And then she wasn’t wondering anything at all. She was sliding down a long soft peaceful tunnel into a numb sleep.

A loud shriek, like an upset teakettle, woke Sophronia. Disorientated, she jerked, only then registering the pain shooting through her body.

Ouch. Wait, is that me shrieking?

No, it was coming from her stomach.

All right, not her stomach but the hard warm body tucked up against her ribs.

Bumbersnoot!

Sophronia extracted the screaming mechanimal with her working arm, flopping like a fish because she was lying on his strap. Every movement was agony. She tried to concentrate on which parts hurt most, where the serious damage might be. Her face seemed particularly bad.

I’m sunburned was her first thought. That’s why my face is throbbing. The sun was beating down, although the potted plants were doing their best to protect her. They must be floating high enough to be above the clouds. Oh, no, I’ll get freckles and Lady Linette will be so disappointed.

Automatically, she fumbled with Bumbersnoot, trying to stop his noise.

Only one working arm? Did I misplace my shoulder? How careless.

Vieve had never shown her how to shut Bumbersnoot’s alarm off. Finally, Sophronia resorted to popping open the casing to his miniature boilers and dumping all the steaming water unceremoniously out onto the deck. With a smoky sigh, the mechanimal went silent. His tail tick-tocked ever more slowly until he was perfectly still.

Sophronia collapsed next to him. I know how you feel.

One small part of her brain realized that if any enemy was outside within hearing distance, they would come looking for the source of that noise. But she no longer cared. There wasn’t any part of her that didn’t hurt, including, now, her ears, which were ringing with the aftereffects of Bumbersnoot’s alarm.

The Picklemen have activated the valves. Apparently the espionage side of her brain refused to stop functioning. Perhaps it was like Bumbersnoot’s tail, the last to stop. We must be up as high as they need.

The door to the balcony banged open. Sophronia hadn’t enough energy to lift her head. Depression hit her. What matter if they find me now?

“Oh, it’s only you,” said a jocular boy’s voice. A shadow fell over her and his tone became high-pitched with concern. “Miss, what on earth happened to you?”

Sophronia groaned, finally remembering the events of the previous night. Fortunately, her jaw seemed to be working. “Exploded wicker chicken. Fell.”

Handle’s worried face appeared in her blurry field of view. “Was that you, making that squawk?”

“Not exactly. Help me inside, please?” She might have wondered what he was doing there, but her brain was only able to cope with one thing at a time. Right now it was busy remembering.

The sootie tutted and began to drag her inside—by her shoulders.

Sophronia suppressed a scream. It came out as a hoarse moaning cough. For the first time in her life, fainting genuinely appealed.

Handle let go of her.

Sophronia rolled onto her side and began to retch against the cool dirty wood of the deck. She hadn’t eaten in a long time, so nothing came out. Saved from one humiliation.

“Oh, miss. Himself will never forgive me for this.”

“What could you do?” Sophronia was weighed down with her own guilt. “You were under the whip. I’m sorry I couldn’t come for you first. Had to be stealthy. Best possible plan.”

“’Course you couldn’t, miss. Don’t talk waffle—sooties have been through worse. Now, how to get you in?”

“It’s not at all dignified, but you’d best drag me by my feet.”

Handle did so, and thus managed to get her inside Sister Mattie’s chamber.

Sophronia pulled the partly disassembled Bumbersnoot carcass in her wake. She half expected to find other sooties waiting for her, sitting around in the student chairs wearing bonnets and acting the farce of lessons. I must be delirious.

There was only Handle.

“What’s happening?” she whispered around the pain.

Handle attempted to prop her up against a pouf. She was still on the floor, mind you, but he was aiming for a more refined position. Sophronia managed it. Once modestly upright, she noticed a prone body on an improvised couch made of two chairs and a hassock wedged together.

“Who’s that?”

“The headmistress was also hurt pretty bad. Took a bullet to the calf. I brought her in. The vampire’s been sleeping in the potting shed, over there.” Handle gestured to Sister Mattie’s large wardrobe, which had been converted to a potting shed long before Sophronia’s time.

“Oh, dear,” said Sophronia. “I suppose you will have to pop my shoulder back in, then.”

“What’s that, miss?”

“It’s out of the socket. We learned about it in a lesson on basic field medicinals and mock injuries. You have to put it back in for me. My nose, too, if possible. I’m pretty enough, but a crooked nose won’t ever be fashionable. That’s assuming none of my face cuts need stitches. If I’m scarring, we won’t bother. Might as well have a crooked nose.”

Handle looked sick as she explained, but he’d have to get over it, if the headmistress wasn’t available.

On the other hand, instructing him made Sophronia feel better. She was injured, but she had a plan.

Mademoiselle Geraldine woke up at that moment. She looked hale enough, except her skirts were hiked up in a manner no gentlewoman ought to hike, and there was a large bandage around one calf.