Gail Carriger - Etiquette & Espionage

“Goodness me, why not? Is it something horrid and unladylike?” Soap was proving, often, to be far more conscientious of Sophronia’s dignity than Sophronia was.

Soap only shook his head.

Dimity said in a sympathetic tone, “You can’t read, can you, Mr. Soap?”

“No, miss. Sorry, miss.” His voice was almost a whisper.

Sophronia blinked. Poor Soap! What a thing to go through life without books. “Oh, right.” She ran over. “It’s the alphabet.” She pointed, “See, A, B, C, D , and so forth.”

Soap only backed slightly away, looking hugely embarrassed. Sophronia bumped up against his side, much in the manner he had done to her in the past, and gave him a little smile. This seemed to only embarrass him further. “Aw, miss.”

“What do they mean?” asked Dimity.

Sophronia shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

She grabbed the lever on Soap’s desk and pushed it toward A .

All around them, with what seemed to be a tremendous amount of noise, the machinery of the record room came to life. Steam hissed out from pistons and rotary mechanisms as they whirled up, thundering, shaking, and groaning. Above them the records moved on those tracks, shifting from one part of the room to another, parting and regrouping. They whizzed around one another, the parchment flapping and crackling. Finally a large cluster moved purposefully in Soap and Sophronia’s direction, coming to a stop directly above the desk.

“Now what?” wondered Soap.

Sophronia searched around the desk for some other operational mechanism or switch.

“This is when I wish we had Vieve with us,” she said, frowning. She returned to the original lever, and after tapping and picking at it, pressed down hard on the round brass nodule at the base.

With a loud clunk, the records above her dropped.

She and Soap both ducked out of the way, narrowly missing being whacked by dangling paperwork as the collection above the desk came flying straight down and stopped, hovering, in a manner undoubtedly convenient to whomever was seated at the desk.

Sophronia unclipped and examined one of the pieces of paper, mindful of any stickiness. She read bits aloud, in deference to Soap, and to the fact that Dimity still stood at her desk some distance away.

“ ‘Comtesse de Andeluquais, Henrietta, née Kipplewit,’ it says at the top of the file.” Below this was a sketch of a personable young woman, with written vital statistics such as hair color, eye color, social position, and fashion preferences. Then came a string of locations and dates, starting with what Sophronia assumed was a birthplace and ending with what must be the comtesse’s current residency in France. Below that was written a list of particular skills, which in Henrietta’s case appeared to be “Parasol manipulation, hairstyles for concealment, ballistics, quiet footsteps, fast waltz, and rice pudding.”

There were a goodly number of additional papers covered in neat handwriting. Sophronia tried to sum up for her audience. “Reports on various assignments, I believe. Yes, here it says she infiltrated French diplomatic offices. And here is a report on her marriage to the comte.” Sophronia looked over at Dimity. “You mean we are going to have to marry whomever the school chooses?”

Dimity was unconcerned. “Within reason. This is a finishing school, after all. That’s what all finished girls do—marry well. Besides, how else would we infiltrate positions of power?”

Sophronia postponed any protestations for a later date and turned her attention to the issue at hand. She replaced Henrietta’s paperwork and depressed the brass knob of the lever, and the records rose back up to the ceiling.

“Which desk had locations?”

Dimity pointed at hers.

Soap and Sophronia went over.

“We need a location close to my home. That’s near Wootton Bassett, Wiltshire.” Sophronia began reading the place names. “Aha, Swindon should do it.” She grabbed the lever and pulled it.

The records shifted and whisked around, rearranging themselves until a cluster coalesced and came to hover above the desk. This time there was a much smaller number of records—three, to be precise. Sophronia depressed the nodule and the paperwork plummeted down.

They were all ready this time and didn’t duck or flinch.

It was a moment’s work to read through the names of the three women in Sophronia’s area who had also once attended Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. Of the three, one was now dead, the second had lived there for only a brief time in 1847, and the third… well, the third was…

“Mrs. Barnaclegoose!” said Sophronia.

“I take it you know her?” asked Dimity.

“Yes, indeed.”

“Then we’ve got what you came for, miss?” said Soap.

Sophronia desperately wanted to read the entire file on her mother’s dear old friend and chronic teatime companion. She’d always thought Mrs. Barnaclegoose no more than a meddling busybody with stylish propensities at odds with her ever-increasing waistline. “Please, wait!”

“Now, miss, we’d best move. Them machineries make enough noise to spook a poltergeist, and we got us vampire hearing to worry over. Best get the records back the way they were to start and get out.” He seemed very nervous. Sophronia wondered if it was all the paperwork.

“No point in trying to make the break-in invisible.”

“No?” Dimity was confused.

“No. The place reeks of rose oil, and there is sticky netting all over the hallway. We are going to have to try to cast the blame on someone else. I’ll simply put this lot back up and dial in something random. At least that’ll throw them off the trail.”

Sophronia depressed the nodule, and they watched as the three Swindon records rose up to the ceiling. Then she dashed over to the final desk and pushed the lever toward the “tea leaf encryption” skill set. A new cluster of papers came over to that desk. Instead of pushing them to ascend, Sophronia left them there. They snuffed out the oil lamps and made their way out of the record room.

They managed to blast and then sneak by the soldier mechanical, which was rocking back and forth in confusion. Something about having trapped an intruder and then suddenly having that intruder be multiples and then vanish had put it into a protocol loop. It was paralyzed by indecision and hadn’t sounded the alarm. Luck , thought Sophronia. Is that something an intelligencer should count on?

They made their way back down through the ship, using the obstructor as needed and separating from Soap at Lady Linette’s balcony.

“Thank you kindly for your help,” said Sophronia, rather awkwardly formal.

“ ’Course, miss,” said Soap, coming in far too close and tucking a loose bit of Sophronia’s hair behind her ear before swinging himself back over the railing and clambering away.

Dimity gave Sophronia a long, suspicious look.

Sophronia pretended not to see and said, “Turn around. I’ll get your buttons.”

Dimity sputtered, “But we are outside! At night! On a balcony!”

“Yes, but sometimes decency must be sacrificed on the altar of not being found out by teachers because we smell of rose oil and are covered in sticky stuff! Now, please, Dimity.”

They helped each other to remove their outer gowns. Dimity threw hers over the edge rather sadly. “I did like that blue gown.”

“Let’s hope Captain Niall doesn’t find them.” Sophronia chucked hers after Dimity’s without much care. She’d grown to appreciate that she needed to learn to be fashionable, but that didn’t mean she had vested any emotional compassion into her existing clothing. “I’ll steal us some vinegar from the kitchen in the morning; we can soak our smalls in that. It should get out the smell.” She bit her lip, thinking. “And suet, for cleaning our scissors.”