After helping Petunia to sit and serving her with a necessary cup of restorative tea—three sugars to cope with the drama—Sophronia joined Agatha in tending to the company. They helped where they could, all the while looking for important clues and evaluating the scattered parts.
There wasn’t much to do. By the time Dimity had recovered from her faint, all the supernatural creatures were fully healed, and the drones had seen them dressed in fresh shirts and jackets. They no longer matched quite so well, but even Dimity’s stylish sensibilities could not be ruffled so much by the new attire as to make her faint again. She joined the others in practicing the fine art of administrative small talk and ministrations after a crisis.
They were all obeying their training to the letter. I don’t mean to be crass, ladies, but keep your wits about you, for it is after a disaster that intelligence is most likely spilled, Lady Linette always said. Thus they milled, and cooed, and soothed, and acted like little angels of mercy, and listened, and learned. So did Monique.
Sophronia was checking on the Ghost Wrangler, a crone shrouded in the long white veil and gray robes of her trade. Her upper arm and shoulder were badly scraped, and Sophronia tried to be gentle with the elderly lady, but she would keep twisting to try to say something. Finally, Sophronia got the bandage wrapped and helped the lady to sit on a nearby stool.
With a frantic glance around, the crone swiveled her face away from the company and parted her veil slightly. Sophronia thought she might be about to expectorate, but instead she hissed in a shaky voice, “Closer! I risked much to get this to you, and you missed the show.”
Sophronia recognized the voice. Madame Spetuna! One of Geraldine’s field agents, and their best Pickleman infiltrator.
“The explosion was intentional?” Sophronia could only see the intelligencer’s mouth. It twisted in annoyance.
“No. But this gathering was at my request.”
“You work for Lord Akeldama?”
“Sometimes. That is not important. What’s important is that they are building war mechanicals. That’s what this was. They used our pilot technology and intend to create mechanicals that can commandeer military dirigibles.”
That’s why the Picklemen snuck on board! Not to steal something, but to draw schematics so they can copy the school’s pilot mechanical.
Madame Spetuna continued. “My communication threads to the school have been eliminated, so it’s up to you to relay the information.”
“Lady Linette won’t believe me.”
“You must make her believe.”
“How?”
“My file, the record room, there’s a…” Madame Spetuna trailed off as Monique approached, looking quite interested in Sophronia’s conversation. Then a drone appeared and ushered Madame Spetuna away, muttering something about visiting a surgeon. Sophronia had faith in Madame Spetuna’s ability to extricate herself and return to the Picklemen. She was one of the best intelligencers Sophronia had ever met.
Things died down after that. Sophronia never did find Bumbersnoot anywhere. They delayed their departure as long as was seemly under the circumstances, in the guise of offering assistance. But Petunia would not be denied a graceful exit, and she certainly wasn’t going to help clean. The restrictions of propriety must be honored. So Sophronia, not wanting to disturb Lord Akeldama with trivialities, left a note with one of the drones saying she had misplaced her reticule. It was dog-shaped and had great sentimental value. If he found it, would he please see it returned? She worried that someone from the party had stolen Bumbersnoot. But there was nothing more she could do given the recent crisis. Any fuss from her would look suspiciously selfish by comparison to injuries, destroyed evening wear, and a cracked table.
The dewan gave her a significant look before they parted ways. He probably expected a full report from her. I don’t work for you yet. She glared at him.
They set off in Petunia’s luxurious coach and arrived back at the Hisselpennys’ town house feeling a little shattered. They were much earlier back than they had planned.
“Sister, may Agatha stay awhile longer? The night is still so young. For cards or something equally pedestrian? To calm us down?” Sophronia batted her eyes a little.
“Ah, I remember when I was young like you. Such energy.” Sophronia hid a smile. Petunia was only eighteen. “Your father won’t miss you, Miss Woosmoss?” Petunia made a token protest.
Agatha shook her head, red curls bouncing.
A small whirring heralded Petunia’s mechanical butler proffering a red lacquered tray.
“Cards came while we were out?” Petunia tossed them over. Two invitations and a sweep-cleaning service. “Well, the invitations are not what they might be, but better than none, I suppose. And perhaps the chimneys do need cleaning.”
The buttlinger buttled off.
“May I see them?” asked Sophronia politely.
Petunia arched a brow but passed over the tray. Sophronia pocketed the card for the chimney sweep, distracting her sister with, “How delightful that Agatha can stay! Shall we play loo? It’s so very fortifying?”
Petunia pressed her temple with one hand. “I myself must rest. We shan’t tell Mr. Hisselpenny of this evening’s events, shall we, ladies? I’m afraid he is rather protective.”
“Do not worry yourself on that account, sister. We shall be most discreet.” She’s forgotten about the newspaperman. He, no doubt, will print a full report. Or perhaps Mr. Hisselpenny doesn’t read the Mooring Standard. “We will calm ourselves with loo and lemonade.”