At Dimity’s nod, she pushed the lever toward the letter S. The machinery of the record room came to life with an enormous clatter, made all the louder by the unnatural stillness that had preceded it. The whoosh of heat, the hiss of steam, and the great rattle of gears, pistons, and rotary mechanisms were enough to wake even Sister Mattie. They were sure to alert Professor Braithwope. Crazy he might be, but there was nothing wrong with his supernatural hearing. And he, at least, would still be up.
The records shifted from one part of the room to another, parting and regrouping. They whizzed around in a ballet of organization. A large cluster drifted in Sophronia’s direction, stopping directly above her desk. She pressed down hard on the brass nodule and, with a loud clunk, the records dropped to eye level.
She flipped through them quickly, but none was labeled with the name Madame Spetuna. She swore and racked her brain for a clue, a memory, anything that might indicate more about the intelligencer whom she had known only by disguise. In their brief acquaintance, Madame Spetuna had gone from elderly fortune-teller to flywayman to Pickleman associate. She had appeared shipboard, borrowed Bumbersnoot, and reappeared in the heart of a vampire hive. Hers had been the assignment to read the pillows embroidered by an intelligencer in Westminster Hive, a girl who had been killed because Madame Spetuna had neglected her in favor of infiltrating the Pickleman operation.
I wonder, thought Sophronia, what happens to those of us who disobey orders? I wonder what happens to young lady intelligencers who run away or join the enemy? There must be a record of sinners against the school. That would explain Lady Linette’s anger, if she thought Madame Spetuna had stopped communicating because she was a traitor.
She moved to the desk that dialed in locations. “Dimity, what would you label an intelligencer who turned bad? Or who went missing while under cover?”
Dimity ran to take her place and dialed in a name. While the records moved, she glanced at her necklace watch. “Ten minutes left. What would I label a traitor in code, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly. Traitor is for governments, deserter is for armies. What is it for us?”
“Carelessness.” Dimity unclipped and read a record. She grinned over it and then returned it to its spot and dialed in another name.
Our head teacher would indeed think it careless to have misplaced an intelligencer. Sophronia dialed in the word lost to the location desk.
Records sped toward her. There were more than Sophronia had expected—a dozen at least. It made her nervous. Lady Linette has indeed been careless.
“Seven minutes!” Dimity was dialing in another name furiously. Sophronia didn’t object—Dimity was entitled to her curiosity so long as she kept an eye to the time.
And then, there it was, the very last record, the most recent file.
Madame Spetuna was listed as an alias, and the intelligencer’s real name was at the top: Lavish Vivita. Two decades she’d been in service, indentured to the school and farmed out, occasionally, to the potentate. Her record was one of consistent results through established identities, and Madame Spetuna was considered her most successful guise. There was an entry about becoming a flywayman. After that came mention of her using initiative, in the form of a mechanimal, to break into the Picklemen’s inner circle.
There was a note at the bottom of her file, dated three months ago. Miss Vivita is missing, presumed lost. But there was no code, nothing that might help Sophronia persuade Lady Linette.
It was disappointing, and not only because it was of so little help. Something about it spoke to the disinterested nature of the use of intelligencers. As if we are disposable. Sophronia shuddered.
“Time!” Dimity ran over.
Sophronia flipped the file closed and pinned it back up. She dialed to a random location in the West Midlands, hoping Dimity had done the same with names. There was no way to disguise the fact that someone had broken in and activated the record room, but there was no need for anyone to know which files had been viewed.
“Scurry!” said Sophronia.
They ran out the door. Only to find Lady Linette, Professor Lefoux, and Professor Braithwope sitting in the hallway outside, playing cards.
“Ah, Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, what a surprise.” Lady Linette put down her cards. “Do come over.”
Professor Lefoux and Professor Braithwope continued playing, not glancing up. The vampire’s mustache was in place and intact for once, waxed slightly at the tips into points of discipline. He appeared smugly pleased with his hand and not dangerous at all.
Sophronia and Dimity exchanged a look and then submissively walked to stand before Lady Linette. They both bowed their heads and crossed hands before them in the simulated meek—but actually ready for anything—position.
Lady Linette turned in her chair and showed them her hand. “Not bad, no?”
The girls looked at her and then at the others in the game. They said nothing. Discuss someone’s cards? Never.
Lady Linette sighed. “Wait a moment, please, ladies, while we play through.”
The girls waited.
Lady Linette was an odd sort of person. She was theatrically pretty, with a nice figure, modulated voice, and propensity for lavender scent. Her hair was blonde by artifice, not nature, and curled by iron, not heritage. She favored the pastel-colored gowns of a girl in her first season. Yet her face paint was applied to such excess she looked older than she actually was. Everything about her was a trick of expectation, making the truth impossible to wheedle out. Given that manipulation was one of Lady Linette’s specialties, it was probably all by intelligent design in the end.
The game was some form of whist, except with three players. After another round, Lady Linette bowed out of the match. The other two continued.
Lady Linette piled her cards neatly, facedown. “You’ll have to be punished, of course. Imagine, allowing yourselves to be caught.”
Dimity’s eyes began to well with tears.
Sophronia stood firm. There was no point in defending herself. Lady Linette hadn’t believed her before and she wouldn’t now, not if she thought Madame Spetuna a traitor. Then, horribly, Sophronia wondered if Madame Spetuna was a traitor. Was all this some kind of setup? Was the dinner party at Lord Akeldama’s designed to lead them astray? Her mind whirred with the possibility.
“You’ll be forbidden to attend the upcoming New Year’s celebration.”
“Sent down?” wailed Dimity.
“No, I think not sent down. We will put you in charge of Professor Braithwope for the evening. That way Professor Lefoux can attend the festivities, for a change. We will make certain he is well fed beforehand, of course. You’ll be responsible for his entertainment and safety. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Professor?”
The vampire gave a glassy, disorientated fanged smile at the sound of his name.
Dimity looked scared.
Sophronia was resigned.
Professor Lefoux didn’t flinch at all, although Sophronia was tolerably certain she didn’t give two figs for attending the New Year’s party. Professor Braithwope returned to his hand, giving little indication of following the conversation.
“Report to his private chambers one hour before the event begins. Bring cards and snacks. Oh, and carnations. Of late, Professor Braithwope has developed a love of green carnations.”