Handle handed over a stuffed reticule. Inside it were several of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s infamous fake pastries.
“What, what?” stuttered Sophronia, sounding not unlike Professor Braithwope.
“Small explosives,” replied the headmistress. “All of them. I used up several last night. These are the last. Handle has a few. He’ll show you how they deploy.”
“I don’t know about explosives, Headmistress. I haven’t had much luck with them, so far.” Sophronia was skeptical.
“Nonsense, young lady. You’ll do as you are instructed. Use these pastries as needed and do not be scared or ashamed of the necessity.”
“Yes, Headmistress.”
Handle showed her how they were activated, by depressing the decorative element on the top, be it cherry or icing twirl. Simple devices, in the end. And I always thought them merely beautiful representations of a very odd hobby. I should have known they were deadly as well as decorative. Everything at this school is both. It was practically the school’s unofficial motto. The official one being Ut acerbus terminus: To the bitter end. Madame Spetuna had taken that motto to heart.
“Tell me truthfully, Handle, how are the sooties, really?”
“Not bad, miss. We all know how to turn and shield the delicate bits. And, frankly, the whip-hand is not so good as he thinks he is.”
Sophronia searched his face, hoping he wasn’t making light of a bad situation.
Handle continued. “They need us to keep this boat afloat, so they feed us well enough. Won’t lie, it hasn’t been easy. We’re running her faster and harder than ever, and with a skeleton crew. Plus, we didn’t take on stores beforehand. They are pushing her. And us. But there are mechanicals to help with the heavy lifting—good ones, complex protocols.”
“Tonight,” promised Sophronia rashly. “I’ll get them all out tonight.”
“Even Smokey Bones?”
“Of course.”
“Who is Smokey Bones?” demanded Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“Our cat, my lady.” Handle poured more tea.
Mademoiselle Geraldine didn’t seem to know what to say to that.
Sophronia took another deep breath. “I can only think of one option at this point. We are too close to London. We have to crash the school and use the soldier mechanicals to do it.”
Handle and Mademoiselle Geraldine both gaped.
The headmistress breathed out, “No!”
Sophronia explained. “The Picklemen have already used this airship to activate their updated mechanicals. That screaming noise you heard was my alarm to that effect. They needed our pilot’s bubble, and they needed to be high enough to send the signal through the aether. You ask me, they took out every major key-point mechanical within aetheric transmission distance. Staff mechanicals would have gone bonkers, too, but were mainly side consequence. Now they only need to pacify the capital, and the whole country is theirs. I think they intend to drop down and offload the attack mechanimals from our hold into the city streets. If I were them, I’d do it after dark, right when people start to feel safe from further attack from the domestic mechanicals.”
“Attack?” gasped Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“Or whatever the first part of the plan caused to happen. Domestics weren’t the target. They’re collateral. Infrastructure mechanicals were the target—train switches, station houses, government clangerclerks, record-room processing centers—that kind of thing. I overheard the Chutney himself before the chicken went off. It’s almost sunset, and I wager we’re sinking.” Words piled up, one upon the other, as if through the act of talking Sophronia was understanding it all. If she didn’t hurt so much, she would have paced the room.
Mademoiselle Geraldine and Handle were a gratifyingly riveted audience.
Sophronia continued, “Two stages of chaos—both requiring this airship to execute. No wonder they wanted the school so badly. They can’t be allowed to complete their plan. They simply can’t. There’s only one way to stop them, and that is to crash with their mechanimal army still on board. Preferably destroying the belly of the airship. The trouble is, how to do this without killing everyone else?”
Mademoiselle Geraldine was thoughtful. “I knew that pilot’s bubble would be a problem. Such advanced technology was always going to tempt thieves. Professor Lefoux often gets ahead of herself. And poor Professor Braithwope—what’s left of his tether is to this ship.” She added, “You’ll have to aim the soldier mechanicals carefully or everything will explode.”
Sophronia nodded. “Tell me how.”
The rest of sunset was spent drinking tea and strategizing on how one young woman could sabotage an entire dirigible.
Handle, who had a sootie’s affection for his ship, didn’t like the idea one jot.
Sophronia tried to make her case. “The Chutney is on board, alive, and in an unknown location. He has two men with him. There is also his right-hand man, a record keeper with dyed black hair, and some of the five flywaymen who may have survived the wicker chicken incident. And there are two runners still at large.”
“One runner,” corrected Mademoiselle Geraldine. “Professor Braithwope got peckish during our peregrinations.”
“He got one of the supervisors in the boiler room as well.” Handle looked rather sick at the memory. He’d probably never witnessed a necking before.
Sophronia wondered at the ethics of utilizing the primitive feeding instincts of an insane vampire in their cause. Is it justified? Are we harming Professor Braithwope further by allowing him to run amok or is this simply the way he is now?
“So that’s two still in engineering and one in the propeller room?” Sophronia crossed the appropriate dots off her map. “Approximately seven Picklemen and five flywaymen left. Some of them injured. I could maybe eliminate them in the space of a night—if I weren’t injured myself. But as things stand, I’m sorry. It’s better to destroy the ship.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine and Handle, odd allies, exchanged apprehensive looks.
“So long as you do it carefully. Let’s go over the plan again.” Mademoiselle Geraldine’s agreement was reluctant.
The sun set.
Professor Braithwope awoke and instantly tried to eat both ladies. They smelled of blood and weakness—Sophronia supposed he couldn’t be faulted. Poor Handle had no alternative but to give over his own wrist to quiet the beast. Fortunately, Professor Braithwope was in an amiable mood and retracted his fangs after only a snack. He had eaten his fill the night before.
This left Handle disgusted, upset, and weak from loss of blood.
“Stupid vampire!” shouted the sootie, wrapping his own wrist in bandages this time.
“Sorry, little man,” apologized Professor Braithwope. “You do have a pleasant char flavor to your skin, whot, with the added spice of smoke. Reminds me of the good old days of toast. I miss toast.”
Handle sniffed at him. “Go find yourself a Pickleman next time.”
“Pickled? I don’t think I should like that. Fresh is best, even toasted.”
“Never you mind,” interrupted Mademoiselle Geraldine when Handle looked like he intended to argue further. “Our apologies, Handle. You did not sign up for mealtimes.”