Sophronia was perfectly well aware that she made the most absurd picture. She was still wearing the pinafore over her ball gown. Not to mention the fact that there was a wicker chicken strapped to her back. She angled so the chicken wasn’t entirely visible, determined to make the best of the situation. She imagined its little wicker head peering over her shoulder suspiciously at the harp.

Sophronia was an abysmal harpist. She’d only had a few lessons in tinkling for torture and diversion and had done badly at those.

Nevertheless, when Note-taker came down the stairs to find the door open and a loose mechanical, how could he help but investigate? It was pure temptation.

And there he was, as predicted, peering myopically into Lady Linette’s classroom.

The room alone was a shock to anyone, being a combination of conservatory, boudoir, and house of ill repute. It featured a good deal of red fringe, highly questionable artwork, and long velvet fainting couches shoved to one side by the crash. Lady Linette appeared to have evacuated her three fluffy cats, so at least they weren’t in residence giving Sophronia’s harping the yowls it deserved.

Sophronia looked up, arrested, as if caught on canvas by a master painter. She used the moonlight and the angle to her advantage, targeting an ethereal effect. She stopped playing as though interrupted in deep reverie. She floated one white hand gracefully up to push back a stray lock of hair, still maintaining its curl despite the trials of the evening. This exposed her neck, which Lady Linette said was a sign of vulnerability.

“Oh, dear.” Sophronia gave a tremulous smile. “Did my playing disturb you, sir? I do apologize.” Tremulous smiles were very effective when applied to the right victim.

Nothing could be more confusing to the poor man than Sophronia at that moment. He fell back on etiquette. What else was an Englishman to do when confronted with a wicker-chicken-wearing leather-clad tremulous smile? He drew the only ready weapon he had—manners. “Good evening, miss…” He trailed off.

Sophronia rose, sweetly innocent, and moved toward him as if she were a ballerina.

He, in turn, stepped into the room, as politeness demanded. Bumbersnoot scuttled in after, looking pleased with himself. He went to snuffle about the fringed carpet to see if it might be susceptible to singeing.

“Miss Pelouse. How do you do? Are you visiting for the party?” Sophronia’s voice was breathy—due to the euphoria of her own transformative harp playing, of course.

The young man had a largish nose and floppy hair and the appealing gawkish posture of the literary-minded. He might also, Sophronia realized, have a gun. Difficult for him to reach for it, however, as he was carrying his notebook in one hand and Professor Braithwope’s miniature crossbow and three bolts in the other.

He clearly did not know what to do when approached by a pretty young lady wearing a wicker chicken who ought—by all standards of decency—to be long abandoned on the moor… chickenless.

Sophronia held out her hand, as if she were a bishop and wished it to be kissed.

The young Pickleman fumbled, his arms full, to finagle an appropriate response. He managed a truncated sort of bow over the offering. “Spice Administrator Bawkin, miss, how do you do? Is that your mechanimal?”

Sophronia gave him a perfect curtsy and then cocked her head, inquisitive. “Mechanimal? Where?” Bumbersnoot had conveniently rejected the fringe and was poking about the back side of the coal scuttle, out of view.

The young man abandoned that line of questioning for one of greater import. “Um, miss, how did you get here?”

Sophronia floated her fingers about in a dancer’s confusion. “I walked. You would suggest some other method?”

“No, I mean, miss, the ship was evacuated.”

“Dear me, was it? I hadn’t noticed. I do get lost in my music. It is my one true passion. Do you have a one true passion, Mr. Spice-Bawkin?” Sophronia prattled in an airy-fairy manner. She did not let him answer. “Mine is music. I simply adore music. Je l’adore, je l’adore! It’s so transporting, don’t you find? Of course you do. Everyone does. When I sit at my harp, the world simply melts away. Like, you know, that creamy icy thing that melts. What am I thinking of? Oh, yes, Nesselrode pudding. I’m afraid it may have melted too far just now, and I missed something important. An evacuation, you say? Are you the authorities? Have we been evacuated for political reasons? Oh, I always knew they would go too far.”

“Who?” interjected the young Pickleman, almost desperately, overwhelmed by her blathering.

Sophronia was breezy and dismissive, “Oh, you know, they.” All the while she chattered, she pressed the young man around and back, moving him into position by slightly crowding his social space. So vested was he in keeping the correct distance for conversation with a lady that he didn’t even realize he had been moved until he came up against Lady Linette’s mantelpiece, where her prized stuffed badger in a lace mobcap stared austerely down at him.

“Miss,” he interrupted again, “why are you wearing a chicken?”

“Oh, this old thing? It’s the very latest fashion accessory. Don’t you like it? Mine is a bit big, I grant you. I was going to put it into my hair, but it was too heavy. You don’t like it? I’m so foolish.” She widened her green eyes as though she might burst into tears.

“Of course. I mean, I do like it. It’s very, um, bendy.”

Sophronia’s lips trembled and her eyes welled.