Etiquette & Espionage (Finishing School, #1)(54)

Sophronia listened at the door, hand up to keep the others quiet. Then, when there seemed to be a lull in the activities outside in the corridor, quick as she could, she opened the door, dragged Pillover forward, and thrust him out, slamming the door closed behind him.

The rumbling in the hallway escala kallrd, and thted for a minute and then quieted. Into the silence a deep voice boomed out, “Pillover Thaddeus Plumleigh-Teignmott, what are you wearing?”

They heard Pillover reply querulously, “A petticoat, Headmaster.”

“So I see. You had better have an excellently malevolent explanation as to why.”

“Well, you see, sir,” Pillover started to say, then, “Ouch. Please, sir, not the ear.”

“Come with me!”

“Yes, sir.”

A clatter of mechanicals on rails and the thud of footsteps followed, leaving the hallway in silence.

“What do you know?” whispered Soap at long last. “He was useful.”

After that, they managed to escape Bunson and Lacroix’s Boys’ Polytechnique without further incident. Running up the goat path, Sophronia turned back to look at it only once. She thought that the school looked like an ill-decorated, oversized mangle of chess pieces.

“Our academy is much nicer,” she asserted between breaths as they jogged along. The moor mists had not arisen, and the great caterpillar of multiple dirigibles pressed together that was Mademoiselle Geraldine’s floated gamely before them, lit by a picturesque golden moon.

“You believe so?” Vieve tilted her head in the manner of one who rarely considered the aesthetics of buildings. “Well, ours floats.”

“I mean, it’s less cobbled together.”

Vieve said, “I always thought it had a rather hatlike aspect—like a great floating turban.”

Sophronia tilted her head, but did not quite see it.

They raced on.

Sophronia was worried. “Do you think we made our window?”

Soap nodded. “Yes, but there might be another problem.” He pointed over at a distant hill on their right. There, under the light of the moon, was the shadowy form of a wolf. Wearing a top hat.

“Is that who I think it is?” Sophronia hoped despite herself that it might be some kind of very large dog.

“Know of any other wolves roaming the moors in evening dress?”

“He’s not supposed to be near civilization at the full moon!” Vieve objected.

“Guess someone made a mistake somewhere,” said Soap.

“This is not good,” Sophronia said, stating the obvious. The wolf’s muzzle was up and he was scenting the air. Almost as she spoke, his shaggy head turned in their direction.

“We’re closer to the school than he is,” Soap pointed out.

“Yes, but he’s supernatural,” said Vieve, who clearly had some experience in the matter of werewolves. Her little face, normally open and friendly, was pale with fear.

Sophronia took the lead. “Enough talk, everybody—run!” Hiking up her skirts, she suited her actions to her words, feeling no shame over the fact that she was down one petticoat and showing ankle to all the world.

Soap quickly outpaced her. His legs were longer, and he was unencumbered by skirts. When he reached the underside of the forward section, he began frantically hopping about and gesticulating wildly. Only then did Sophronia realize that the rope ladder from the boiler room had yet to be dropped ko bink we mdown.

She and Vieve came panting up. “Are we too early?”

“Possibly.”

Sophronia picked up a clod of dirt and threw it at the underside of the hull, close to where she thought the hatch might be. She missed completely; the ship was higher up than she thought. Soap and Vieve followed her lead. Vieve also missed, but Soap’s clod hit and spattered against the hatch.

Nothing happened. The werewolf had nearly reached their hill.

At the last possible moment, the hatch popped open and the rope ladder dropped.

“Soap, you go first; you’re fastest.”

“But Miss Sophronia, you’re a lady. Ladies always go first!”

Sophronia threw her shoulders back and looked him in the eye. “I am trained for this.” She wasn’t yet, but it was worth the lie. “Don’t contest a direct order during an active intelligencer undertaking!”

Soap frowned, but he clearly hated to argue with a lady. Least of all Sophronia. He began climbing up.

“Vieve, you next.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Vieve began climbing.

Sophronia started up last, and just as she did so, she snuck one last look at the werewolf.

With a vicious growl, he was upon her.

For the second time that night, Sophronia was grateful to have worn proper dress. Captain Niall dove for her in a tremendous leap of the kind described in countless gothic novels. His jaws were open, his mouth an angry cavern of teeth and dripping saliva, and when he struck he bit down hard, ruthlessly savaging her… other petticoat.

Sophronia screamed and kicked out.

The werewolf’s teeth were stuck in the bottom reinforced hem. This was her strongest-starched underskirt, the kind designed to support a gown in a full and feminine pouf.

Sophronia kicked again and her foot struck the beast’s sensitive nose.