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how lucky you are to have only one sibling. Being an intelligencer is rather an expensive undertaking.”
    Dimity smiled. “How about getting a patron? Lady Linette did just instruct us to start considering our options.”
    Sophronia grimaced; there were no good options. Everything meant lack of independence. “Quality marriage or patronage.”
    “You have to pay back the school somehow.”
    “I’m not ready to marry yet.”
    That, Dimity didn’t understand. “Not even Felix Mersey—rich and handsome?”
    Sophronia replied, her tone wistful, “Oh, no, Dimity, you know I couldn’t. Sidheag would never forgive me.”
    “Why? Oh, because his father is a Pickleman?”
    “Sidheag has a supernatural’s mistrust of Picklemen.”
    Dimity said, “I’m not deeply keen on them myself.”
    Sophronia arched an eyebrow in agreement.
    Dimity sighed. “So no marriage; then what are your plans for patronage after we leave?”
    “I hadn’t really thought about it. Lord Akeldama seems nice enough—I’m not sure I want to be a vampire’s drone, though. Do you think he’d take me on under indenture without a feeding plan?”
    Dimity returned to the immediate necessity. “Regardless, he wants you, so ask him for a fan.”
    “What a shocking suggestion.”
    “You’re keeping what he’s sent so far. How is a fan any worse?”
    Sophronia paused to consider the odd Lord Akeldama. During a Westminster Hive infiltration, when she and Sidheag had rescued Dimity, Sophronia had met and formulated a strangefriendship with the dandy vampire. Seemingly without the ordinary formalities, he had taken her under his wing. He occasionally sent her small goodies of a fashionable, deadly, or silly persuasion—often all three. If Sophronia wasn’t convinced of the vampire’s romantic disinterest, she might have thought them courting gifts. The presents were so lovely she couldn’t help but keep them, even though by all standards of decency she ought to have sent them right back to London. Sophronia suspected that actually requesting something specific, like a bladed fan, might be considered presumptuous, or worse, open her up to indenture and contractual obligation. Patronage was a sticky business, especially for a female intelligencer. If only Professor Braithwope were more mentally present. He was the one to ask.
    Perhaps she would work on Mumsy first for the necessary, or see if she could get a message to Vieve at Bunson’s. Vieve was Professor Lefoux’s niece, now under cover of mustache at the local boys’ school. A great inventor and friend, she might choose to make a bladed fan as a challenge, or take umbrage with the request, as it had been made before.
    Sophronia switched topics. “Whatever else is the case, I need to pay closer attention to Soap’s lessons in dirty fighting. Flicking perfume in the face was his idea.”
    “What?”
    “Oh, you missed that bit. I slung scent in Preshea’s eyes.”
    “Jolly good.”
    “Soap taught me the technique.”
    “Your sootie beau? Of course he would teach you such a thing.”
    “He’s not my beau!”
    “Whatever you say.”
    Agatha came wandering over. “What’s going on now?”
    “Sophronia’s muttering about visiting her sootie beau for more lessons in ungentlewomanly conduct.”
    “Oh, dear me, no. Sophronia, I don’t think it wise to encourage him.” Agatha paled, making her freckles pop out under the moonlight.
    Sophronia blushed. “Not that kind of thing. I mean dirty fighting.”
    Agatha pursed her lips. “Of course you do.”
    Sophronia turned away to watch the other girls fight. She had no way to defend herself on this particular subject. Sometimes she was horribly afraid her friends knew more than she did about her relationship with Soap. Ask her to learn a new weapon and she was ready and able, but learning how to cope with boys and affection still seemed elusive.
    Mercifully, Captain Niall left them to recover while the rest of the class practiced