophronia put the key in the shed door and turned it slowly. The bolt clicked over, but if the cargo was that important, there would be more than a lock guarding it. Inside Sophronia could just make out that the shed was set up like a lady’s sitting room. There were multiple low couches, a very ornate chaise longue—all brass fittings and cream brocade—and fifty or more embroidered throw cushions. There was even a tea trolley near the door, complete with teapot and a plate of small cakes. She had no doubt those were from Mademoiselle Geraldine’s collection. Sophronia was not fooled by all the detail; no one set up a shed like this unless they were trying to hide something in plain sight. She checked the doorway for traps. She ran her hand cautiously along the jamb on each side and down the center for a trip wire. Nothing. Most atypical.

Cautiously, she moved into the room.

The ornate chaise across the way emitted a puff of steam from under its brocade ruffle and whirled to life. It had an affronted aspect, as though it were a mother goose and the decorative pillows strewn all about were its eggs.

The chaise charged Sophronia, who leapt to one side, bounced up onto a couch, and, in lieu of any other weapon, grabbed one of the cushions.

The chaise whirled on one of its legs, tassels flying. Its gilt decoration and upholstery disguised copious elaborate mechanisms. It faced Sophronia again, skittering from one side to the other, unable to jump up after her and unwilling to charge and break the other couch.

Sophronia waived the pillow at it.

The chaise puffed smoke out a back slat and waved two tassels with obvious menace.

Luckily, it didn’t seem to be able to sound the whistle alarm like a maid mechanical, nor the trumpeting blast like a soldier mechanical, but it was not going to let her out of the shed, either.

Its protocol probably dictates that it hold infiltrators here and not allow them to escape until someone checks. I could be at this all night.

Sophronia glanced around. There was no way out except the door by which she’d entered, and the chaise had that defended. She couldn’t see any weapons mounted on the angry furnishing. In fact, it seemed nothing more than a rather cushy—albeit autonomous—couch. Nevertheless, it looked as though it would crush her if she went for the door. It was certainly fast and heavy enough.

Sophronia considered firing her hurlie and swinging over the chaise and out like a circus acrobat, but there was no hooking point. Plus, she would not have gotten what she came for: the information Professor Braithwope and Sister Mattie had extracted from this room. There must be messages stashed somewhere in the arrangement of the shed.

They were at an impasse, Sophronia and the chaise longue.

She feinted left and the sofa followed. She feinted right. It mirrored her on the ground. She made as if to throw the pillow, and it huffed out smoke in indignation and reared on its two stubby back legs, fighting the air with it forelegs like an angry horse.

Sophronia frowned. They had been taught various forms of secret communication—quilting, knitting, crocheting, and lacework code. Perhaps the embroidery on the pillows conveyed information from active intelligencers trained at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. If it contained communiqués from London, this would make for important cargo indeed.

Ignoring the enraged chaise, which was holding position, Sophronia squinted at the cushion she held. It was too dark to make out any of the crewelwork. The code was probably contained in the colors and numbers of threads as well as the details of each image. It’d be impossible to interpret the meaning without a companion cypher book. Perhaps Sister Mattie had the cypher memorized and that’s why she’d been along. Whatever the case, there was no point in Sophronia’s stealing a pillow, tempting as it may be. Sophronia suddenly remembered that Vieve had loaned her the obstructor. She wasn’t certain it would work on a mechanical without a track, but it was worth a try. She aimed at the perturbed furniture and let loose a silent blast. The sofa froze. It suffered this indignity with an aura of perturbation. Sophronia dropped the pillow, jumped down, and then leapt onto another couch before the chaise came back to life.

It whirred into animation, let out a puff of affronted smoke, and whirled to charge Sophronia at her new location.

Sophronia blasted it again and repeated the process until she perched precariously atop the tea trolley, which sat closest to the door.

She hit the chaise with one last obstructor blast before swinging herself around the jamb, crashing open the door with both feet, and landing on one knee in the warehouse beyond.

The sofa clattered back into motion and came after her but was confined to the shed. It stopped in the doorway, glaring at her and shaking threatening tassels—if an object without eyes can be said to glare. Sophronia felt sorry for the chaise longue, but she wasn’t going to risk being caught in order to mollify a gaudy piece of furniture.

The next morning Mademoiselle Geraldine’s left its Dartmoor home and began to float out over more populated areas. The students were reminded curtly at breakfast by Sister Mattie that “people who live in dirigibles should not throw chamber pots.” The remark was met with censure by Mademoiselle Geraldine but appeared to have been predicated on action taken by the visiting boys, who snickered knowingly.

The propeller could no longer be activated during the day, for it blew too much of their cover away. They lost speed and bobbed up most of the time, trying to catch breezes heading toward London. Suddenly, Sophronia understood the excitement over Giffard’s accomplishment. Riding those impossibly high-up aether currents would allow them to move with both speed and stealth. At present, only on cloudy days and at night could they could fire up the propeller and move with any kind of purpose.

That first day they had a lesson with Sister Mattie on the middle squeak deck on how to throw poison with greater accuracy. They were practicing with water in little perfume bottles. Sophronia asked if isinglass might be mixed with some of the poisons to turn them to jelly, allowing for less dispersal when hurled.

Sister Mattie went into a long diatribe about how different toxins changed when gelatinous, which had them all standing around dumbly staring at her for a quarter of an hour.

Then they heard “Clear the decks!” yelled in an excited voice, tinged with the hint of a French accent.

In accordance with their training, the young ladies scattered, running to the side or rolling away or, in Sophronia’s case, leaping over the railing to hang suspended on the outside of the deck. She did it with the ease of a girl overly familiar with balconies. Her leap and twist placed her staring back in at the deck, so she was in a perfect position to observe Vieve when she charged across it.

The young girl had strapped what looked like ice skates to her feet, only these had multiple wheels on them and some kind of tiny propeller. They were manipulated by a large ball Vieve clutched in one hand. She would tilt the ball to one side or the other to steer, somehow communicating with the skates wirelessly. The skates were firing at a much faster speed than anticipated. Vieve went bucketing all over the deck, weaving erratically from one side to the other, eventually crashing into the well-padded form of Sister Mattie.

Vieve tumbled backward onto her bony bottom. Unprotected by skirts and petticoats, she fell hard, her skate-covered feet sticking up into the air, the wheels still going furiously.

Sister Mattie also went backward, making an “oof” noise.

Sophronia was the first one at her side.

The nun was nonplussed at having been attacked by a small French cannonball. “Dear me, dear me, dear me. My goodness gracious! Who? What?”

Vieve remained lying on her back with feet in the air, apparently unable to turn off her contraptions. She said cheerfully, “What ho, Sister Mattie. Apologies. Only testing a new invention.”

Sophronia, solicitously, helped Sister Mattie to stand and brushed her off. “Are you all right, Sister?”

“Thank you very much, Miss Temminnick. Only surprised, not injured.”

“May I get you a glass of water or smelling salts?” Sophronia was fond of Sister Mattie.

“No, thank you, dear, very thoughtful.” The roly-poly teacher turned to glare at Vieve.

The other girls wandered back over. They surrounded the collapsed Vieve and stared down at her.

“You are a positive menace,” pronounced Monique.

“I don’t know why Lady Linette permits you on board,” added Preshea.

“Professor Lefoux is an able enough instructor, but that can hardly be worth your presence,” continued Monique.

“Useless creature,” said Preshea.

Vieve only looked up at them, lips pursed. Her green eyes were wide and shocked by this attack. She was accustomed to being ignored by the students.

Sophronia was having none of it. “Enough. Things go wrong with science. It’s the way of it. You’re hardly upset that class has been disturbed, so there’s no point in pretending you are.”

Preshea sputtered at this unexpected defense.

Monique was rarely at a loss for words. “Oh, ho! Sophronia appears to have herself a little pet.”

“Ladies!” Sister Mattie recovered her aplomb. “Enough.” She turned to Vieve. “Miss Lefoux, do get control of your shoes and take yourself elsewhere. You realize I will have to speak to your aunt about this incident?”

Sophronia wondered if that weren’t Vieve’s intent. Was she trying to make herself as inconvenient as possible? Perhaps to convince her aunt to let her infiltrate the boys’ school? After all, there were two other squeak decks, both vacant. She didn’t have to test her foot thingamabobs here.

“My sputter-skates,” corrected Vieve.

“What?”

“Sputter-skates, not shoes.”

Sophronia, delicately testing the waters, said, “They look like the kind of thing boys might appreciate.”

Vieve twinkled up at her. “Exactly.” She sat up, carefully balanced on her backside so the sputter-skates didn’t touch the deck. Then she reached down and pulled a small lever. The skates, true to their name, sputtered and died. The wheels stopped moving at last.

“I think,” said Vieve to no one in particular, “I ought to install a safety shutoff.”

“Do you indeed?” Dimity was droll.

Sophronia offered Vieve a hand up.

Vieve balanced precariously on her now quiet sputter-skates.

“Sister Mattie, could Sophronia help me over to those stairs, please?”

Sister Mattie, eager to be rid of the child and get back to lessons, waved her off. “By all means. Miss Temminnick, attend Miss Lefoux, if you would be so kind.”

Sophronia grabbed her friend’s bony shoulders and wheeled her across the deck.

When they were outside of listening distance, Vieve shoved the ball she’d been using to steer into Sophronia’s hand. “Look at that.”

It was leather and metal with a catch on one side. Sophronia opened it to find the mini-prototype—more properly, the crystalline guidance valve—nested inside.

“It transmits protocols via aetheric particles!” crowed Vieve. “Or at least I think so. The original prototype was designed for long-distance point-to-point communication like a wireless telegraph. But this little beauty can be used for point-to-machine commands. The theory is, it uses ambient aether in normal atmosphere, but it would probably work better, faster, and over larger distances within the aetherosphere.”