With no time to waste, Sophronia saw Mademoiselle Geraldine off, carried by a docile vampire in the direction of engineering. She and Handle headed toward the rear as fast as she could hobble.

Eerie and empty as the school had been before, it was more so now. All the mechanicals were gone, their tracks abandoned. Her obstructor remained unused. It was a worry, but also a relief, for it allowed them to move quickly. With the excitement of the hunt back on, Sophronia’s aches faded somewhat to the background. Or perhaps Sister Mattie’s poultices were finally taking effect.

They found the propeller room, which was much smaller than engineering, manned by six sooties with one Pickleman supervisor. The man in question sported a nasty expression and held a crop, rather than a whip, and a smallish gun.

Sophronia’s good arm was sound. Handle was enough of a boy to have hurled stones at random things in order to break them—as boys do. So when two fake pastries went flying, the world around that Pickleman exploded.

He collapsed, unconscious.

The sooties cheered, weakly but with real joy.

Sophronia trussed the Pickleman up with a strip of her shirt—she was running out of hair ribbons and curtain cords—and nabbed his gun. She gave his crop to a sootie with an equally nasty expression. He seemed delighted.

Handle explained the situation to his compatriots. They instantly shut down all boiler activity. Propeller work didn’t keep the ship afloat, just headed it in the right direction, but this would stall the approach to London. The great whump-whump vibrations of the propeller slowed. It would take a while for the heat to work out completely, but it was a start.

The group of eight then dashed back through the ship, avoiding the area around the hold.

Mademoiselle Geraldine and Professor Braithwope were waiting for them, thank goodness. Near them was a limp body—the final runner. There were puncture wounds on his neck, and Professor Braithwope looked like a man who had overindulged in the cook’s claret. He sat motionless on the hallway carpet, slumped back against one wall, hand over his belly.

“Is he dead?” Sophronia asked Mademoiselle Geraldine, who was hopping about on one leg, looking annoyed.

The headmistress made a disgusted nose. “No, gone to the cats.”

“Not Professor Braithwope. The runner.”

“Oh, him? Not yet.” Even though it was said in an offhand manner, the headmistress sounded dangerous.

The sooties gave both Mademoiselle Geraldine and the vampire a wide berth.

That’s two more off my list. Sophronia mentally crossed them off her map.

Professor Braithwope let out a belch. He was useless for the moment.

Sophronia gave Handle the gun. He passed it off to a tall muscled boy who looked like he’d grown up in dark places where guns were common. She and Handle armed themselves with exploding pastries. The other sooties were ready to grab whatever tools they could once in the room.

“Ready to reclaim your territory, troops?” Sophronia asked.

They nodded, grim-faced, eager.

The two Picklemen in the main boiler room were taken entirely by surprise by a coordinated attack from above. With one charge, Handle and the four unarmed sooties eliminated the supervisor on the platform overlooking the activity below. He tumbled over the edge with a shout, landing with a sickening crunch and sizzle on top of the biggest boiler.

Meanwhile, Sophronia and the sootie with the gun ran to the edge of the platform, knelt, and took aim. He fired and she threw. The man below was concentrating on his whip, fearing rebellion from within. Either fake food or bullet must have hit, because he folded into a heap. The sooties around him seized the moment, removing both his gun and his whip and administering a few well-earned kicks.

Just like that, the night was theirs and the remaining sooties were free. Sophronia’s tiny invading army climbed down the stairs to greet them.

Sophronia assisted Mademoiselle Geraldine with her uninjured shoulder. By the time they arrived, Handle had all the sooties abreast of the situation and bustling about shutting down the boilers.

Mademoiselle Geraldine looked over the dirty triumphant group in awe. “These boys are quite wonderful, aren’t they?”

“I’ve always thought so.” Sophronia kept the annoyance out of her voice.

Handle explained. “As the boilers cool, she’ll eventually sink to the ground. But it’ll take days. The balloons are filled up tight, and very little helium escapes. You’ll need to outgas to really get her down. I’ll stay with you, miss, show you how.”

Sophronia shook her head. “No, Handle, you’ve done enough. Professor Braithwope and I can take it from here.”

Handle was not convinced. The vampire was still sagged in the hallway above in a drunken stupor. But it took a stronger man than Handle to disobey Sophronia. It took Soap.

“If you say so, miss.” He turned to his fellows. “Let’s find Smokey Bones, boys, and abandon ship.”

A brief flurry of activity ensued while they looked for their cat, who, of course, when desperately wanted, had vanished entirely. Finally, they unearthed it beneath a particulate illuminator and picked the creature up, yowling.

Sophronia hid a smile. “Come on, everyone. Over behind that coal pile in the corner. We should have a rescue waiting at that hatch I’m so fond of.”

Handle popped open said hatch and there, nested up alongside the school in a display of real air ability, was the gondola of a second, smaller airship. Its balloon was crowded in alongside their own dirigible, somehow neither tangled in rigging nor popped by a balcony. Very impressive piloting.