Manners & Mutiny

There seemed to be no consideration of the order of precedence in seating. Instead, they were guided gently but firmly by the drones to sit in a pattern orchestrated by Lord Akeldama. The girls were seated as far apart from each other as possible. They would be unable to pass notes. Dimity was next to the funny little inventor, Mr. Thermopopple, to whom she paid rapt attention. Dimity would never misapply dinner conversation. She would take advantage of the man’s expertise if it killed her. Given his flat voice and questionable subject matter—who cared about float capacity dynamics?—she risked at least being maimed by monotone. Agatha was next to the pack representative. The Beta was making an effort to put her at ease, but also trying to determine why three schoolgirls and their chaperone were in the midst of such august company. Petunia sat in a state of terror next to the dewan.

“Good evening,” rumbled the dewan.

“Meep,” said Petunia. Sophronia couldn’t fault her—the dewan terrified her on occasion.

The dewan rolled his eyes and turned to his other dining companion.

The long table was decorated with statues of shepherds and shepherdesses, and Grecian urns full of fluffy ferns arranged in such a way as to make hand signals nearly impossible between Agatha, Dimity, and Sophronia. Sophronia, on Lord Akeldama’s right, gave him a mock salute at the mastery of the arrangement. Nicely done. The known spies had been neutralized from communication. She felt isolated. But what the vampire had forgotten was that she had worked alone successfully before. Her friends were her strength, but not her only strength.

They were about to start eating when one final guest was ushered in—the type of guest who loved to make an entrance and had timed her lateness accordingly.

Monique de Pelouse was stunning in a dress of teal watered silk with black braid piping emphasizing her tiny waist. Her hair was a pile of gold, woven through with teal ribbon. Her sleeves were full enough to hide an armament, but not so full as to impede eating. Perhaps she wore a dash too much rouge, but only Sophronia suspected the rosy glow.

Lord Akeldama stood to greet her. He accorded her a distinction she did not deserve, gesturing her to the empty seat on his left, across from Sophronia.

“My dear Miss Pelouse, welcome. Does everyone here know Miss Pelouse? Lovely. Now that we have the countess’s representative, perhaps we can begin?”

A parade of drones, not footmen—Lord Akeldama wants only those he can trust working tonight—began serving. There were beautiful dishes for the human guests, exquisitely arranged platters of raw meat for the werewolves, and champagne mixed with blood for Lord Akeldama.

Sophronia had predicted that Lord Akeldama’s menu would be as frivolous as his dress. But in the matter of food, he either had simple tastes, or he farmed it out to someone who still ingested the stuff. The humans started with a pea soup made with ham broth, accompanied by bread sprinkled with powdered mint. The fish course was a John Dory in sage sauce, followed by a joint of beef with carrots, veal cutlets in curry gravy, and pheasant with truffles. They finished with a white pudding and stewed apples. It was delicious and perfectly prepared, but Sophronia could tell that others found it disappointingly familial.

Since Lord Akeldama was busy ensuring that the conversation flowed, Sophronia turned to her other dining partner. He had a laugh that sounded like he was chewing air and was already in deep conversation with his neighbor, unwilling to entertain the whims of a schoolgirl. She summarily dismissed him with equal disregard and greater contempt. Imagine discounting someone on the grounds of age and gender! Then again, she was trained to take advantage of exactly that kind of ignorance. However, it meant she was forced to look across the way, through the fern fronds, to Monique.

“Miss Pelouse, how are you this evening? I haven’t seen you in ages.” Sophronia dove in with a will.

“I suspect that is healthier for both of us, Miss Temminnick.” Monique was as barbed as ever.

“Oh, my, you didn’t suffer any adverse effect from your impromptu swim last winter, I hope?” Sophronia recalled Monique’s offended squawking fondly.

“Certainly not. I have an exceptional constitution.”

Sophronia nibbled her fish, pausing to phrase her next dart. “How are you finding the hive these days?”

“I consider myself quite pleasantly situated, thank you,” replied Monique primly. “I understand you are in London for the holidays?”

“To visit my dear sister. Recently married.” Sophronia gestured with her chin at Petunia, who was giggling desperately at the dewan.

Monique gave Petunia a disgusted look. “I suppose we all have our crosses to bear.”

Sophronia said, with no little feeling, “Too true. So the hive is still comfortable despite your misfortunes?” She tried to play on a sympathetic angle.

Monique sidestepped her. “We acquired a rather nice dirigible recently.”

“How excellent for the upcoming summer months. But surely, vampires cannot partake?”

“Sadly, no. But the rest of us are encouraged to learn the basics of floating. Drones must go where vampires cannot. It’s our role.”

“How nice for you. Is it a large craft?” Sophronia wasn’t certain why Monique would intentionally pass on information about hive assets. Is it a veiled threat of some kind?

“Not very, but I understand it possesses not inconsiderable speed.”

Now, that really was too much information. What is Monique up to? “Worried about flywaymen, are we?”