“Yes, little miss?” The man looked generally upset with life.
“You can drive us on to this Bunson’s locale, can’t you?”
“Yes, little miss. I know the school. But I’m not convinced I intend to continue on, now. Never been held up by flywaymen afore.”
Bugger it. How would Mumsy handle this? Sophronia looked the coachman full in the face and straightened her spine as stiff as she could. “You will if you wish to be paid. Keep a decent pace and an eye to the sky and it shouldn’t happen again.” The moment she said it, Sophronia became completely shocked by her own daring. She was also mildly impressed by how imperious she sounded.
So was the coachman, apparently, because he resumed his post without another word and set the horses a sedate trot.
Pillover glanced over the top of his glasses. “You do that rather well, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Order other people around. I’ve not yet got the way of it myself.”
Sophronia rather thought Pillover was, regardless, doing pretty well at snobbery, for a grubby boy. She was about to say something of the kind when Mademoiselle Geraldine’s whimpering escalated.
“Oh, do stop it and explain yourself,” Sophronia ordered, feeling she was on an autocratic streak.
Much to her surprise, the headmistress listened, transforming her simulated whimpering into outright ire, directed at Sophronia. “I didn’t attend for this, you understand. Easy assignment, they said.” Sophronia noted with interest that Mademoiselle Geraldine had lost her French accent. “Nothing to it but improvisational theatrics. Some on-point assessment of new candidates. Simply act older. Put on a bit of an accent and a pretty dress. Such an easy finishing. Others should be so lucky. You’re certain to make it through. But no. Oh, no. I had to have a combination retrieval and recruitment undertaking with an unexpected attack from unknown counterintelligencer elements, and no second. How dare they send me on without a second? Me! I mean, did I ask for this? I didn’t ask for this. Who needs active status? I don’t need active status. This is ridiculous!” She seemed to be progressively building herself up to sublime self-righteousness.
Sophronia felt that there was something else undercutting the flood of words. “Headmistress, is there nothing we can do for you? You seem upset.”
“Upset? Of course I’m upset! And don’t call me headmistress. Headmistress, my ruddy arse.”
Sophronia gasped at the shocking word. Now, that’s taking matters too far!
Mademoiselle Geraldine sat up straight and glared, as though Sophronia were responsible for everything bad in the world. “My face hurts, my dress is in tatters, and I have no slippers!” This last and deepest offense was uttered in a positive wail.
“Then you’re not our headmistress?”
“How could I be? I’m only seventeen years old. You can’t possibly think I’m the headmistress of a finishing school. You’re not that naive..”
“But isn’t that what we were meant to think?”
“I didn’t think about you at all,” muttered Pillover, returning to his book.
“Who are you, then?” asked Sophronia.
“I’m Miss Monique de Pelouse!” She paused, as though expecting the name to produce some sign of recognition.
Sophronia merely gave her a blank look. “So this begs the question: where is the real Mademoiselle Geraldine?”
“Oh”—Monique waved a hand in the air and sniffed—“she never leaves much anymore, and she’s useless when she does. They always send impersonators.”
“They do?”
“Of course they do. It’s easier, and it’s a good way to finish.”
“And who is they?”
“Why, the teachers, of course. But we were talking about me and my problems.”
Sophronia looked Monique up and down gravely. “I don’t think we’re going to solve those in the space of one carriage ride.”
Pillover tut-tutted at her from behind his book—but there was clear amusement in the reprimand.
Monique sneered. “Who do you think you are? Covert recruit. You’re not that special. You’re not that good. Proud of yourself and your little carriage rescue, are you? Well, I didn’t need your help! I’m a top-level student, on my finishing assignment. Ordered to retrieve three useless children.”
Pillover’s voice emanated from behind his tome. “I hardly think that was all.”
“Of course it wasn’t all,” Monique snapped. “I had the prototype to collect as well, now didn’t I?”
Pillover took interest at last. “The one the flywaymen were after?”
Sophronia asked, “What’s it a prototype of?”
“Don’t be daft. I don’t know that.”
“Do you think you might at some point tell me what finishing actually means?” Sophronia was getting more and more curious about the particulars of this finishing school. It seemed Mumsy might have been misled as to the nature of the establishment.
“No.” Monique gave her a decidedly nasty glare and then turned her attention out the carriage window.
Sophronia wasn’t certain what she’d done to incur such loathing. Should have left her with the flywaymen. She looked at Pillover, who ignored her. So she sighed and sat back, frustrated. After a moment’s consideration, she switched to the spot next to Pillover and attempted to read over his shoulder, ignoring his faintly goaty smell. All boys smelled of goat. So they passed the rest of the ride, until the carriage pulled into the sleepy little town of Swiffle-on-Exe.