Sophronia relaxed into the comfort of his familiar affection. “Go on.”
He leaned in toward her, unconsciously intimate. “Well, miss, it sure seems to be a matter of pack. Things are unsettled in Kingair.”
Sophronia shifted; he was a little too close, not preserving the space most gentlemen leave in the presence of a lady. “So we gathered. Is Lord Maccon dead?”
Ever attuned to her moods, Soap registered her discomfort and slumped back into the coal pile, as if it were an armchair. This instantly reassured her. “No truck on anyone dying. So I think we’re safe in assuming it’s no challenge. But it does seem like to be concerning Lord Maccon.”
Sophronia frowned—if he wasn’t dead, what could possibly be the problem? “How do you mean?”
“Word is that he’s maybe losing control.”
“Of his clavigers?” This time she leaned in to the conversation, struggling to make herself heard against a new din in the boiler room.
“No, of his pack.”
Sophronia thought back to everything Sidheag had told her about the Kingair werewolves. “Lord Maccon? He’s supposed to be the strongest Alpha in England, with the exception of the dewan.”
Soap smiled as though they were in on a joke together. “And some would say even the Queen’s Werewolf would lose three out of five challenges. It seems that it’s not Lord Maccon’s strength in question, it’s the behavior of the rest of the Kingair Pack.”
“They are Scottish.”
“It’s worse than that, miss.”
Sophronia cracked a small joke. “Is there something worse than being Scottish?”
Soap declined to play. “Being a sootie, and having the wrong color skin to boot?”
In his eyes was something like the longing look they had practiced in class earlier that evening. Sophronia didn’t like it coming from Soap, and she didn’t know how to defuse it. Lady Linette hadn’t taught them that tactic yet. She hadn’t told them what to do when one was on the receiving end of unwanted longing. Perhaps that’s something I should ask about next class.
“Behavior of the pack? Aren’t they all instinctually bound to follow him until another challenges and wins? I do wish Professor Braithwope were available to consult. I suppose Professor Lefoux might have some insight.”
But strangely enough, Soap had further to offer on the subject. “It’s not that simple, miss. Beta supports, Gamma objects, loners challenge, and the others fall about the scale. Alpha is not an easy position to hold. I wouldn’t want it.”
“Soap, how is it you suddenly know so much about werewolves?”
Soap shrugged. “I take an interest. Not all sudden, you just never asked. I’ve been thinking… if I went out for anything long term, claviger might be it. I’d sooner indenture to a pack than bind to a hive.”
Sophronia had never even considered that Soap, of all people, might hunger for immortality. “Pardon? You’d rather be a werewolf than a vampire?”
Soap’s eyes, in the flickering light of the boiler, were almost hungry looking. “I don’t want to suck blood, although I’d take the rank that came with either and be grateful. But werewolves have fewer restrictions; even a sootie can make claviger. Plus, I like the idea of a pack, don’t you?”
“Sort of like collecting a bunch of grown-up hairy sooties?” guessed Sophronia, feeling somehow hurt the more she considered it. How could I not know this about Soap? My Soap? Stupid not to realize he wants more out of life than shoving coal in boilers all day long. He had seemed eager for her reading lessons, but she’d suspected it was an excuse to spend more time with her. Now she thought there might be more to it: social climbing. Soap had his own plans, which he hadn’t confided and which—worse—didn’t include her.
Soap smiled at his fellow sooties rushing around. “These old cusses, my pack?” Many of the sooties regarded Soap as a kind of unofficial mayor of the boiler room. There were firemen and greasers, adults ranked far above them, but if one wanted to mobilize the sooties, even the head of engineering knew it was best to get Soap to do it.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I suppose they are. Don’t you like the idea of a pack, miss? You kinda got yourself one, what with all your projects.”
“Projects” was what Soap called Sophronia’s various female friends.
Sophronia tried to be fair and consider life from Soap’s perspective. It was jolly hard to imagine, since he was a different class, color, and sex. Still, if he hadn’t any opportunities to further himself, and if that was what he wanted? Not to mention the chance of immortality?
“So that’s why you’ve learned everything you can about werewolves?”
“Indeed. Miss Maccon’s been bonny good with that.” Soap and Sidheag preferred to pretend he didn’t know she had a title, made everyone more relaxed. Sidheag enjoyed being lowly Miss Maccon when she smeared around with the sooties.
Sophronia felt almost compelled to change the subject, but the more she thought about her dear Soap pursuing something so dangerous, the more the ache of worry in her stomach expanded. She tried to stay calm. “But Soap, indenture as a claviger? You’re little better than a warden against moon-madness. You serve the pack’s whims with no guarantee that they’ll let you try for metamorphosis. It could take years.”
“At least there’s a chance of clean, honest work in the interim. Better than being a sootie, and better than being food, like a drone.” He sounded serious about the scheme.
Sophronia’s stomachache expanded into fear, clogging up her throat and thickening her voice. “You do know how rare survival is and how dangerous?” She barked the words, her panic blossoming into anger. Statistics weren’t published, but everyone was aware that few could withstand metamorphosis. It was a huge risk!
Soap’s gentle tone did not rise to match her stridency. “I know the odds.”
“And you’ll wager your whole life on them? That’s idiotic!” She switched tactics, forcing her voice to mellow. “If, by some puny chance, you did survive a bite, then there’s military service. Even werewolves die in the front lines.”
“And others come back war heroes and are granted a holding. Can you imagine, I’d be landed gentry?”
“You could be decades in some foreign land!”
“It’s a chance to travel.”
“That’s a stupid reason to risk werewolf!” I wouldn’t see you. You’d be gone. You’d leave me behind.
Soap was clearly startled, perhaps even hurt by her rage. His posture altered, tense in the arms and shoulders.
Sophronia pressed her eyes with her hand and sensed Soap calm in response to her worried gesture. His slight slouch returned. She couldn’t say that she would miss him, because she was afraid it might work and hold him back. And if this really was his dream? It would be as bad for her to hold him with empty promises as it would be for him to do this for the wrong reason.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Soap, it’s only that I worry.”
Soap softened and put his hand close to hers where it rested on the coal pile—almost touching. “I know, miss, but it’s my choice in the end. And it’s not like I’d have a long, healthy life as a sootie.”