Sophronia went over and stuck her head in. “No one all that important; give me a few minutes, please?”

Dimity’s white face peeked out from under the covers, which she’d pulled up to her chin in case someone untoward tried to see her. “Must you receive callers in such a state of disrepair?”

“I’ll be quick.”

“Who is it, then?” Dimity pressed.

“Just a friend.” Sophronia wanted to avoiding explaining Soap to Dimity. Dimity was bound to come over with a surfeit of disapproval.

Dimity sighed, but there was no way she was leaving her bed to meet an unknown entity.

Sophronia shut the door, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and turned to face the sootie.

Soap was standing awkwardly in the middle of the parlor, the cowl pushed down to drape about his shoulders. It was made of ripped gunnysack.

“Do sit down?” said Sophronia politely, with an elegant gesture designed to disarm the intruder with politeness, as Lady Linette had once instructed.

“I won’t, miss, thank you kindly. I’ll only smudge up all your pretty little seatlings.”

Sophronia stayed where she was for a moment, on the far side of the room. Then decided she would risk proximity for greater privacy in speech, in case Dimity was listening at keyholes. So she went over and sat, looking up at him expectantly.

“Well?”

“I scared you off, miss, didn’t I? This last time. Should’ve known I was too blunt. Even you’ve got some finer feelings.”

Sophronia’s pride was stung. “You most certainly did not scare me! And I’ve plenty of finer feelings, thank you very much. I was ashamed of my behavior, shouldn’t have yelled.”

Soap grinned, wide and cheerful. “I’m glad you did. Shows you care.”

“Of course I do!”

“So you’re avoiding me because you came over all lily-livered, afraid I’ll chuck a little affection your way?”

Sophronia glared at him. “I’m not frightened of you, Soap. I simply don’t think of you that way, and I don’t want to.”

“I know.” The tall boy managed to look both hurt and shamefaced. “It’s just, miss, that I wish… I…”

He stammered, unsure for once, and Sophronia took it as an opportunity to leap hastily in. “And I wish you would please stop showing me so much affection.” If he said anything more, she’d have to say more, and then she was sure to lose his friendship forever. So she hurriedly switched the subject. “What are you doing outside of engineering?”

“Couldn’t let you go groundside smoldering like to choke with disapproval.”

“I am not smoldering!” she said, looking as if smoke might start to come out her ears, as it did Bumbersnoot’s when he was excited.

Soap smiled, but it was not his usual broad grin. “No, I can see that. You’re catching a train in the wee hours?”

“No, Mumsy is sending the cart. An undignified way to travel, but it’ll get us there. And Roger is an old chum.”

Soap’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, I’ll be off, then. Don’t go dancing more than three with that Felix blighter.”

Sophronia sniffed. “I’m not a complete idiot, to be trapped so easily. Nor, for that matter, is he. It’s most annoying of you to order me to do something I’m going to do anyway. Now it’ll look like I’m obeying you!”

Soap shifted the cowl back over his head and let himself out. “Wasn’t an order, miss, only a request.”

“You could have fooled me!”

“Now I’ve gone and offended you again.”

“You have. And things used to be so jolly between us.”

Soap looked down at her, his eyes bright sparkles from the depths of the gunnysack. “Even a crafty little thing like you can’t change the inevitable.”

Sophronia’s mouth firmed and she got a distinct glint of determination in her eye. It was an expression most had learned to be wary of. Not Soap, though. “We’ll see about that.”

Unexpectedly, Soap laughed. “Only you, miss, would try to stop us all from growing up.” With that he skulked off down the hallway.

Sophronia was left thinking the whole encounter very odd.

She made her way back to bed, fortunately not having to explain anything to Dimity—her friend was fast asleep.

Sophronia’s mother sent the pony cart with Roger and another stable hand to act as escort. It wasn’t a stylish means of transport. Preshea would tease them mercilessly if she found out. However, Dimity and Sophronia were off school grounds before Preshea was even awake. Most everyone on board was dead to the world at six a.m., at which entirely uncivilized hour Sophronia and Dimity caught the goods lift groundside. They clutched sandwich boxes and flasks of tea—necessary sustenance for the long journey ahead.

Bundled in oiled mackintoshes, with hatboxes and carpetbags full of ball gowns tucked under for protection, the two young ladies were the last to arrive.

Roger and compatriot sat on the front box. Both were shrouded head to toe against the bitter cold and ceaseless drizzle. Roger gave them a limp wave of greeting. He looked thoroughly miserable. He’d have driven half the night to collect them all so early. The other stable hand had his nose buried in a dirty handkerchief and didn’t even look up.

Inside the cart, nearest the driver’s box, sat Pillover, Dimity’s younger brother and escort to the ball. It was embarrassing to bring one’s brother for a dance partner, but it was the best she could do at short notice. Any finer feelings between her and Lord Dingleproops had been crushed under the weight of a Pickleman-driven misunderstanding. All the better for it, thought Sophronia, who didn’t like Lord Dingleproops, and not solely because of his reluctant chin and Pickleman leanings.

She did, however, like Pillover. He was a morose sort, a general failure at most aspects of life, particularly—to his great trial—at being both evil and a genius. Pillover could invent things, and he wasn’t stupid, he was simply too nice. This was a shortcoming he found depressing.

He grunted at them, having long since elected to treat Sophronia as he did his sister, with a lack of deference and mild splats of brotherly affection.

Sitting as far away from Pillover as possible was Felix Golborne, Viscount Mersey. There was no love lost between the two boys. Sophronia was under the impression that this was mainly because Pillover was younger, practically middle class, and not a member of the Pistons. Felix was the oldest son of a very prominent family, a full Piston in bad standing, and deliciously sinister. The Pistons were a club of sorts, members of which distinguished themselves via fancy waistcoats, black eyeliner, and Pickleman politics. Although currently Lord Mersey looked more damp and disgruntled than anything else, the kohl about his eyes having run to form sad rivulets down his cheeks. His bronze-beribboned top hat was sagging. Sophronia could feel her cheeks flush. This transport was miles beneath his dignity, and to have him sit waiting in the rain… How would she ever live it down?

Piston or not, Viscount Mersey was still a gentleman. Noting their approach, he jumped down to assist them. His expensive black boots became all over splattered.

“Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, delightful to see you both. It has been too long.” He tipped his hat. The hat dripped on him.




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