“To stop them. Whatever it is they are going to do with those valves, I’m putting an end to it before it happens.”

“And if you can’t? What’s your contingency plan?”

The dewan looked militant. “They will be stopped. That is all you need know.”

Perhaps I have to be the one to develop a contingency plan. Sophronia wondered if Madame Spetuna was heading back to nest once more among the Picklemen and flywaymen.

“It’s getting late.” The dewan did not want to talk further. “I’d best get this one home before dawn. Make your good-byes, younglings.”

Soap turned swiftly and kissed her, before she could protest.

His lips were soft and warm. He tasted different. Richer, like brown-butter sauce. More threatening, also. She probably liked that fact too much. Although she found herself grateful that it was the new moon—the safest time for a girl to be kissed by a werewolf.

Soap broke it off before she was ready, leaving her dissatisfied and annoyed with her own weakness. She had to remind herself again how impossible such a relationship would be—they’d be mocked and ostracized by everyone.

The look in Soap’s eye said he, too, wanted more, but that was the point. If Sophronia were ever fully satisfied, she’d be bored, or dead. Soap was inclined to use that character trait to his advantage.

Because they both knew it, Sophronia headed back into the house without another word.

“Wait.”

She turned at the door, and the dewan tossed something at her. Training kicked in and she suppressed the instinct to dive out of danger, catching it instead. It was a large velvet sack, well padded, and it thunked into her, heavy with the weight of something metal. She loosened the drawstring.

Tick-tock, tick-tock! went the sack.

“Bumbersnoot!”

“You shouldn’t leave your mechanimal lying about all willy-nilly like that, young lady. Any werewolf could have tripped over him,” said the dewan.

Soap chuckled.

And they were gone.

Sophronia envied them their speed and silence. The right werewolf, she thought, could make for a very accomplished spy.

RECORDS AND REGRETS

The remainder of their London visit was uneventful. There were other dinner parties and shopping trips but no explosions and no revelations, if one discounted Agatha’s realizing, finally, that orange was not a good color for her. This, Dimity and Sophronia felt, was an epiphany of epic proportions but of little consequence to the fate of the Empire at large.

They made their good-byes with the utmost gravity. Dimity and Agatha thanked Petunia profusely for her hospitality. Dimity presented her with a bunch of hothouse blooms entirely to Petunia’s taste. Agatha pressed Petunia’s hand and assured her that Mr. Woosmoss would call upon Mr. Hisselpenny on a matter of business come the New Year. Everyone parted ways feeling the better for the visitation.

The young ladies repaired to their respective families for the holidays, declaring their London jaunt an unparalleled success. They each had several new dresses, not to mention hats, gloves, shawls, and boots. Petunia was in raptures over their pleasant company, pleasing manners, and polite talk. A delusion which they considered a profound victory for espionage.

Sophronia enjoyed life back home with her family, grown only larger with married siblings now producing families of their own. But hers was a modest enjoyment. Conversation seemed provincial and limited in scope. Three days was more than enough mundanities. She was delighted when Agatha rolled up in her father’s landau, having arranged to be their transport back to school.

Sophronia was permitted to give Agatha tea in the front parlor while the luggage was loaded. Presumably Petunia had told Mrs. Temminnick of Agatha’s wealth and station. Such a privilege as being accorded privacy in the Temminnick household was unprecedented.

“Was your Christmas perfectly ghastly?” asked Sophronia, all sympathy after the niceties had been dispensed with and the first cups quaffed.

“Tolerably so. I envy you your massive family, Sophronia. I should dearly love to be out of the spotlight and forgotten on occasion.”

“I don’t know. My mother thinks more on her cats these days than me. When we were called in for Christmas dinner, she forgot to yell my name entirely. Not that I mind as such—before Mademoiselle Geraldine’s my name was all too often yelled.”

“Better to be forgotten than the focus of all your father’s hopes and dreams.”

“You have a point. It is a valuable thing for an intelligencer to be forgotten.”

“Oh, I do wish I had a brother. Or had been born a man.”

Sophronia reached across the sofa to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Oh, Agatha, I’m sorry. Is he still making demands?”

“He wants to know why my marks aren’t better. Why I don’t speak fluent French. Why I can’t kill a fully grown man with a nutcracker.”

Their privacy was not to last, for the twins clattered in, yodeling excitedly and heralding the arrival of another coach.

Sophronia and Agatha finished the dregs of their tea, kidnapped the crumpets for the journey ahead, collected the last of their belongings, and rushed out to the courtyard.

It proved to be Dimity and Pillover in a hired hack. The Plumleigh-Teignmotts tumbled out with all appearances of having argued vociferously most of the way.

Since Mrs. Temminnick was otherwise occupied, Petunia saw them all situated and gave the coachman instructions to Swiffle-on-Exe with no little pride. She didn’t object to Pillover’s presence, although by rights he ought not to be left alone with the girls. They’d formed a wary friendship at Petunia’s coming-out ball, and she still looked upon him with favor.