IN WHICH WE ARE ALL FINALLY FINISHED

When the school exploded above London that night in early January of 1854, there were fewer witnesses than there might ordinarily have been. Many were occupied with a mass mechanical shutdown. Those who did see, dismissed it as one more eccentricity in a very eccentric night. Few knew what it was that died. Those who did, set out to find where the school landed when it fell from the sky.

The werewolves got there first. By the time the others arrived, they’d snuffled through the wreckage and extracted Picklemen and flywaymen—some already tied up, some bloodied, some bashed, some burned. All were annoyed with life, except, of course, those who were dead. The werewolves stacked them neatly in three piles—dead, not dead, and snack-sized.

Conveniently, one of the dead Picklemen had turned ghost and proved willing to cooperate. After all, he had nothing left to lose. After the werewolves found a vast number of illegal mechanimals, the ghost explained the whole invasion plan. The werewolves sent off for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, various government representatives, the Staking Constabulary, and all manner of other authorities who might be spared from one mechanical crisis to see about another.

Soap was there. A wolf none of the others knew, a loner unwilling to fraternize with a pack. He hunted long after the others had stopped. His nose, although miraculous in its abilities, couldn’t find the one scent it was looking for. The scent that lingered with him even when she wasn’t near. So his hope turned to fear.

The hive’s rescue dirigible arrived, full of sooties and Mademoiselle Geraldine. The headmistress explained everything she knew, or at least pretended to, under the solicitous attention of various large gruff men. She made for an excellent front, in more ways than one, while her students and sooties quietly avoided questioning.

Even Monique showed up, a great deal later, after she had reported to her hive. It was a miracle she came at all. At first they thought it remnant loyalty to her old school. But then, after she filled in some details concerning the last of Sophronia’s adventure, she demanded the return of her airship. “That dirigible is my responsibility. I should like it back now.”

Since it wasn’t part of the investigation, the authorities permitted her repossession. She left, with a few sooties paid to help float, but with no more information about Sophronia’s survival than anyone else.

At which point, Soap panicked.

The skinny, black-furred loner wolf started weaving back and forth, a whine he couldn’t control keening out. The Staking Constabulary thought he might be mad, and prepared their silver to attack if necessary.

Soap thought he’d know. If Sophronia died, he thought, somehow he would be aware of that fact—feel it in his bones. But there was nothing, no clue, no message she’d left in the wreckage, just a few of her dresses and some bits from her room in a pile. Her scent was on one or two of the prisoners, their bonds were her handiwork, but nothing more.

Dawn was soon to come—Soap could certainly feel that in his werewolf bones. There was only one more possibility. So he left.

He was too far gone in beast to care that Dimity and Agatha stood sobbing to one side, clutched together, certain their friend had died. He registered his old enemy, Felix Mersey, crying, the charcoal smell of wet kohl from the lines about his eyes as it ran down his face. What right had he to cry? His father had survived, although both the duke’s legs were broken. Soap spared the duke a glance—the man who had killed him once was in the Bureau of Unnatural Registry’s custody amid mutterings of high treason. Wolf Soap found it all petty and inconsequential when his Sophronia was missing.

His beast brain could remember but one thing: Regent Square an hour before dawn. And dawn was coming. So Soap ran back into London as fast as supernatural speed could take him.

Sophronia extracted herself from the Brussels sprouts and thought about the time. She wondered what she should do and how she was going to get anywhere to do it. Her plan had finished with the ship. With no other ready options, she headed to Regent Square on the off chance that Soap would remember their meeting place—because really, what else was there to do?

She had to walk, and it was a long walk, because she hadn’t any money and no hackney would stop to pick her up—a roughed-up boy with two black eyes, a useless arm, and a slight limp. Perceptions, thought Sophronia as she hobbled along, really are everything in this world.

She didn’t quite make it in time. It was about half an hour before dawn when she finally stumbled into Regent’s Park. Sophronia had never been so tired, or so thirsty, or so hungry in her life. She tumbled onto a small patch of ground under a thorny bush and lay there, aching. Every bone in her body had something to say about the state of the universe, loudly and likely profanely. Her skin hurt all over, and her mind was pressed down with the weight of the lives she had taken. Like the mechanicals who had gone before her, she simply shut down.

Soap, who was running a pattern about the park, nose forward, found her sleeping. He entirely forgot he was still a wolf and licked her face all over.

Sophronia awoke to slobber and wolf breath.

She couldn’t have been happier. She wound her good hand through his thick black fur and rested her chin atop his ruff. Foolish boy, he wriggled about onto his back, tail wagging in an excess of delight. It was almost embarrassing, if it hadn’t been so cute.

Then Soap remembered himself—or at least that there was another half of himself to remember—and transformed. Only now he was naked, crouched on the ground next to her, and that really was embarrassing.