RECORDS AND REGRETS
The remainder of their London visit was uneventful. There were other dinner parties and shopping trips but no explosions and no revelations, if one discounted Agatha’s realizing, finally, that orange was not a good color for her. This, Dimity and Sophronia felt, was an epiphany of epic proportions but of little consequence to the fate of the Empire at large.
They made their good-byes with the utmost gravity. Dimity and Agatha thanked Petunia profusely for her hospitality. Dimity presented her with a bunch of hothouse blooms entirely to Petunia’s taste. Agatha pressed Petunia’s hand and assured her that Mr. Woosmoss would call upon Mr. Hisselpenny on a matter of business come the New Year. Everyone parted ways feeling the better for the visitation.
The young ladies repaired to their respective families for the holidays, declaring their London jaunt an unparalleled success. They each had several new dresses, not to mention hats, gloves, shawls, and boots. Petunia was in raptures over their pleasant company, pleasing manners, and polite talk. A delusion which they considered a profound victory for espionage.
Sophronia enjoyed life back home with her family, grown only larger with married siblings now producing families of their own. But hers was a modest enjoyment. Conversation seemed provincial and limited in scope. Three days was more than enough mundanities. She was delighted when Agatha rolled up in her father’s landau, having arranged to be their transport back to school.
Sophronia was permitted to give Agatha tea in the front parlor while the luggage was loaded. Presumably Petunia had told Mrs. Temminnick of Agatha’s wealth and station. Such a privilege as being accorded privacy in the Temminnick household was unprecedented.
“Was your Christmas perfectly ghastly?” asked Sophronia, all sympathy after the niceties had been dispensed with and the first cups quaffed.
“Tolerably so. I envy you your massive family, Sophronia. I should dearly love to be out of the spotlight and forgotten on occasion.”
“I don’t know. My mother thinks more on her cats these days than me. When we were called in for Christmas dinner, she forgot to yell my name entirely. Not that I mind as such—before Mademoiselle Geraldine’s my name was all too often yelled.”
“Better to be forgotten than the focus of all your father’s hopes and dreams.”
“You have a point. It is a valuable thing for an intelligencer to be forgotten.”
“Oh, I do wish I had a brother. Or had been born a man.”
Sophronia reached across the sofa to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Oh, Agatha, I’m sorry. Is he still making demands?”
“He wants to know why my marks aren’t better. Why I don’t speak fluent French. Why I can’t kill a fully grown man with a nutcracker.”
Their privacy was not to last, for the twins clattered in, yodeling excitedly and heralding the arrival of another coach.
Sophronia and Agatha finished the dregs of their tea, kidnapped the crumpets for the journey ahead, collected the last of their belongings, and rushed out to the courtyard.
It proved to be Dimity and Pillover in a hired hack. The Plumleigh-Teignmotts tumbled out with all appearances of having argued vociferously most of the way.
Since Mrs. Temminnick was otherwise occupied, Petunia saw them all situated and gave the coachman instructions to Swiffle-on-Exe with no little pride. She didn’t object to Pillover’s presence, although by rights he ought not to be left alone with the girls. They’d formed a wary friendship at Petunia’s coming-out ball, and she still looked upon him with favor.
“Whoever knew I should grow myself a sensible sister, in the end?” Sophronia settled back against the plush cushions of the carriage. “Do you think it has something to do with the fact that she is increasing?”
Agatha gasped, gesturing to Pillover.
Dimity came to Sophronia’s defense. “Oh, Agatha, he knows where children come from.”
Dimity moved them on for Agatha’s sake. “I should have preferred a sister like yours, Sophronia, rather than old Pill.”
Sophronia protested, “He’s not so bad. Petunia took a long time to grow a brain. Pillover has had one all along.”
“Thank you for that,” muttered Pillover from under his hat. He was slouched in the corner next to his sister. His chin was sunk into his cravat and his attention fixed on a small book of Latin verse. Occasionally, he popped a lemon fizzy sweet into his mouth.
“He’s a dead codfish.” Dimity wrinkled her nose at the fish in question.
At which Pillover gave every outward appearance of intending to ignore them all for the duration of the journey, although he did sneak a few glances in Agatha’s direction.
Bumbersnoot, who had some minor appreciation for Latin verse, sat on one of Pillover’s feet. Pillover fed him bits of brown paper from the sweets wrapper.
“The ladies seem to like him.” Sophronia spoke simply to see whether Pillover would react.
Pillover flinched.
“One of the great mysteries of the universe. Like why anyone would eat cucumber.” Dimity had firm opinions on cucumber, which she felt was nothing more than slimy, embarrassingly shaped water and should never, under any circumstances, be presented at table.
Sophronia moved the conversation on to young men of Dimity’s acquaintance, and which of them might prove a suitable beau. Lord Dingleproops having been long since discarded, there were other prospects to discuss.
Pillover muttered translations down at Bumbersnoot. The mechanimal paid rapt attention.
Sophronia did not mention Soap. She kept silent about his kisses, even knowing the others might benefit from her experience, but she was both mortified and exhilarated by the memory. She did not want her friends to know, fearing their disgust or worse, pity. Her own feelings were conflicted enough—no need to add theirs to the mix. I have a secret lover, she thought. She experienced no little relish over the secrecy part, it must be admitted. It made her feel wise and bold, and better able to advise Dimity on her romantic choices.
Fortunately, Dimity could talk about her beaux, or lack thereof, for the entirety of a carriage ride. The Picklemen and the flywaymen and their valves were only briefly addressed. Pillover bestirred himself to participate in that part of the conversation. But even an insider from Bunson’s couldn’t add to their knowledge. Perhaps because it was Pillover—as insiders went, he never got very far in, as it were.
“We really must wait for the Picklemen to move first.” Sophronia was not happy about this.
Dimity steered them quickly back to boys, for who could be bothered trying to save the nation from an amorphous threat when flirting was on the line?
A Christmas card addressed to Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, and Miss Woosmoss was waiting in their shared parlor at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. In and of itself that was rather charming, as so few people thought—or even knew—of them as a collective. However, this particular card was from Sidheag, which made it all the more delightful. Not that Sidheag was a great wit, or a particularly talented correspondent, but it was nice to hear from her. Once the staunch fourth member of their little band, Lady Kingair was home in Scotland, with her pack and her affianced, preparing to leave the country on what looked to be a protracted campaign in the Crimea. The card said nothing of consequence—mainly pleasant banalities. It also had little of import encoded. After all, Sidheag knew the teachers read their mail, the same teachers who had taught them how to code. But it was nice to know she was well, and her acerbic nature translated into an aggressive script, for all her prose stuck to the strictures of politeness. Sidheag hadn’t stayed long at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, but she had taken some lessons to heart, in the arena of letter writing at least.
“She’s happier there.” Agatha’s tone was sad. Sidheag had been her closest friend.
“How do you think things are with Captain Niall?” Dimity wondered.
“Difficult to tell. It’s not as if she would write that down.” Sophronia and Sidheag shared a dislike of discussing romance.
She gave Dimity a glance of inquiry over Agatha’s bowed head.
Dimity inclined her chin in approval.
“Agatha, would you like to keep the letter?” said Sophronia.
“Oh, may I? You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Dimity’s smile was warm. Then she glanced down at her necklace timepiece. “Oh, goodness, we have to be in the kitchens in five minutes!”
They had various new lessons, but by far the oddest was, of all things, cooking. Why a respectable female of good standing might need to cook, aside from the occasional poison, was a great mystery. But one did not question Professor Lefoux’s orders. Chopping onions was the worst part, until Dimity discovered one could use floating goggles to good effect. Professor Lefoux was surprised out of her customary dour expression upon finding them attentive to the onions, garbed as if for a flywayman attack.
“Innovative” was her only comment.
With only a week before the New Year’s tea party, the teachers were determined to get the girls back in form quickly. Parties were the best place to practice the art of espionage—holidays, shopping, and Christmas presents notwithstanding. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s young ladies of quality were not allowed to be distracted by anything.
Sophronia tried to deliver Madame Spetuna’s warning to Lady Linette, who was having none of it. “I fail to see why you would make up such a falsehood! How on earth would she be in London? Why reach out to you with such an outlandish story after cutting off contact for all this time? Why send proof to Lord Akeldama and not us? Absurd.”
“But—”
“Silence. Nothing more on the subject!”
After that Lady Linette watched like a hunting hound, and Sophronia could do nothing but apply herself diligently to the routine of classes. She couldn’t shake a feeling of suspension. It was as if she were hanging over an abyss. Any move she made might do more harm than good, and someone might come along at any moment and cut her safety line. She became convinced of, even obsessed with, the fact that Madame Spetuna was their only hope. She was their only contact on the inside.
“It’s so frustrating!” she whinged over tea. “Why won’t Lady Linette even entertain the idea?”
“Why is it you’re good at so many aspects of espionage except the waiting?” Agatha nibbled a bit of orange pound cake.
Dimity answered that. “Because she likes to be in motion. Haven’t you noticed? Our Sophronia is happiest when she is crawling over or swinging around something. Preferably a something that is large and in motion itself.”
“But Lady Linette always says an intelligencer needs patience. And Sophronia is supposed to be one of the best.”
“Maybe because I’ve managed to hide that flaw in my character?” suggested Sophronia. “No, I’ve left it long enough. She hinted at something in the record room that might make Lady Linette believe me. It’s time to break into it.”
“Again?” wailed Dimity. “It destroyed a perfectly lovely dress last time.”
“Come on, it’ll be diverting.” Sophronia’s green eyes lit up with excitement.
“Anyone ever taken you to task for a perfectly horrid idea of diversion?”
“Agatha, you in?” Sophronia turned to the redhead.
Agatha sighed. “I’d rather not. I do prefer sleeping.”
“Dimity?”
“It’s not worth the risk. The New Year’s tea party is too close. You know if we’re caught we’ll be sent down and miss the event. You’ll have to do this one on your own.”
Sophronia grinned. “Tonight, I think, an hour before dawn.”
Agatha was true to her word, but Dimity, of course, ended up coming along. It was too juicy a gossip prospect. While Sophronia was busy looking up Madame Spetuna’s record, Dimity could look up the records of their classmates.
Last time they visited the record room, it had been protected by a soldier mechanical of a viciously viscous inclination. But when they approached the door this time, there was nothing more threatening waiting for them than a folding card table and three small chairs stacked haphazardly against the outside. The furniture looked to have been abandoned. The hallway was eerily empty and free of mechanicals.
The sign was still on the door saying RECORD ROOM—CONTAINING RECORDS OF IMPORT in big gold letters. Underneath, someone had pinned an embroidery sample that read DANGER, MISINTERPRETATION HAZARD. The two girls used every door exam in their repertoire, and there seemed to be no trap. Nevertheless, Sophronia picked the locks with a slow, steady caution that tried even Dimity’s patience.
Sophronia could take her time under some circumstances, it appeared.
They swung the door open but did not enter immediately, peering inside from a body length away, to be safe.
The room was entirely unchanged. Machines and rotary belts ran along the walls and filled the corners. Thousands of records dangled above, clipped to conveyors mounted on the ceiling, like laundry hanging from a clothesline. The three desks, accompanied by leather seats, oil lamps, and writing pads, stood in exactly the same place they had last time. This was more disturbing than an army of soldier mechanical guards. It made no sense that after the room had been broken into, the teachers would respond by removing all security entirely.
Sophronia entered first. Dimity followed. They moved slowly, hands held cupped forward and down, in the position of modesty. Their backs were straight, their posture pristine. They were model examples of Geraldine’s training—those hands were held in readiness, able to delve quickly into any one of a number of hidden pockets, to release wrist holsters, or to grab items dangling from chatelaines. The posture was one of anticipation, ready to move in any direction at the slightest provocation.
Sophronia’s instinct was to fire the obstructor or draw her bladed fan.
Dimity had taken recently to a pearl-handled muff-pistol. Not precisely deadly but, as she put it, terribly cute. It was half out of its holster as she took one more dainty step into the room.
Nothing happened. All the machinery remained still and silent, the steam supply asleep along with the boilers down below. It would be loud to activate, but there was no other way to get at the right record. It had taken them some twenty minutes to get to the record room, using the quickest routes and the obstructor. Sophronia guessed the teachers would take about the same to catch them once the noise started.
“Dimity,” she whispered. “I’m going to have to turn it on. Can you keep a twenty-minute time check? Warn me at five?”
“I don’t do well with timing.” Nevertheless, Dimity pulled up her necklace watch, getting ready to give the start signal.
Each desk boasted a brass knob with a lever sticking out the top, around the base of which was a large circular piece of parchment paper with writing on it. One could dial in a record using names at one desk, locations at another, and skill sets at the third.
Sophronia moved to the name desk. She did not know Madame Spetuna’s real name. She had to hope that the file could also be found under her alias.
At Dimity’s nod, she pushed the lever toward the letter S. The machinery of the record room came to life with an enormous clatter, made all the louder by the unnatural stillness that had preceded it. The whoosh of heat, the hiss of steam, and the great rattle of gears, pistons, and rotary mechanisms were enough to wake even Sister Mattie. They were sure to alert Professor Braithwope. Crazy he might be, but there was nothing wrong with his supernatural hearing. And he, at least, would still be up.
The records shifted from one part of the room to another, parting and regrouping. They whizzed around in a ballet of organization. A large cluster drifted in Sophronia’s direction, stopping directly above her desk. She pressed down hard on the brass nodule and, with a loud clunk, the records dropped to eye level.
She flipped through them quickly, but none was labeled with the name Madame Spetuna. She swore and racked her brain for a clue, a memory, anything that might indicate more about the intelligencer whom she had known only by disguise. In their brief acquaintance, Madame Spetuna had gone from elderly fortune-teller to flywayman to Pickleman associate. She had appeared shipboard, borrowed Bumbersnoot, and reappeared in the heart of a vampire hive. Hers had been the assignment to read the pillows embroidered by an intelligencer in Westminster Hive, a girl who had been killed because Madame Spetuna had neglected her in favor of infiltrating the Pickleman operation.
I wonder, thought Sophronia, what happens to those of us who disobey orders? I wonder what happens to young lady intelligencers who run away or join the enemy? There must be a record of sinners against the school. That would explain Lady Linette’s anger, if she thought Madame Spetuna had stopped communicating because she was a traitor.
She moved to the desk that dialed in locations. “Dimity, what would you label an intelligencer who turned bad? Or who went missing while under cover?”
Dimity ran to take her place and dialed in a name. While the records moved, she glanced at her necklace watch. “Ten minutes left. What would I label a traitor in code, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly. Traitor is for governments, deserter is for armies. What is it for us?”
“Carelessness.” Dimity unclipped and read a record. She grinned over it and then returned it to its spot and dialed in another name.
Our head teacher would indeed think it careless to have misplaced an intelligencer. Sophronia dialed in the word lost to the location desk.
Records sped toward her. There were more than Sophronia had expected—a dozen at least. It made her nervous. Lady Linette has indeed been careless.
“Seven minutes!” Dimity was dialing in another name furiously. Sophronia didn’t object—Dimity was entitled to her curiosity so long as she kept an eye to the time.
And then, there it was, the very last record, the most recent file.
Madame Spetuna was listed as an alias, and the intelligencer’s real name was at the top: Lavish Vivita. Two decades she’d been in service, indentured to the school and farmed out, occasionally, to the potentate. Her record was one of consistent results through established identities, and Madame Spetuna was considered her most successful guise. There was an entry about becoming a flywayman. After that came mention of her using initiative, in the form of a mechanimal, to break into the Picklemen’s inner circle.
There was a note at the bottom of her file, dated three months ago. Miss Vivita is missing, presumed lost. But there was no code, nothing that might help Sophronia persuade Lady Linette.
It was disappointing, and not only because it was of so little help. Something about it spoke to the disinterested nature of the use of intelligencers. As if we are disposable. Sophronia shuddered.
“Time!” Dimity ran over.
Sophronia flipped the file closed and pinned it back up. She dialed to a random location in the West Midlands, hoping Dimity had done the same with names. There was no way to disguise the fact that someone had broken in and activated the record room, but there was no need for anyone to know which files had been viewed.
They ran out the door. Only to find Lady Linette, Professor Lefoux, and Professor Braithwope sitting in the hallway outside, playing cards.
“Ah, Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, what a surprise.” Lady Linette put down her cards. “Do come over.”
Professor Lefoux and Professor Braithwope continued playing, not glancing up. The vampire’s mustache was in place and intact for once, waxed slightly at the tips into points of discipline. He appeared smugly pleased with his hand and not dangerous at all.
Sophronia and Dimity exchanged a look and then submissively walked to stand before Lady Linette. They both bowed their heads and crossed hands before them in the simulated meek—but actually ready for anything—position.
Lady Linette turned in her chair and showed them her hand. “Not bad, no?”
The girls looked at her and then at the others in the game. They said nothing. Discuss someone’s cards? Never.
Lady Linette sighed. “Wait a moment, please, ladies, while we play through.”
The girls waited.
Lady Linette was an odd sort of person. She was theatrically pretty, with a nice figure, modulated voice, and propensity for lavender scent. Her hair was blonde by artifice, not nature, and curled by iron, not heritage. She favored the pastel-colored gowns of a girl in her first season. Yet her face paint was applied to such excess she looked older than she actually was. Everything about her was a trick of expectation, making the truth impossible to wheedle out. Given that manipulation was one of Lady Linette’s specialties, it was probably all by intelligent design in the end.
The game was some form of whist, except with three players. After another round, Lady Linette bowed out of the match. The other two continued.
Lady Linette piled her cards neatly, facedown. “You’ll have to be punished, of course. Imagine, allowing yourselves to be caught.”
Dimity’s eyes began to well with tears.
Sophronia stood firm. There was no point in defending herself. Lady Linette hadn’t believed her before and she wouldn’t now, not if she thought Madame Spetuna a traitor. Then, horribly, Sophronia wondered if Madame Spetuna was a traitor. Was all this some kind of setup? Was the dinner party at Lord Akeldama’s designed to lead them astray? Her mind whirred with the possibility.
“You’ll be forbidden to attend the upcoming New Year’s celebration.”
“Sent down?” wailed Dimity.
“No, I think not sent down. We will put you in charge of Professor Braithwope for the evening. That way Professor Lefoux can attend the festivities, for a change. We will make certain he is well fed beforehand, of course. You’ll be responsible for his entertainment and safety. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Professor?”
The vampire gave a glassy, disorientated fanged smile at the sound of his name.
Sophronia was resigned.
Professor Lefoux didn’t flinch at all, although Sophronia was tolerably certain she didn’t give two figs for attending the New Year’s party. Professor Braithwope returned to his hand, giving little indication of following the conversation.
“Report to his private chambers one hour before the event begins. Bring cards and snacks. Oh, and carnations. Of late, Professor Braithwope has developed a love of green carnations.”
Dimity and Sophronia flinched. Where would they find green carnations floating over Dartmoor?
However, they knew better than to question orders when being punished.
“Dismissed!” Lady Linette turned back to the game.
Sophronia and Dimity skittered away feeling foolish and disheartened.
Dimity cast herself dramatically on the couch in the parlor when they returned to their chambers. It was very late and they ought to be in bed, but such a calamity as this must be discussed immediately. “I told you we’d be tea party embargoed. Oh, the tragedy of it all!”
Sophronia said, “That was odd.”
“No, it wasn’t odd at all. It was exactly what I said would happen.” Dimity’s irritation presented itself as aggressively removing hairpins and then winding them together into a metallic nest. Her liberated curls developed wisps, making her look like a mad hermit—a sparkly mad hermit.
“No, not that. What’s odd was when Lady Linette asked us what we were looking for in the record room.”
“I missed that bit.”
“Exactly! Sometimes the most important piece of information is the chunk left out of the conversation.” Sophronia singsonged the sentence in a fine imitation of Professor Lefoux’s perfect elocution.
“Oh.” Dimity put down her hairpin nest, interested despite her annoyance. “You think she knew what we were looking for?”
“Or the school has some kind of new technology that allows them to track what files we examined. Invisible powder? Feel anything on your fingertips?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Then again…” Sophronia trailed off, biting her lip.
“Then again what?”
“It’s possible they knew what we were after and planted false information for us to find.”
“Could this be a lesson? Do they want us to figure that out?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t us they were expecting, not really.”
“Lady Linette said she wasn’t surprised.”
“Lady Linette is the mistress of misdirection, remember?”
Dimity flopped back. “Sometimes I hate this place. Wouldn’t you like it if just once everything was exactly as it seemed?”
“No, that’s a horrible idea.”
“You would say that. So what did you learn, misinformation or no?”
“Madame Spetuna’s real name, and that she is missing, presumed lost to evil. That Lady Linette may think her a traitor, which is why she won’t believe me. Or that she really is a traitor. In either case, I wager she is back with the Picklemen. And you? Whose files did you look at?”
Dimity sat up, gossip in the offing. “Yours, mine, Monique’s, and Agatha’s. You know Sidheag’s is gone? Vanished. Wonder where they file those ones—you know, the students who got away.”
“Possibly also with the lost. Anything juicy?”
“Not in mine, except they actually think I’m better than I think I am. Which is nice.”
“But not a surprise, Dimity. Most of us think that.”
Dimity blushed with pleasure. “Why, thank you. Monique’s says a lot about her hive. When the school punished her by not allowing her to finish, they removed her from the viable intelligencer roster but kept her record in play. I guess she has enough training to remain in the game.” Dimity knew Sophronia desperately wanted to hear about the Sophronia file. Of course, Dimity saved it purposefully for last.
Little drama-monger. Sophronia let her have her fun. After all, she felt guilty about getting them caught.
“Agatha’s was interesting.”
“How so?”
“Terribly fat. You know her father is in all sorts of pies?”
Sophronia had a vision of an older male version of Agatha with his head sticking out of a shepherd’s pie, as if he were bathing in it. She snorted a laugh.
Dimity corrected herself without pause. “Well, his fingers are. And Agatha has met Lord Akeldama before, several times. They’ve had dealings.”
“There was no indication of that at his dinner party.”
“I know. And there’s a note that says they think she’s running a long-form field operation.”
“Agatha? Really? On whom? Her family?”
“Didn’t specify. Could be on the school. Could be on us, I suppose. But there you have it.”
Sophronia frowned. She could hardly believe it. Agatha wasn’t that good. Or was she? Sophronia shook her head. She didn’t want to start mistrusting her dearest friends. Down that road lay a madness as horrible as Professor Braithwope’s. She was already doubting Madame Spetuna.
“Could we ask her about it?” Dimity was cautious.
“We could. But at what risk? Would we lose her friendship through suspicion? Or truth?”
Dimity stood up. “I’m for bed. This has been an eventful evening.”
“Dimity?”
“Yes, Sophronia?” Dimity’s tone was very arch indeed.
Sophronia made herself sound as humble as possible. “I apologize for getting you into trouble this evening.”
“Apology accepted. And?”
“You were right about the punishment being us missing the ball.”
“Very good. And?”
“I shouldn’t have been so impulsive as to plan this action without researching the target first.”
“True. And?”
“Will you please tell me what was in my file?”
“Since you ask so nicely. It was pretty much what might be expected. The fact that you are a covert recruit is at the top. There’s a note that you’d make a good independent intelligencer and they recommend against marriage right away—unless you net yourself one of the princes or a high-up Pickleman. A prince of the blood, said the note, seems unlikely. They know Lord Akeldama offered for patronage. Your seduction marks are low. I guess they don’t know about Soap, do they, Sophronia?”
Sophronia gasped. “Really, Dimity, I say.”
Dimity was smug. “That would make you similar to Madame Spetuna, as an operative, I guess.”
Sophronia was disappointed. She already knew all that—or at least suspected it. The recommendation for independent action in the field was nice. Most girls finished by coming out and being married into a position of power, the better to uncover information and manipulate society. Most would marry multiple times. It was an odd compliment to be thought capable of something different. It was also an insult to her seductive powers.
“That’s it?” Sophronia pressed.
“That’s about all.” Dimity was holding something significant in reserve.
“Dimity, please?” It was like convincing a cow to lay eggs.
Dimity relented at last. “They know you made a promise to indenture to the dewan.”
“What?”
“It says, right at the end of the file. No comment on how they know, who told them, or whether it’s considered a positive. But they do know.”
“I’m an idiot to think I have any secrets.”
“Go to bed, do,” ordered Sophronia.
Dimity laughed and went, but they both knew who had won that round.
Sophronia repaired to her room to find Bumbersnoot waiting for her.
Agatha had clearly been playing with him. He had one of her lace tucks tied about his head, like a jaunty tiara.
Sophronia picked him up for a cuddle. Not that a metal dog was the best cuddler, being hard, oily, ashy, and hot. But it made her feel better.
She put him on the foot of the bed, washed her face and hands, and slipped into her nightgown. She climbed under the covers, tucking her feet under her mechanimal for warmth, and tried to sleep. If it’s in my record that I promised the dewan, then Lady Linette has been told by someone. She listed the possibilities: Dimity, Agatha, Soap, Captain Niall, or the dewan himself. Of the five, she was absolutely certain of only one person’s loyalty—Soap.
She missed him so much it actually hurt.