Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School, #2)(46)
Sophronia and her friends remained unaffected by the barbs. She and Sidheag played tiddlywinks while Dimity knitted. Dimity was fond of knitting and was currently attempting to craft small yellow booties for Bumbersnoot. She claimed this was practice for her future as a charitable lady of means. Sophronia secretly worried that the mechanimal would slide all over the floor—not to mention, why did a metal dog need warm feet?—but the act was kindly meant.
Then, in a twist of topic, Preshea and Monique began to discuss boys. “Lord Mersey, of course, is the cream on the cake. Getting him to attend can only be to the betterment of all concerned.”
Monique was confident. “I’m assured he will come. As will Lord Dingleproops. Of course, we can’t have young Vullrink, not after last night’s supper. Imagine using a knife for fish? And Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott is right out.”
Preshea nodded sagely. “Too young?”
“Too ill connected.” Monique looked pointedly at Dimity.
Dimity glanced up from her needles. “He’ll only thank you for it. Pillover hates parties.”
“Oh, wonderful. It’s always so nice to know the unwelcome are also uncaring of their social standing,” sneered Monique. She probably would have gone on with her commentary until their next lesson, but the perimeter alarm trumpeted.
Dimity put down her knitting.
The girls stayed in their parlor, as they had been instructed. Even Sophronia, who was inclined to take to the hull to investigate, remained seated. With all the manufactured fog it would be impossible to see who approached, a fact that was worrying in and of itself. If someone had managed to spot and attack the school despite their cloud disguise, that someone had superior technology.
They waited with bated breath for the ship to shake with cannon fire, for the fateful lean and sway of a balloon collapsing. Nothing happened. They listened for the sound of timber splitting. Still nothing. In short order, the trumpeting stopped with no apparent reaction from ship, mechanicals, or staff.
“Must have been a false alarm,” said Dimity into the ensuing silence.
The girls, with nothing better to do, prepared for their next lesson. Even Monique was sobered by the strange experience.
They had foreign languages and lipreading with Lady Linette next. None of the boys were present. Apparently, gentlemen didn’t require foreign tongues. They moved from there on to tea and subterfuge with Mademoiselle Geraldine. Since the headmistress had no idea of the true nature of her own school, the exact kind of subterfuge was always assigned by one of the other teachers. Today, however, Lady Linette informed them that this time they should know what to do when they arrived.
Excited by the mystery, the girls hurried through the hallways to be met in the tassel section by Professor Shrimpdittle, trailing a sullen-looking Lord Dingleproops, Lord Mersey, and Pillover Plumleigh-Teignmott. The ten of them entered Mademoiselle Geraldine’s quarters together.
As ever, the walls were lined with shelves of fake pastries, and the headmistress rose to welcome them from behind a large table set with a full tea service. She had known to expect a larger than normal gathering, for there were twelve place settings. Her décolletage heaved with appreciation. Mademoiselle Geraldine loved company.
Sitting next to her, in the place of honor, was an elderly female. She wore eccentric dress for a woman in the later part of life. Her wild gray hair was loose and her forehead bound over with a colorful scarf, like a sky pirate. Her jewelry was bronze and gold and more prevalent than Dimity’s at her most sparkly. The stranger’s complexion was tan in a manner that young ladies of quality were cautioned against. Her eyes were lined thickly with kohl. Her attire seem to be composed utterly of brightly colored scarves tied in layers.
Dimity gasped in appreciation. “A fortune-teller!”
“How very esoteric, Madam G.!” crowed Lord Dingleproops, striding up to the headmistress to clap her on the shoulder, rather as a man would approach a fellow at his club. Mademoiselle Geraldine looked at him as though he were a collapsed soufflé, and he backed away hastily.
The girls tittered in elation. Even Pillover looked pleased, and he was rarely pleased by anything.
We didn’t go down low to retrieve her, thought Sophronia. How did she get on board?
“Very good, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott. We have indeed been graced with the presence of a fortune-teller.”
Sophronia wondered, “Did you set off the alarm?”
The fortune-teller’s eyes sharpened on her.
Sophronia realized she had revealed more of her personality with that one question than was healthy. She was, after all, the only one who’d jumped straight to logistics rather than the exciting possibility of having her palm read.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Madame Spetuna has been retained for the evening to tell your fortunes.” Mademoiselle Geraldine was wearing a lightweight muslin gown of chartreuse with cream stripes. It was a dress that better suited one of her students. Each stripe was patterned with pink roses. There was fringe all up the length of the sleeves and about the low square neckline that displayed the headmistress’s assets to great effect. Said assets heaved as she inhaled, and Professor Shrimpdittle looked as though he might faint.
She continued, “Given that there are ten of you, we must keep the readings brief. So tuck in quickly to the nibbly bits while we do so, and don’t stand on ceremony. If Miss Pelouse would pour the tea? Miss Buss, why don’t you sit first?”