“Oh,” mumbled Soap, embarrassed under the direct glare of such a rich and powerful man, “I’m only a sootie.”

Sophronia said, stalwart, “Who else do you suggest we get to drive the train?”

“This is all quite ridiculous!” stated the duke. “They’re feckless mischief-makers. You must see that.”

Captain Niall, although much lower in rank, took offense at that accusation. “Your Grace, Mademoiselle Geraldine might train her girls to no good, but mischief for mischief’s sake is strictly forbidden. They are not evil geniuses, after all, that’s Bunson’s sphere.”

The dewan looked back and forth between Sophronia and the duke. “I am tempted to agree with the captain. These two have a satisfactory explanation as to why they are involved with a train. On the other hand, if there was something valuable of yours on that train, Your Grace, why were you firing a cannon at it? Your explanation seems a little wanting. Either you want the train destroyed because of what it contains, or you are after these two. And since you let the train go and stayed with these scamps, I must suppose it is them. Why?”

Because I know too much, thought Sophronia.

The duke still had his gun and was staring hard at Sophronia. She had not revealed his plot to the werewolves. She had mentioned nothing about mechanicals or crystalline valves. She had held her peace regarding his evil plans, whatever those plans were. Did he trust her to keep them hidden? Or did he realize that she was not talking because the whole thing sounded preposterous? She was trained to know that the best explanation was always the simplest. They both knew that the childish whims of a group of girls, worried about their unhappy friend, made a plausible excuse. A countrywide Pickleman plot for mechanical uprising did not.

But what could the duke say to counter her, without revealing that plot himself?

Sophronia was betting on the duke’s not being as quick as she.

The duke glared. “My boy should have warned me about you sooner.”

Captain Niall said, “Now, now, Your Grace, Miss Temminnick is a little precocious. There’s no cause to insult the lady.”

“Lady?” snorted the duke.

There was a scuffle from behind him, on board the dirigible. It looked as if Felix was taking some exception to his father’s tone. But Felix had a bullet wound to the leg, and several large flywaymen appeared to be dragging him back from the railing. Obviously, they had been instructed not to let him join the conversation.

“Unhand me, you brutes!” he yelled, batting at grasping hands. And then, “Sophronia! Sophronia, there are more—” He was cut off by a massive hand.

In the interim, the duke decided on a new tactic. “Please excuse my son, he is overwrought. Well, my dear dewan, if you remand the young lady here into my custody, I will see that she gets safely back to school. I’m heading in that direction myself, I must take my boy back to Bunson’s, after all.”

The dewan looked as if he might jump on this plan, just to relieve himself of the responsibility of determining what was going on. A matter that, no doubt, seemed petty when compared with an entire Scottish werewolf pack running amok without an Alpha.

Captain Niall, however, was still thinking like Sophronia’s teacher. “I don’t know, Your Grace. You did fire a cannon at her.”

“At her train,” corrected the duke.

“So you acknowledge it was her train?” said Soap.

Everyone stared at him as if they had forgotten he existed, which they probably had.

“Who cares for your opinion, sootie?” demanded the duke.

The discussion might have gone on for a good long while, except that behind them came a deal of hollering and yelling, and over a small hill marched Sidheag, Dimity, and Bumbersnoot, armed with coal shovels and determined to come to the rescue.

Sophronia said to Soap, “They probably ran out of fuel just the other side, then found us gone. They should have stayed out of this.”

Soap said, stalwart friend to the end, “They didn’t know what we were up to—taking the tumble intentionally. They’re only doing what you would do in their position.”

Sophronia nodded. “True.”

The dewan said, “Is that Lady Kingair? Oh, good, she can help sort this out. Sensible female, for a mortal girl.”

No one had noticed, but the duke was backing toward his dirigible. A dirigible that was casting off, preparing to float away.

No one except Soap. “Uh, sirs?”

“Now!” yelled the duke, his gun swinging to point at Soap.

Only then did Sophronia realize that Duke Golborne wasn’t the only one with a gun. Perhaps Felix had been trying to warn her about that, not protect her honor.

Three of the flywaymen and the duke all shot at the assembled party.

Captain Niall, acting on supernatural teacher instinct, leapt to protect Sophronia. A bullet hit him broadside and the force of it thrust him over so that he landed fully on top of her.

The dewan moved equally fast. Disregarding the guns, which the men reloaded, he charged for the airship. It was already a few feet off the ground. It was military issue, after all, designed for this kind of maneuvering.

The duke tumbled over the edge of the gondola and back inside, displaying the fact that he favored yellow hose—I knew there was something funny about that man!

The dewan made a gigantic leap to grab the side of the dirigible, but even supernatural strength wasn’t enough. His grip slipped and he fell back to earth with a thud. Had he been in wolf form, he might have made it, but then what? Werewolves weren’t able to float.