“Oh, I forgot. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? To talk of feelings. Romance.” Soap brightened.
Sophronia took the coward’s way out and switched topics. “What are you doing here? Is the dewan with you? Are you all right? Is he all right? Has something happened with the Pickleman situation?”
Soap answered, ticking questions off with his fingers. “I came because I wanted to see you. The dewan is not with me. I’m well. He’s well. The Pick—”
“Wait, he’s not here? But Soap, tomorrow is full moon!”
“I know that.”
“But you’re newly made! You can’t be parted from him at such a time, can you?”
“I’m tired of being attached to his apron strings.” Soap looked more out of temper than he should over such a sensible comment. She was only thinking of his safety. He was almost growling.
“Oh, sweet heaven. You’re not supposed to be here, are you? You came without permission. And you’re not yet in control of shift. How could you be so stupid? Where were you sleeping all day? You must have traveled to get here last night. Who guarded you?”
A small figure materialized out of the shadows and put up his hand. No, her hand. “Um, that would be me.” Vieve.
Sophronia turned her ire on the young inventor. “Do you know what an insane risk he’s taking?”
“Don’t get all grumpy with me, termagant. What was I to do? He turned up, it was dawn, I couldn’t very well send him packing after sunup, now could I? Even I know a young werewolf can get seriously damaged under such circumstances. So I stuck him in the bathhouse.”
“What?”
Vieve shrugged in that very French way of hers. “It’s a boys’ school. The bathhouse is rarely used. Then I figured you two could have your smooch, disgusting, by the way”—Sophronia supposed Vieve was too young to think of romance as anything but revolting—“and we could pack him off tonight none the worse for it.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Yoo-hoo, don’t I have a say in this conversation?” Soap had calmed while they bickered.
Sophronia turned on him. “Exactly why are you here now? And don’t prattle on about not being able to stay away from me. If that’s your real reason, you had better come up with an alternative or I shall box your ears, werewolf or no.”
Soap took a breath. “The Picklemen have one or more intelligencers infiltrating your school tonight. Disguised as Bunson’s students.”
“Impossible. Surely the professors would spot new boys.”
“They’ve been vouched for by a wealthy patron.”
“But why would the Picklemen want to attend our New Year’s party? It only a tea.”
“The dewan thinks it’s to gather information of some kind, that it’s not very important.”
Sophronia nodded. “You disagree with him?”
Soap went oddly flat. “A pup does not disagree with his Alpha. Not if he wants to escape discipline.”
Sophronia looked from him to Vieve. “What do they hope to accomplish?”
Vieve said, “They could be after a piece of technology, something of my aunt’s, perhaps. She’s not always”—a pause while she considered word options—“ safe in her inventions.”
“They did visit once before.”
“They did? You didn’t tell us that,” said Soap.
“I don’t work for the dewan yet.”
“And what am I, chopped liver?” Soap paused. “Oh, chopped liver sounds tasty right about now.”
“Soap, you are his get. I’m not stupid.”
Soap looked hurt. “Does that mean you don’t trust me anymore?”
Sophronia paused—did it? “If I had told you of the first infiltration in confidence, would you have reported it to him?”
“Not if you asked me not to.”
“Well, it’s pointless to discuss now.”
“And yet it is in your nature to be dishonest, even with me.” He was angry.
Sophronia was hurt, especially given how hard she had been working not to have to lie to him about her feelings. By all rights she should simply tell Soap that she didn’t love him, send him away with no hope of any kind of future together. In the long run, that would be better for both of them. And she could do it, too. She had the training. But I’d lose him entirely. He said there was no possibility of friendship. I’m weak, thought Sophronia. It is not the thought of Soap’s pain that keeps me silent, but of my own.
So she said, “Why are you so upset? You are the one person whose loyalty I have never doubted.”
“That is not the same thing,” growled Soap.
Vieve was impatient. “Are you two having your first lovers’ spat? Right now? You realize your school is drifting?”
The dirigible had moved some distance away. Yet there was something impossible to resist about their disagreement. Sophronia had never before wanted so much to be right. How dare he expect me to simply tell him everything? It is my livelihood to be circumspect. Not to mention my nature. Does he want me to change? Does he want to limit me to his—or worse, the dewan’s—expectations of a woman’s place? Those thoughts refused to be separated from her other worry. How dangerous is it for him the night before full moon? And how much in danger is poor Vieve, forced into guarding him? There was also guilt. He had risked everything to bring her this information, and yet she played close and tight with her own knowledge. She should have told him about the pilot’s bubble. Shouldn’t she?
“Trust is a lot to ask of someone,” she said, finally.
“Exactly. I should think that I, at least, have earned your trust.” Soap hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. “Is that why you won’t let me court you?”
Sophronia couldn’t help her frustration. Why was he so willfully obtuse? “Oh, for goodness’ sake, be reasonable. How could I? You are a newly made werewolf loner, secret pawn for a political player.”
“And your soon-to-be patron.”
“And so we marry and what happens? What world do you think we live in, Soap? What of my family, my friends, my position in society? Are you asking me to give them up?”
“Of course not!”
“So what courting do you propose?”
“I could be discreet.”
“And you would be, what, my dirty little supernatural secret? I keep you boxed away and hidden along with my espionage activities?” Sophronia was moved to verbal indiscretion.
“Why not? You would be wonderful at it.”
“Because you’re better than that, Soap! We’re better than that!” Sophronia didn’t even know she felt it until she yelled it.
“So you do love me.”
Sophronia lost her anger on a breath of air and crumpled into sadness. “It doesn’t change the state of society.”
He reached for her and she jerked back. “No.”
Soap drew back. “I can wait.”
“Don’t.”
This time it was Soap’s turn to flinch.
There was something wrong about his mouth. As though he were trying to swallow his own teeth, or was that canines? Was he starting to shift? She’d read somewhere that excess of emotion could affect the control of young werewolves, and the moon was almost full.