“Sort of like collecting a bunch of grown-up hairy sooties?” guessed Sophronia, feeling somehow hurt the more she considered it. How could I not know this about Soap? My Soap? Stupid not to realize he wants more out of life than shoving coal in boilers all day long. He had seemed eager for her reading lessons, but she’d suspected it was an excuse to spend more time with her. Now she thought there might be more to it: social climbing. Soap had his own plans, which he hadn’t confided and which—worse—didn’t include her.
Soap smiled at his fellow sooties rushing around. “These old cusses, my pack?” Many of the sooties regarded Soap as a kind of unofficial mayor of the boiler room. There were firemen and greasers, adults ranked far above them, but if one wanted to mobilize the sooties, even the head of engineering knew it was best to get Soap to do it.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I suppose they are. Don’t you like the idea of a pack, miss? You kinda got yourself one, what with all your projects.”
“Projects” was what Soap called Sophronia’s various female friends.
Sophronia tried to be fair and consider life from Soap’s perspective. It was jolly hard to imagine, since he was a different class, color, and sex. Still, if he hadn’t any opportunities to further himself, and if that was what he wanted? Not to mention the chance of immortality?
“So that’s why you’ve learned everything you can about werewolves?”
“Indeed. Miss Maccon’s been bonny good with that.” Soap and Sidheag preferred to pretend he didn’t know she had a title, made everyone more relaxed. Sidheag enjoyed being lowly Miss Maccon when she smeared around with the sooties.
Sophronia felt almost compelled to change the subject, but the more she thought about her dear Soap pursuing something so dangerous, the more the ache of worry in her stomach expanded. She tried to stay calm. “But Soap, indenture as a claviger? You’re little better than a warden against moon-madness. You serve the pack’s whims with no guarantee that they’ll let you try for metamorphosis. It could take years.”
“At least there’s a chance of clean, honest work in the interim. Better than being a sootie, and better than being food, like a drone.” He sounded serious about the scheme.
Sophronia’s stomachache expanded into fear, clogging up her throat and thickening her voice. “You do know how rare survival is and how dangerous?” She barked the words, her panic blossoming into anger. Statistics weren’t published, but everyone was aware that few could withstand metamorphosis. It was a huge risk!
Soap’s gentle tone did not rise to match her stridency. “I know the odds.”
“And you’ll wager your whole life on them? That’s idiotic!” She switched tactics, forcing her voice to mellow. “If, by some puny chance, you did survive a bite, then there’s military service. Even werewolves die in the front lines.”
“And others come back war heroes and are granted a holding. Can you imagine, I’d be landed gentry?”
“You could be decades in some foreign land!”
“It’s a chance to travel.”
“That’s a stupid reason to risk werewolf!” I wouldn’t see you. You’d be gone. You’d leave me behind.
Soap was clearly startled, perhaps even hurt by her rage. His posture altered, tense in the arms and shoulders.
Sophronia pressed her eyes with her hand and sensed Soap calm in response to her worried gesture. His slight slouch returned. She couldn’t say that she would miss him, because she was afraid it might work and hold him back. And if this really was his dream? It would be as bad for her to hold him with empty promises as it would be for him to do this for the wrong reason.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Soap, it’s only that I worry.”
Soap softened and put his hand close to hers where it rested on the coal pile—almost touching. “I know, miss, but it’s my choice in the end. And it’s not like I’d have a long, healthy life as a sootie.”
“No good options. That’s what I’m afraid of.” When did Soap get so stubborn? Sophronia was amazed to find she was shivering.
Soap dared to move his hand and cover her shaking one. Sophronia found the hard calluses on his palm oddly comforting. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the clangs and rattles of the boilers. Sophronia calmed, becoming quietly angry at herself for getting so emotional over a friend. A good friend, but only a friend. She extracted her hand from his, gently but firmly.
Finally Soap said, “I may know where Miss Maccon has gone.”
Sophronia brightened, more at the switch in topics than the information. “Oh, good. Where?”
“I think she and Captain Niall have gone to London.”
“Goodness, why?” Now her excitement was over the information itself.
“Because the captain is a strong werewolf loner. If Lord Maccon’s got control problems, Miss Maccon is the type to use Niall as a solution. She’ll do whatever she can to hold that pack of hers together.”
“Why London?”
“Rumor is, that’s where Lord Maccon was last headed.”
“A Scottish werewolf in London? That will make the local packs mad.” Sophronia shuddered. She’d seen Lord Vulkasin, Alpha of Woolsey Pack, only once, and he’d terrified her. If Lord Maccon was anything like that, London might not survive their meeting.
Soap said, “That’s why the dewan works for the queen. Keeps the peace between Alphas.”