Sophronia stepped back and let out a sigh.
Her stomach rumbled, informing her that a good deal of time had passed. She had been given longer to contemplate each test than she realized. A bang sounded at the door. When she opened it, a maid mechanical sat there, bearing a tray of food. Sophronia took it gratefully, and the maid trundled off without ceremony. Sophronia closed the door with her foot and, in the absence of chairs, balanced the tray precariously on one section of the oddgob.
She assessed the food. Nothing smelled of almonds. Nevertheless, she avoided the leg of mutton in glistening currant jelly sauce and the Bakewell pudding and ate only the plain boiled potatoes and broccoli. Better to assume everything was still a test until Lady Linette returned to tell her otherwise. Sad, because she loved Bakewell. When nothing else happened, Sophronia put the tray down and examined the oddgob while it was not waggling things autocratically in front of her.
It was a fascinating apparatus. She wondered if Vieve knew of its existence at the school. Genevieve Lefoux was a dear friend, a mercurial ten-year-old with a propensity for dressing like a boy and a habit of inventing gadgetry. If Vieve didn’t know of the oddgob, she would want to, and she was certain to ask all sorts of questions. Sophronia took mental notes in anticipation of conversations to come. When tired of that, she used the scissors to extract a small part from the machine. It was a crystalline valve, faceted, and awfully familiar in shape and style. It looked like a smaller version of the prototype Monique had tried to steal last year. This valve appeared to have been only propped in, so Sophronia was certain that removing it would make no difference to the function of the oddgob. When they’d first discovered the prototype valve last year, Vieve had prattled on about point-to-point transmissions. A revelatory breakthrough indeed, since the telegraph machine had recently proved a dismal failure. If this was a new version of that same prototype, Vieve would want to see it.
The door behind Sophronia creaked open, and she hastily stashed the mini-prototype up her sleeve, where the pagoda style allowed for secret pockets.
“Miss Temminnick, have you finished?”
“Isn’t everyone finished at the same time? The oddgob cycle seems to be prescribed,” replied Sophronia.
“Now, now, manners.”
Sophronia curtsied apologetically, although she did feel as if she had been abandoned for longer than necessary.
“I had to assess Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott first. Technically, she was admitted ahead of you. If you’ll recall, you went for tea with Mademoiselle Geraldine before you were formally allowed into the school.”
Sophronia recalled it quite vividly, as a matter of fact. All those fake cakes.
“Now for your report.” Lady Linette removed something round and mechanical from her reticule and shook it violently. Was she mad?
Nothing happened.
“They said it was working. Oh, bother.” Frustrated, Lady Linette marched over to the oddgob and jerked a few cranks and switches on the underside of the mechanical’s carapace. In response, the mechanical turned a smaller, hidden crank at the back, well out of human reach. On the far end of the oddgob, a massive roller ratcheted down, dipped into a pan of ink, and rolled across a series of letters. These then beat down in a sequential blur onto a taut piece of parchment. A large pink blotter rocked back and forth across the finished text.
Sophronia was impressed. She hadn’t noticed that the oddgob contained a printing press.
Something rattled in the machine and then whined.
“Stop that,” said Lady Linette to the oddgob, shaking the mysterious object in her hand at it again.
Oh, dear, perhaps the mini-prototype was vital, thought Sophronia.
The oddgob whined louder and began to shake.
“Stop cranking,” Lady Linette instructed the mechanical, shaking the object harder. “Miss Temminnick, I think we had better make haste.” The teacher gestured for Sophronia to precede her from the room.
Too late, however, for the oddgob exploded with a terrific bang. Hair ribbons fluttered up into the air, the tea service shattered, the fake tea cake bounced like a rubber ball, and ink squirted out from the printing press.
Sophronia and Lady Linette flattened themselves on the floor, heedless of crushed dresses and flipped petticoats.
“My goodness,” said Lady Linette into the resulting silence. “What did you do?” She stood and walked to the oddgob, now tilted to one side as if it had a limp.
“Me? Nothing at all!” insisted Sophronia, sitting up.
Lady Linette tutted as she brushed ink spatter off her well-powdered cheek with a handkerchief. “Where’s the new valve gone?”
“What valve?” Sophronia blinked wide, confused eyes at her.
Lady Linette gave her a long look. “Probably rolled free during the explosion. I told Professor Lefoux it wasn’t tight enough in the cradle. And I said it wouldn’t work properly regardless.” Sophronia didn’t say anything. “I wish we could have tested it on a less valuable machine. Never mind, we’ve got your results.” Lady Linette waved the oddgob’s printed paper.
Sophronia stood and innocently offered her teacher the additional handkerchief she’d acquired during the test. Lady Linette took it absently, then paused, pondering it. She did not apply it to the remains of the ink on her face, instead handing it back with a little smile.
“Oh, very good, Miss Temminnick. Very good indeed!” She examined the printed sheet. Closely.
“Let us begin your review. The painting, time period?”
“Eighteen fourteen, by attire,” said Sophronia. “Give or take a year. Evening party.”
“Dress color?”
“Blue on the central subject, green and cream on those in the background.”
“Bonnet style and decoration?”
Trick question! “None of the ladies were wearing hats. The subject had cornflowers in her hair. As I said, it was an evening party.”
Lady Linette arched an eyebrow over her spectacles. “And have you any additional thoughts?”
Sophronia straightened. “A great many.”
“About the painting, Miss Temminnick. Don’t be coy.”
Sophronia forbore mentioning that Lady Linette had said only yesterday that there was always time for coyness in young ladies of quality. “The painting was well executed, but the artist was probably poor.”Lady Linette looked nonplussed. “Why do you say that?”
“No expensive pigments, like red and gold, were used. Either that, or the painter feared toxicity. He did not sign it. There were approximately twelve people in the image.” Sophronia paused delicately for effect. “And one cat. The wallpaper was striped, and the garden through the window had a Roman feel.”
Lady Linette nodded, dislodging her spectacles. She reseated them on her nose with a sniff of annoyance. Lady Linette always dressed younger than she was. Spectacles, under such circumstances, might be considered a fate worse than knitwear.
“Moving on to the tea service, Miss Temminnick. The tea was cold. Why did you still serve it?”
Sophronia nibbled her lip. It was another habit her teachers were trying to eliminate. “If you must draw attention to the lips, a small lick is superior. It is too academic to nibble” was Lady Linette’s customary admonishment. “It’s all very well to be an intellectual, but one shouldn’t let others see. That’s embarrassing” was Mademoiselle Geraldine’s opinion.
Sophronia stopped nibbling. “I did consider dumping it entirely, but I thought the instructions indicated I was to be evaluated on the act of serving. Had there been other people present, I would have sent it back.”
“Milk first, the lower-class way?”
“But necessary if the cups were lined with an acid-based poison. The milk would curdle or discolor. Also, one of the cups smelled of lavender.”
Lady Linette said, unguardedly, “It did?”
“Yes. I don’t know of any poisons with that smell, but it might be used to cover over another scent or, of course, it might have been your cup, Lady Linette.”
“My cup?”
“You always smell of lavender.”
“The tea cakes?”
“One was fake. Of the other two, both smelled of bitter almond—one because it was an almond cake, I believe. The other was powdered in cyanide.” Sophronia had been saddened by the cyanide lesson with Sister Mattie. For the rest of her life—unless she learned to bake—almond cake was right out. There was no surefire way to guarantee lack of cyanide in any almond-smelling confection.
“Moving on to the ribbons.”
Sophronia explained, “I selected the one that matched my outfit and tied it in a Bunson’s knot.”
“There’s a piece missing.”
Sophronia grinned. “I must beg your patience in that matter, my lady.”
Her teacher was taken aback but continued. “Why the Bunson’s knot?”
Sophronia parroted a recent article she’d translated from the Parisian fashion papers. Vieve, of all people, had given it to her. Vieve might dress like a newspaper boy, but she took an interest in current styles, particularly hats. This article had delighted the young girl. “It has a pleasing military feel. I read recently that the juxtaposition and power of masculine elements can inspire confidence in the wearer, and the accompanying aura of authority is never a bad thing,” Sophronia paraphrased.
Lady Linette looked impressed. This was not part of any lesson. “And do you feel more confident and authoritative, Miss Temminnick?”
Sophronia touched the ribbon. “Actually, I do.”
Lady Linette nodded. “It would be a good style for you to pursue. I suggest you encourage your mother to have at least one new dress made up with military detailing.” She gave Sophronia a pitying look.
Sophronia blushed. She and Dimity did their best to make over her dresses. But her older ones had such a narrow silhouette, and with skirts getting progressively wider, there wasn’t much they could do. It was impossible to add volume to a dress. And this was a finishing school—everyone noticed such things. Still, if Lady Linette thought more masculine fashions might suit her, perhaps gold tassels and epaulets were in order. Dimity would be over the moon.
Lady Linette interrupted her reverie. “You chose the sewing scissors and one of the handkerchiefs from the next test. Why?”
“We have not completed knife training with Captain Niall, so I wasn’t confident in the letter opener, but I know I can work scissors to my advantage, and it is always good to have an extra handkerchief.”
“Why not the fan or the gloves?”
“White kid is impractical for a lady of covert activities. We have not had any fan training yet.”
“The crumpet?”
“Oh, no, I’m not worthy.”
“Lastly, we had you send a coded message. Give it to me.”
Sophronia presented her with the bag of sweets tied with the bit of ribbon.
Lady Linette nodded her approval. “Ribbon used to indicate character of the sender. Nice touch, Miss Temminnick. You made use of the scissors from the previous selection.” She opened the bag and poured out the contents, including the one carefully broken sweet with the blood inside.
Lady Linette sniffed it and examined the stain. “Show me your hand.”
Sophronia removed one glove to display the finger she had pricked.
“You would have had to set up the code ahead of time. Nevertheless, an innovative method of getting a message across, and virtually untraceable, particularly as your recipient can eat the sweet.” Lady Linette looked once more down at the printed paper, then produced a stick of graphite and made some notes at the bottom.
Sophronia could feel her shoulders tensing and fought to keep them down. Were my choices correct? Do they want the expected route, or is it better if I did something out of the ordinary? Will they send me down? Sophronia was in ever greater fear that her sojourn at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s might come to a premature end. Only half a year ago she had resisted finishing school with every fiber of her being, until she realized Mademoiselle Geraldine’s offered no ordinary education. Now she dreaded the possibility of returning home to her former life.
Lady Linette said, “Everyone’s results are given together. You will receive your final marks in front of your peers.”
Sophronia’s heart sank. This explained the pale faces of the other girls—anticipated trauma. Agatha, in particular, hated public exposure.
“However, my initial assessment is that your capacities are suited to our institution. You are overly independent. I suggest focused study in social congregation and deportment. Groups, Miss Temminnick, are your weakness. Generally speaking, most lone intelligencers are men, not women. We ladies must learn to manipulate society.”