“Very good, ladies. Have the coach take Miss Woosmoss home when you’re done. I’ll bid you good night. And tomorrow…” Petunia brightened notably at a thought. “Tomorrow we shall go hat shopping.” She left without further discussion.

The three girls curled up by a fire in the parlor, cards out, of course, in case someone came to check on them, but they played by rote. Sophronia told them of her conversation with Madame Spetuna, and they spent some time debating where her loyalties might lie and why she might be unable to transfer information any other way than via Lord Akeldama.

“Although we must admit it worked.” Dimity was always one to give credit when due.

“The teachers won’t believe us. It’s such a crazy idea, war mechanicals. Too extreme.”

“They won’t want to believe us. Too scary.” Agatha showed unexpected insight.

A pause while they all looked morose.

Sophronia added, “She said something about her records—maybe there is a code word there that commands trust?”

“What else did we learn?” Dimity moved them on to other speculations, as she didn’t want to talk about the record room. It brought back bad—well, sticky—memories.

Agatha reported her observations. “The dewan used the explosion to push his agenda. He has something on the queen’s desk called the Clandestine Information Act. It’s designed to seize technological power for the Crown in the guise of patent control. I think he wants to persuade Lord Akeldama to this cause.”

“Speaking of which, did any of you learn anything more about that suspicious butler?” Sophronia asked.

“Administering a damp handkerchief will only get a young lady so far.” Agatha made a face.

“Me neither. But I think he had a vested interest in the politics of the situation.” Dimity wound a hair ribbon around and through her fingertips.

“Why?”

“He moved toward the dewan anytime he mentioned controlling technology.”

“Patent holder, perhaps?” Agatha had a brain under those red curls.

“A patent holder carrying at least two small guns, one up each sleeve?” Sophronia was suspicious.

“And a knife down his boot top.” Dimity flicked the hair ribbon.

“Careful with that—you’ll have an eye out.” Sophronia put up a hand defensively.

Agatha remained focused on the butler. “I noticed that, too. Assassin in the employment of a patent holder?”

“Speaking of butlers.” Sophronia drew out the calling card for the chimney sweep service. “If you will excuse me a moment? I believe there is someone waiting to speak with me outside.”

Agatha and Dimity squinted suspiciously, but let her go with only an exchange of teasing smooching noises.

After creeping around a well-guarded floating school, the Hisselpennys’ town house was ridiculously easy to escape, just as Soap had told her it should be.

Soap was waiting for her in the back alley by the kitchen delivery entrance.

Sophronia vibrated with awareness of him, but was careful not to show it. “Good evening.”

Soap was not so reticent. He moved in with supernatural speed, and before she could protest, nuzzled into the side of her neck in a wolfish manner. “Why do you always smell so tasty?”

In response, Sophronia sniffed him loudly, trying to lighten the mood. He no longer carried the scent of coal and boilers. He smelled of something raw and wild, a tiny bit like freshly butchered beef and open fields. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t comforting, either. She had found coal dust and oil so reassuring—once.

A throat cleared. “Touching as this is, youngsters, there’s work to be done.”

Soap backed away and the dewan stepped out of the shadows.

Sophronia was mortified by the fact that she hadn’t noticed him there. Too much of her focus had been on Soap—how had he done that? She curtsied exactly the right depth for the dewan’s social superiority. He was, after all, landed as the Earl of Upper Slaughter, even if he couldn’t boast an actual country seat.

“My lord, twice in one evening. To what do I owe the honor?” She tilted her head—to the degree of inquiry, not the degree of coquetry. It wasn’t done to expose too much neck to werewolf or vampire.

“Now, now, little trickster, don’t go throwing wiles in my direction.” The dewan squinted at her.

Soap snaked an arm about Sophronia’s waist and turned so that he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

The dewan gave him a sharp look. “Like that, is it?”

Soap blinked at him. “I have always been hers. Although she is taking her time accepting it.”

“I didn’t realize you were so tame, pup,” replied the dewan, then dismissed it as unimportant with a wave of one massive hand.

Sophronia tried to delicately shrug away from Soap, but his arm only tightened. His statement had held so much finality it made her uncomfortable. How could she possibly combat such a feeling?

The dewan proceeded to grill Sophronia about her observations from the dinner party. She told him some of them. After all, he would be her patron eventually, and she had the sinking suspicion she might need his help in the days to come. He gave her little reaction, even when she spoke of his own agenda of trying to garner support for the Clandestine Information Act. His expression only changed when she mentioned the butler.

“Noticed him, did you?”

“Two guns and a knife? Of course I noticed.”