Sophronia was on her own. Dimity, after a few ill-fated jaunts, had elected to leave that dirty, smelly, greasy place to Sophronia and Sidheag. It was too rough for a real lady, she claimed. Dimity wanted to be a lady rather more than she wanted to be an intelligencer. She liked the idea of practicing charitable works on the sooties, but gave that up in favor of filching nibbles at tea and sending them down with Sophronia to the unfortunates, as she called them, with her regards. Thus she did not risk smudges on her gown or crude language in her delicate ear.

Agatha simply hadn’t that much of an interest in anything covert. Also, given the option between sleep and pretty much anything else, Agatha would always rather sleep.

The hallway outside was dark. The teachers turned off the gas after inspections. Sophronia, hurlie on one wrist and an even more illegal gadget, the obstructor, on the other, navigated with ease. The hurlie handled climbing and swinging from balcony to balcony, and the obstructer froze into six-second stillness any mechanical before it could raise the alarm. As a result, Sophronia was in engineering in under a quarter of an hour. She considered timing herself with a pocket watch next jaunt—how fast could she get around an airship if she really tried? When Professor Braithwope fell, Sophronia had risked life and limb swinging at speed, but that was almost a year ago, and she was better with the hurlie now. She could probably do it safer and faster. She flinched, thinking about that incident. Poor old Professor Braithwope.

Soap was waiting for her behind their customary coal pile.

Sophronia was a lot less conspicuous fraternizing with sooties dressed as a boy than when she’d first come down, stirring up dust in full skirts and a silly hat. She settled on the coal pile next to Soap’s lanky frame.

“What ho, miss?”

“Good evening, Soap, any word on Sidheag’s pigeon?” There was no point in shilly-shallying about with pleasantries. Sophronia and Soap were close enough to have done away with social niceties a long time ago. Besides, he was common born and didn’t care for such folderol. Sensible man, Soap.

“I didn’t get a peek at the message itself—either Sidheag still has it with her or they burned it right quick. But I did overhear a few things while tinkering with a dodgy boiler in Lady Linette’s parlor. The human staff sure gossip.” Soap’s dark eyes were grave, but he managed to exude warmth and welcome.

Sophronia relaxed into the comfort of his familiar affection. “Go on.”

He leaned in toward her, unconsciously intimate. “Well, miss, it sure seems to be a matter of pack. Things are unsettled in Kingair.”

Sophronia shifted; he was a little too close, not preserving the space most gentlemen leave in the presence of a lady. “So we gathered. Is Lord Maccon dead?”

Ever attuned to her moods, Soap registered her discomfort and slumped back into the coal pile, as if it were an armchair. This instantly reassured her. “No truck on anyone dying. So I think we’re safe in assuming it’s no challenge. But it does seem like to be concerning Lord Maccon.”

Sophronia frowned—if he wasn’t dead, what could possibly be the problem? “How do you mean?”

“Word is that he’s maybe losing control.”

“Of his clavigers?” This time she leaned in to the conversation, struggling to make herself heard against a new din in the boiler room.

“No, of his pack.”

Sophronia thought back to everything Sidheag had told her about the Kingair werewolves. “Lord Maccon? He’s supposed to be the strongest Alpha in England, with the exception of the dewan.”

Soap smiled as though they were in on a joke together. “And some would say even the Queen’s Werewolf would lose three out of five challenges. It seems that it’s not Lord Maccon’s strength in question, it’s the behavior of the rest of the Kingair Pack.”

“They are Scottish.”

“It’s worse than that, miss.”

Sophronia cracked a small joke. “Is there something worse than being Scottish?”

Soap declined to play. “Being a sootie, and having the wrong color skin to boot?”

In his eyes was something like the longing look they had practiced in class earlier that evening. Sophronia didn’t like it coming from Soap, and she didn’t know how to defuse it. Lady Linette hadn’t taught them that tactic yet. She hadn’t told them what to do when one was on the receiving end of unwanted longing. Perhaps that’s something I should ask about next class.

“Behavior of the pack? Aren’t they all instinctually bound to follow him until another challenges and wins? I do wish Professor Braithwope were available to consult. I suppose Professor Lefoux might have some insight.”

But strangely enough, Soap had further to offer on the subject. “It’s not that simple, miss. Beta supports, Gamma objects, loners challenge, and the others fall about the scale. Alpha is not an easy position to hold. I wouldn’t want it.”

“Soap, how is it you suddenly know so much about werewolves?”

Soap shrugged. “I take an interest. Not all sudden, you just never asked. I’ve been thinking… if I went out for anything long term, claviger might be it. I’d sooner indenture to a pack than bind to a hive.”

Sophronia had never even considered that Soap, of all people, might hunger for immortality. “Pardon? You’d rather be a werewolf than a vampire?”

Soap’s eyes, in the flickering light of the boiler, were almost hungry looking. “I don’t want to suck blood, although I’d take the rank that came with either and be grateful. But werewolves have fewer restrictions; even a sootie can make claviger. Plus, I like the idea of a pack, don’t you?”