Curtsies & Conspiracies

“Well, good evening, gentlemen! I do hope your audience is as enjoyable as mine.”

Sophronia pulled out her handkerchief. Never be without one, Lady Linette always says. So wise. She pretended a coughing fit into it and turned slightly to wave her free hand at Monique.

“Oh, dear, sir, are you unwell?” Monique smiled flirtatiously.

Sidheag, meanwhile, bent down to buff a bit lint off her boot.

“Simply a touch of the consumption, miss,” said Sophronia gruffly into her handkerchief.

“Oh, well, do take care.” Monique looked as though she might enter the room to converse further, but the footman, standing behind her, cleared his throat.

“Oh, yes, of course she is waiting. Lovely to meet you, gentlemen. Oh, dear, I suppose we haven’t met. I’m Monique de Pelouse.” Monique was executing the confused-but-coy-and-charming maneuver.

Sophronia and Sidheag both bowed. Sidheag kept her head turned away. Sophronia kept her handkerchief pressed to the lower half of her face.

The footman said sharply, “Miss!”

Monique sparkled at them. “Well, any friend of the countess’s is a friend of mine. I’m having a ball at this very moment at Walsingham House, if you gentlemen would like to join me there later? You’d be more than welcome.”

Sophronia murmured an assent.

Monique clapped her hands. “Capital. Now, do pardon me?” She drifted away.

The footman returned after letting her out into the night.

Sophronia said, in a shocked tone, “Who was that forward bit of baggage?”

The footman was disapproving. “New drone, so green. My apologies, gentlemen. We thought witnessing metamorphosis would dampen her enthusiasm. The metamorphosis failed, and she’s as bad as ever.”

Sophronia and Sidheag exchanged startled looks. Monique has found herself a new patron in the Westminster Hive already? Powerful connection. She must be involved in Dimity and Pillover’s kidnapping.

Sophronia nodded sympathetically to the footman. “Our condolences on the loss of the female drone.”

“Poor girl. A very talented embroiderer, so fast. I’ve never seen one better or more obsessed with decorating throw pillows.”

Oh, no, Sophronia thought, the school’s spy. The intelligencer who tried to warn us with embroidered cushions. Had the hive figured out she was a spy and killed her in the guise of metamorphosis? She felt a cold sweat spring up all over her body and hoped vampires couldn’t smell fear.

“It’s what happens.” The footman looked philosophical. “Haven’t made a new queen in decades. Not likely to change with drones like that new one. She needs a good deal of refinement.”

Sophronia said sagely, “They always do.”

The footman gave her a look that suggested a man in a red bolero ought not to comment on anyone else’s flaws.

Sophronia was defensive. “We came from a fancy dress ball, my good man.”

He looked mollified.

“No time to change,” added Sidheag.

Sophronia gave her a quelling look. That was more than enough. Gentlemen should not have to explain themselves to footmen! Even if they were all drones. The footman hadn’t earned his rank yet; the dandies had.

The footmen led them to the rear of the hive. The house was remarkable, all beautiful artwork, modern furnishings, inventions of great worth, and priceless Persian rugs. The staff, gliding to-and-fro in expensive black-buttoned shoes and starched aprons, were all young and beautiful. The Westminster Hive, whatever else might be said of it, certainly had taste. Monique would fit right in, visually at least. Yet there was something about the place that troubled Sophronia. It felt like spoiled milk, only less smelly. All that plush carpeting muffled sound so that the servants moved noiselessly. And then there was the dead embroidering agent to consider. But it wasn’t only the silence, or that gruesome body; there was something missing.

In the back parlor sat a beautiful, plump woman, who was the focus of a great deal of attention. To her left stood a tall, reedy man with a reluctant hairline and to her right… Dimity and Pillover. Dimity was stretched out in a dead faint on a velvet ottoman. Pillover, white-faced and trembling, was taking tea.

Sophronia realized what had been bothering her so much about the hive house: there were no tracks, no faint noises of background steam, and no mechanicals. No mechanicals at all. The staff was entirely human. Sophronia had never seen anything like it in all her life.

The footman announced them. “Lord Dingleproops and Lord Mersey to call, my lady.”

Pillover gasped and stared at Sophronia and Sidheag. It was a small mistake, since his shock might be attributed to the egregiousness of their attire rather than previous acquaintance.

The plump woman could only be the Westminster Hive queen, Countess Nadasdy. She was impeccably dressed to the height of style. She had on a gown with a very large skirt and a very tight bodice, although she was a tad round for such an outfit. She looked, Sophronia felt, a little like a milkmaid from a dairy farm—fond of cheese. Her cheeks were rosy and her manners light and gay, but she only seemed frivolous; those cornflower blue eyes saw everything.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome.” Her voice was warm and soft, very ladylike.

Sophronia and Sidheag bowed deeply.

“Good evening, Countess,” said Sophronia. “Our master tenders his warmest regards. Our condolences on your recent”—she paused delicately—“mis-fang.”

“Oh, thank you. And thank him for me, will you please? Pity he could not send more appropriately dressed messengers.” The woman tittered at her own insult.

“We were nearest to your abode when he heard the news. He felt time was pressing and sent us on immediately. We were attending a fancy dress ball over yonder,” Sophronia waggled a hand in an unspecified direction. “Please excuse our eccentricity.”

“Yes?” said the countess. “And what is his lordship’s vaunted news? I did not publicize my intent to bite. Failure is all too often the outcome this century.” Her gentleman companion put a consoling hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off.

“Ah, no, you are correct—he did not know of that. No, he understands you have visitors.”

“Oh?”

Sophronia wandered over to the couch, took out the smelling salts from her waistcoat pocket, and administered them to Dimity. None of the vampires objected. Dimity revived only to squawk at Sophronia—suddenly there and so peculiarly dressed.

“Hush now, child,” condescended Sophronia.

Dimity’s eyes widened, but she remembered her training and hushed, sitting fully upright.

Sophronia returned to stand next to Sidheag, crossing her arms. “Should you be involving yourself to such an extent? Kidnapping is a tad rude, wouldn’t you say?”

The countess moved to sit next to the revived Dimity and placed a white hand on the girl’s arm. Dimity shivered and looked down at her lap.

“Such harsh vocabulary, Lord Dingleproops. We merely borrowed them for a little. Didn’t we, dears? And we’ve been having a lovely time of it, haven’t we? So educational. Not every mortal gets a chance to witness metamorphosis. Even an unsuccessful metamorphosis.” The countess dabbed at her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief as if remembering the blood that had recently been there.

Dimity looked as if she might faint again.

At which moment the parlor door burst open and Soap, carrying all those things needed to clean a chimney and a good deal more besides, clattered inside. He was covered in even more soot than usual, shedding it as he walked.

The countess let out a small scream. “My carpets!”

Sophronia was instantly on her guard. Soap wouldn’t make a fuss unless he wanted to warn them of something.

The sootie doffed his cap at the august personages. “Evening, all. I’m here for the chimneys. Said I was to start with this room, if that suits.”

“No, that certainly does not suit,” said the countess.

“But madam, skinny as a pickled gherkin, I am. I fits, I assure you.”

Oh, dear, thought Sophronia, picking up on Soap’s hint, we’ve got Picklemen coming.

Mild chaos ensued, with the countess’s staff trying to hustle Soap out of the room, struggling to stop him from shedding further. Soap dodged them and clanged loudly. The countess issued increasingly strident instructions.

Sophronia and Sidheag took the opportunity to shift closer to Dimity and Pillover.

“What are you doing here?” mouthed Dimity at them.

Sophronia made a small shushing gesture.

Into the madness strode a tall, elderly gentleman in a top hat with a band of green about it. He was followed by three similarly dressed men, a short lady in somber grays carrying a reticule shaped like a metal sausage dog, and Felix Mersey.

Sophronia thought, Now we’re really in the soup.

The handsome footman followed, looking harried. “I tried to stop them, Countess, but they insisted, and he is a duke.”

The tall, reedy vampire placed himself before the countess protectively. “Duke Golborne!”

“Duke Hematol,” replied the Pickleman.

My goodness, thought Sophronia, Felix took my suggestion and involved his father, how remarkable. I may owe him another kiss.

The short lady, who Sophronia realized was Madame Spetuna in a new disguise, put her reticule on the floor. The reticule puffed steam out its ears excitedly and trundled in Sophronia’s direction, tail wagging back and forth.

The countess shrieked even louder. “Mechanimal! Get that repulsive thing out of my hive!”

Several of the staff left off chasing Soap and dove for Bumbersnoot, who scuttled away at a much greater speed than Sophronia had thought him capable.

The countess began fanning herself vigorously with a gold lace fan. Then she squealed a third time, for Bumbersnoot bumped against her foot. A maid dove after him, upsetting a lamp with a stained-glass shade.

Duke Hematol reached out with supernatural reflexes and caught the lamp before it fell.

This display of otherworldly prowess upset the head Pickleman, Felix’s father. He began to harangue the vampires, accusing them of all manner of dastardly deeds. The chief offense of which seemed to be trying to steal control of the crystalline guidance valve and its patents and production. Although they must have seen the body, no one cared about the girl who had been savaged. That, apparently, was ordinary vampire practice.

“We will not have Picklemen harnessing the aether and using it against us!” the Duke of Hematol said in defense of the vampire position. “Nor will we be ostracized from a technology that can change the course of human transport! We will not permit you to maintain sole control. Other possible applications for these valves are too dangerous.” It was like a heated debate in the House of Lords.

Soap, shrugging off all attempts at dismissal, went over to the fireplace and began clattering up it, causing as much ruckus as possible—more, in fact, than one might expect.

Bumbersnoot charged about with Westminster drones in hot pursuit.

Sophronia gave Dimity the nod.

Dimity cast herself prostrate at the feet of the Picklemen, begging them for salvation from imminent vampire doom. She claimed all manner of mistreatment at the hands of the countess. The tea was lukewarm. The biscuits stale. The seat cushion lumpy. And a girl had been bitten to death right in front of her! She demanded she be rescued instantly and rounded out her complaints with a plaintive explanation that she was missing a ball!