Professor Braithwope’s mustache, which he must have had as a mortal before he was metamorphosed into a vampire, was a tiny caterpillar-like object that perched upon his upper lip with an air of great uncertainty, like an amateur diver. This seemed to trouble the professor of late, for he would sporadically attempt to rid himself of the fuzzy protuberance. Since he was immortal, this did not work, for the moment the razor was put away his mustache grew back to its exact former state.
Sometimes, like tonight, he’d only managed to shave halfway before getting distracted, so the mustache looked as if it had lost its purchase at last and slid dangerously to the side and was trying, before their very eyes, to claw its way back up. It was hypnotic and difficult not to stare because the facial hair grew as quickly as a vampire’s wounds might heal.
“Young ladies, why are you leaving my class so soon, whot? I believe we have not yet even started. Wait a moment there! Don’t I know you? Yes, I think I do, I believe you are dancers to perform this evening. Or, wait…”
Sophronia and Dimity curtsied apologetically.
“Sorry, sir,” said Sophronia, “we’re excused. There’s this masquerade, you see?”
Dimity added, “Her brother is engaged, very exciting. We have to catch transport tomorrow and we need our beauty rest.”
“Well, that is no lie,” said Preshea from her seat near the back of the room.
The vampire lost interest halfway through their explanation. “Oh, yes, well, if you insist. Don’t forget your sausage, whot.” His mustache had almost resumed full bushiness.
“Of course not, sir,” replied Sophronia with a perfectly straight face.
“I believe they are bringing Viscount Mersey, does he count as a sausage?” Preshea was inclined to be fresh.
Professor Braithwope turned on her. “Bratwurst or banger?” he snapped.
“Banger, most assuredly,” replied Preshea.
The vampire thus distracted, Sophronia and Dimity made their escape, trying not to giggle.
They had already packed, terrified that they would forget something. And once in their room, they were far too excited to sleep, particularly not earlier than usual.
So instead they lay in their nightgowns talking.
“Are you pleased Lord Mersey will be there?”
Sophronia sighed. “I suppose so.”
“He is very handsome. And very rich. And very titled.” Dimity’s tone gave nothing away.
“Yes, but you’re the one who really wants to marry those things, not me.”
“Then what do you want from a beau?”
Sophronia considered this question. It had been troubling her of late. Felix was good looking, but he rather knew that too much. And he was nicely mysterious. But as a Pickleman he would interfere with her espionage operations, and that really couldn’t be countenanced in a beau. Perhaps I can train him out of it?
Before she could answer Dimity, a timid knock sounded at the door to the parlor. The two looked at each other. They were the only ones not in class; whoever was there must know this.
Sophronia climbed out of bed and pulled on a robe. She was less self-conscious about these things than Dimity. After her foray into dressing like a dandy, she’d given over most scruples concerning public appearances in impolite clothing. After all, her nightgown nicely covered her climbing outfit, even if it was intended for the bedchamber.
“Oh, Sophronia,” said Dimity, “they can wait while you dress.”
Since dressing, at the best of times, took a quarter of an hour, this was probably not wise. That knock had definitely sounded clandestine; besides, appearing at the door in said nightgown might unsettle the visitor, thus giving her an initial conversational advantage.
So Sophronia disregarded Dimity and padded through the parlor to open the hall door. A tall, shrouded figure pushed in past her without ceremony.
“What?”
“Shut the door, quickly now!”
Sophronia did so, and the individual pushed back the shroud to reveal…
“Soap!” He’d never visited before. It was terribly dangerous for a sootie to be up top. If he were caught, he’d be summarily dismissed without references. Not to mention the fact that Sophronia and Dimity would be ruined.
“What ho, miss? Figured I’d catch you before you left.”
Sophronia wasn’t sure how she felt about this. She had, after all, been avoiding him.
“Sophronia, who is it?” peeped Dimity from the safe confines of their darkened sleeping chamber.
Sophronia went over and stuck her head in. “No one all that important; give me a few minutes, please?”
Dimity’s white face peeked out from under the covers, which she’d pulled up to her chin in case someone untoward tried to see her. “Must you receive callers in such a state of disrepair?”
“I’ll be quick.”
“Who is it, then?” Dimity pressed.
“Just a friend.” Sophronia wanted to avoiding explaining Soap to Dimity. Dimity was bound to come over with a surfeit of disapproval.
Dimity sighed, but there was no way she was leaving her bed to meet an unknown entity.
Sophronia shut the door, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and turned to face the sootie.
Soap was standing awkwardly in the middle of the parlor, the cowl pushed down to drape about his shoulders. It was made of ripped gunnysack.
“Do sit down?” said Sophronia politely, with an elegant gesture designed to disarm the intruder with politeness, as Lady Linette had once instructed.
“I won’t, miss, thank you kindly. I’ll only smudge up all your pretty little seatlings.”
Sophronia stayed where she was for a moment, on the far side of the room. Then decided she would risk proximity for greater privacy in speech, in case Dimity was listening at keyholes. So she went over and sat, looking up at him expectantly.
“Well?”
“I scared you off, miss, didn’t I? This last time. Should’ve known I was too blunt. Even you’ve got some finer feelings.”
Sophronia’s pride was stung. “You most certainly did not scare me! And I’ve plenty of finer feelings, thank you very much. I was ashamed of my behavior, shouldn’t have yelled.”
Soap grinned, wide and cheerful. “I’m glad you did. Shows you care.”
“Of course I do!”
“So you’re avoiding me because you came over all lily-livered, afraid I’ll chuck a little affection your way?”
Sophronia glared at him. “I’m not frightened of you, Soap. I simply don’t think of you that way, and I don’t want to.”