Sophronia felt introductions were in order. “Miss Pelouse, may I present the Duke of Golborne, also known as the Grand Gherkin, and—I believe—this is the Chutney. Forgive me, sir, I do not know your real name. Gentlemen, Monique de Pelouse, Westminster Hive.”
Monique gave her a sideways glance that suggested she felt Sophronia needn’t have included her affiliation, but she didn’t comment. She swiveled a bit to make certain she had the Chutney covered.
Does everyone always have a gun but me? wondered Sophronia. Lacking any other projectile, she hoisted the crossbow, already loaded with the final bolt, and pointed it at the duke. She palmed her last exploding fake pastry in her injured hand.
The duke was not impressed. “I am not a vampire, Miss Temminnick, to be threatened by a flying wooden stick.”
Sophronia didn’t say anything.
Behind the Picklemen, one-third of the dirigible continued to fall apart rather spectacularly, and something exploded. Then a few more somethings.
“Propeller boilers?” Sophronia suggested this conversationally to Monique.
Monique inclined her head. “Most likely.”
“There’s no way out of this, ladies.” Duke Golborne was forcing himself to be casual, but he wasn’t as good as Geraldine’s girls. “You are outgunned and outmanned.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Gherkin, we aren’t manned at all.” Although Sophronia had thought there would only be three facing them. A slight miscalculation. Still, there was no time like the present.
“Now!” She dropped to the deck.
Monique was a split second behind her.
The Picklemen fired at where they had been standing, but Monique was already shooting from a prone position, and Sophronia was throwing food.
Before the Picklemen could reload, the fake pastry—a delectable-looking strawberry shortbread—exploded at their feet. The duke cried out in pain, falling over. One of the bully boys lay facedown, not moving.
The Chutney stumbled back. Monique had shot him in the upper right shoulder. A bloom of wetness appeared on his immaculate black coat.
Before the Picklemen could regroup, Sophronia shot at their side of the deck with her crossbow.
What happened next was so fast and yet, at the time, it felt like everything moved through pudding.
The Chutney had some inkling of what that bolt meant, for he grabbed the duke and slid with him down the deck to where Sophronia and Monique crouched. The surviving bully boy followed.
The soldier mechanicals directed their cannons and fired.
Meanwhile, the three Picklemen engaged the two young ladies in fisticuffs. Monique was fighting the Chutney with teeth, nails, and elbows, like a vicious caged cat. He didn’t seem to know quite what to do with her and certainly couldn’t get a grip.
Sophronia struck out at the duke and the remaining bully boy with her fan. She dropped the now useless crossbow to the deck. It slid out under the railing and over the edge. While the duke was no fighter, the bully boy was good. He came in on her injured side and managed to wrap both his arms around her in a bear hug from behind. He began squeezing as tight as he could.
Sophronia couldn’t get in a decent slice with her fan with her arms locked against her waist. The pressure against her shoulder was agony. Nevertheless, she kicked and struggled.
Then the upper portion of the deck exploded, wood showering down on them.
Sophronia was shielded by the man holding her. He took the brunt of the flying splinters to his back. He screamed and stumbled to the side.
The duke dove and flattened himself against the rails, protected in part by the very mechanical that had just fired.
One of the cannonballs had gone wide—since the ship was bobbing and swaying so much—and hit the pilot’s bubble. It exploded into a gout of blue flame and orange sparks a few seconds later.
One of the soldier mechanicals across the deck had been hit by friendly fire. It, too, exploded into flames.
Below them, the hallways were flooded with gas. With the massive cannonball holes, it was only a matter of time before a spark set everything off.
The bully boy let go of Sophronia. Too injured from the blast, he fell back.
The duke was occupied trying not to fall off the ship. The Chutney had collapsed to his knees and was bleeding profusely from a shredded side. The other bully boy—Sophronia swallowed bile—had been lying right about where one of the cannons landed.
Monique twirled out of the Chutney’s reach and in a graceful movement crouched down. Unslinging the carpetbag from her back, she pulled out two square packs. They looked like wrapped foot warmers, only with reticule tops, and each had two straps.
She tossed one to Sophronia, who caught it with both hands, dropping her fan in the process.
“Parachute.” Monique’s smile was feral. “Latest design out of Paris. Put it on like so.” She donned hers with the two straps around her arms and the boxy part over her back, reticule mouth up. “Jump over, and when you’re well clear of the ship, pull the ribbon there. Should deploy like a great big parasol.”
“It should?”
“They haven’t been tested yet.”
“Wonderful.”
“You have a better idea? I know you want to be all noble and go down with the school, but Sophronia, who will be left in the world for me to dislike as much as you?”
“Why, Monique, I didn’t know you cared.” Sophronia tried hard to get the parachute on over her bad shoulder.
Monique gave her a look. Then she climbed over the bleeding Chutney, kicking him in the face hard with her burgundy leather boot, leapt over the railing, and with a tremendous heave, shot herself forward into the air. She’d need to clear the other decks as she fell.