“He got one of the supervisors in the boiler room as well.” Handle looked rather sick at the memory. He’d probably never witnessed a necking before.

Sophronia wondered at the ethics of utilizing the primitive feeding instincts of an insane vampire in their cause. Is it justified? Are we harming Professor Braithwope further by allowing him to run amok or is this simply the way he is now?

“So that’s two still in engineering and one in the propeller room?” Sophronia crossed the appropriate dots off her map. “Approximately seven Picklemen and five flywaymen left. Some of them injured. I could maybe eliminate them in the space of a night—if I weren’t injured myself. But as things stand, I’m sorry. It’s better to destroy the ship.”

Mademoiselle Geraldine and Handle, odd allies, exchanged apprehensive looks.

“So long as you do it carefully. Let’s go over the plan again.” Mademoiselle Geraldine’s agreement was reluctant.

The sun set.

Professor Braithwope awoke and instantly tried to eat both ladies. They smelled of blood and weakness—Sophronia supposed he couldn’t be faulted. Poor Handle had no alternative but to give over his own wrist to quiet the beast. Fortunately, Professor Braithwope was in an amiable mood and retracted his fangs after only a snack. He had eaten his fill the night before.

This left Handle disgusted, upset, and weak from loss of blood.

“Stupid vampire!” shouted the sootie, wrapping his own wrist in bandages this time.

“Sorry, little man,” apologized Professor Braithwope. “You do have a pleasant char flavor to your skin, whot, with the added spice of smoke. Reminds me of the good old days of toast. I miss toast.”

Handle sniffed at him. “Go find yourself a Pickleman next time.”

“Pickled? I don’t think I should like that. Fresh is best, even toasted.”

“Never you mind,” interrupted Mademoiselle Geraldine when Handle looked like he intended to argue further. “Our apologies, Handle. You did not sign up for mealtimes.”

“No, I did not!” agreed the aggrieved Handle.

“Think of it as valuable experience for your prospective switch in professions.”

Handle was thoughtful. “Bloodletting?”

“Exactly.”

He was somewhat mollified.

Sophronia stood and tried to stretch. She ought to feel better after resting covered in Sister Mattie’s poultices, but every part of her still ached. Now all the little muscles, strained from hanging and climbing and falling, also hurt. She hobbled like an old lady.

“I’m going to check the lay of the land.” She headed onto the balcony.

They were flying quite low now, rooftops clearly visible although the moon was not yet up. At least with the moon no longer full, some werewolves are available this evening if Agatha manages to get ahold of them.

Ahead twinkled a vast number of lights. London.

Sophronia suppressed a shiver of apprehension. Tonight I crash an airship. On purpose.

She squinted into the lights. Was that…? Yes, a small dirigible was approaching them at speed, under cover of darkness, flying stealthily, a dark shape against the twinkling background.

Somehow, Sophronia knew that this was her friends. There was something about the way the ship weaved through the air—intent, stylish, almost a waltz. It stank of Geraldine’s training.

Sophronia unhitched the miniature crossbow from her belt. She took one of the valuable targeting bolts and created a satchel for it by weaving it through the lace edge of her red doily. Into this she stuffed a hastily scribbled note, torn off the corner of her map.

“Meet at soapy entrance. Bring this bolt back.”

Only her particular friends would know what that meant. Even if she was entirely wrong and that ship was full of enemy reinforcements, nothing bad would come of her message.

The crossbow was so small she only needed one hand to fire. But still, everything took twice as long as it ought. She’d have to remember that in her calculations. She took careful aim and fired the bolt at the side of the gondola section of the approaching dirigible, now clearly visible.

There was a distant shout, and then a pause, and then the ship dropped down and altered its approach. Success!

Sophronia limped back inside. “Change of plans! Handle, you are with me. We take out the propeller room and free the sooties there first. Headmistress, if you and the good professor would meet us outside engineering? He’ll help you get there.”

“What good could I possibly do?” protested Mademoiselle Geraldine.

“I believe we have a rescue incoming. If all works out as I hope, they will be meeting us just outside the boiler room hull.”

“Capital. How did you manage that, my dear girl?”

“I have capable friends,” replied Sophronia.

Handle said, “That our tea cake angel?”

“Dimity? Yes, I believe so. Or someone sent by her.”

“Good.” Handle went all cheerful. “She’s prime at pinching a tasty pastry.”

“Not quite certain how that skill set has any bearing on this situation,” objected Mademoiselle Geraldine.

“And yet how do we know it doesn’t?” reasoned Sophronia.

Handle only tossed one of the explosive fake pastries up into the air suggestively.

There was no one in the hallway outside their room. In all probability, the Picklemen were occupied with their invasion, in the storage room readying their attack mechanimals.