Waistcoats & Weaponry

Soap’s hand caught her ankle. “I want to be worthy.”

She could hardly believe he would dare touch her, on the leg! But she kind of liked it. So she crouched and covered his hand with hers. “You already are, Soap.”

“Not in the eyes of the world.” His hand was as soft on the back as it was callused on the palm.

“And this is your best solution?”

“No. This is my only solution.”

Soap went to bed.

Sophronia’s heart hurt and she had no idea why. She sat looking out the cab windows, first one side, then the other. It was excessively dull. Lady Linette had warned them of this. “Try not to think it glamorous, ladies. Intelligencer work is nine-tenths discontented ennui, and one-tenth abject terror. Rather like falling in love.” So far, thought Sophronia, love has been more a series of crushing discomforts. Perhaps I’m going about it the wrong way?

Monique shifted once or twice. She must be cold, for the cab was open to the night, and though the rain still wasn’t in earnest it had settled into a consistent drizzle. Sophronia checked Monique’s bonds, and the place where Dimity had lashed them to the train. All secure.

Sophronia wasn’t so foolish as to think her enemy asleep. Still, when Monique spoke, it startled her.

“You’re a queer one, Sophronia. You had Lord Mersey on your string and let him go. Regardless of his political connection, that marriage could have been lucrative. And imagine, if you managed to turn him, you would have gone down in the record books as one of the best Mademoiselle Geraldine ever produced.”

“And lose the love of my husband by driving away his family?”

Monique scoffed. “Love, what has love to do with any of this? If you’re throwing over a peer in favor of that simpering, soot-covered savage, you’re more puerile than even I realized.”

Sophronia went hot about the ears. No one spoke about Soap that way, especially not Monique! Her temper got the better of her.

“How dare you say such a thing. You’re not even fit to lick his boots!” Sophronia hissed, afraid of waking the others.

“Boots! He’s too poor to have any. That boy wouldn’t know how to clean boots, let alone wear them. You’re barely class yourself, Sophronia. Who are your parents, after all? You can’t afford to marry down, and no one can afford to marry a sootie!”

This made Sophronia all the more upset, because it was true. Had she been rejecting Soap all along not because he was ruining their friendship but because of his station in life? “Clap your trap shut, Monique, or I’ll fill it with something disagreeable.” She lashed out, angrier with herself than Monique, but taking it out on her regardless.

Monique snorted. “I’m only offering you a bit of helpful advice.”

“Because we both know you’ve got my best interests at heart? You’re nothing more than a failure, Monique. You couldn’t finish properly, so you ride the coattails of a vampire hive because no decent family would take you for their son.”

Now it was Monique’s turn to gasp in outrage. “I wanted to become a drone! I’ll have a chance at immortality. What are you going to do the rest of your life? Cozy up with a sootie and pop out half-breed babies to muck in the coal dust like their father?”

Sophronia considered all the various ways she had learned to kill someone. She catalogued them in her brain and spent a satisfying few moments applying each to Monique in order. Then she concentrated on her breathing, attempting to stopper up her anger and regain control of the situation. Then she stood and, casually, tore another strip off her much-abused shirt and gagged Monique with it. Tightly. Monique drooled a bit around the edges of the rag, which was satisfying to see.

The rest of the night was blissfully uneventful, outwardly at least. Sophronia was troubled by her own feelings of guilt. She was traumatized by the realization that she had never given Soap a fair chance because she was afraid of his lowly position. She tortured herself with imagining what-ifs. What if Soap were not a sootie? What if Soap were the same class or race? Would she have closed herself off to his feelings so brutally? Had she been cruel as well as snobbish? The speculation kept her wide eyed and staring out into the night the whole rest of her watch.

Everyone was awake at dawn. There was a sense of nervous urgency that drew them, uncomplaining, into the cab. They stoked the boiler, started the engine up, and got the train moving northward with silent efficiency. No one commented on Monique’s gag.

Sophronia felt awkward and uncomfortable around Soap. More aware of the way he stood, the set of his shoulders, the nuances of his expression. She tried to monitor her own reactions, to be friendly but not too friendly. She tried not to think about his affection for her, or their future apart.

They chugged along at a slow but steady pace. They learned more about the switches and how to operate them, neatly avoiding several collisions. They were getting cocky about the whole proceeding. They were also running dangerously low on coal, not to mention food.

They stopped for lunch, ate the last of their reserves, and had to un-gag Monique to feed her. Which meant they had to listen to her. Which meant they had to gag her again right quick.

“She’s only a drone,” sneered Sidheag. “And she lost the operation, so Countess Nadasdy will not be happy with her. I say we dispose of her.”

“She is trained. If we let her go, she’s not without resources,” cautioned Dimity.

“She’s a rotten egg waiting to explode,” said Sophronia.