Monique de Pelouse said nothing.
Sophronia crossed her arms and glared at the older girl. Dimity looked back and forth between the two girls for a moment, then crossed her arms and glared as well. Though perhaps not quite so fiercely.
Finally, Monique relented. “Oh, very well!” She banged on the roof with her parasol handle. The cab door opened and the coachman stuck his head in.
Monique said, “Take Shrubbery Lane to the Nib and Crinkle Pub, turn left, and follow the goat path behind the hedge. After an hour, the path ends in a thicket of trees. Go around to the right and then I shall issue further instructions. And hurry. We must beat the sunset or we’ll never spot it.”
“But madam, that’s straight out onto the moor.”
“Of course it is. What could possibly have made you think we’d stop at the edge?”
“There are stories about Dartmoor. People get lost in the mist and never return. Or are eaten by werewolves. Or are taken by vampires. Or are murdered by flywaymen.”
At which juncture Monique proved she could do “commanding” far better than Sophronia. “Stop arguing, my man. You heard what I said about the sun.”
Looking very uncomfortable, the put-upon coachman resumed his place. The tired horses started up once more.
At first, everything seemed ordinary, but a few minutes up the goat path the carriage started to sway, buffeted by the most intense gusts of wind Sophronia had ever felt. She pressed her face against the window. Endless rolling grassland stretched around them, brown after a summer’s heat, waving in the wind. The moor was mist-shrouded in the distance. Here and there a coppice of trees or a small winding spring disturbed the monotony with a bright splash of green.
“Is this all?” Sophronia was dubious.
Dimity shrugged. “Windy.”
“Don’t let it fool you,” Monique said with an unkind smile. “This is the only nice bit. Soon enough the rocks will sprout up like broken bones, and the mist rises so fast you can’t see where you’re going or where you’ve been.”
Sophronia was not spooked. “You think you can scare me with doomy talk? I’ve older sisters, I’ll have you know.”
Monique gave her a dirty look before rapping on the carriage roof again and issuing a new set of directions.
The carriage turned, this time following some invisible path out onto the heath. The mist began closing in around them, or they were moving into it—hard to tell which.
Sophronia actually began to feel a tiny bit of dread in the pit of her stomach. What if there really are werewolves roaming the moor?
And then, there it was. The mist broke. The last rays of the sun cast a long shadow out of the carriage and lit up Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality. And no, the school wasn’t dashing around the moor on hundreds of tiny little legs. It was bobbing above it in chubby floating majesty.
THE CORRECT CONFIGURATION OF A FINISHING SCHOOL
My goodness,” said Sophronia. “It looks like a caterpillar that has overeaten.”
And it did. It wasn’t so much a dirigible as three dirigibles mashed together to form one long chain of oblong, inflated balloons. Below them dangled a multilevel series of decks, most open to the air, but some closed off, with windows reflecting back the dying sun. At the back, a colossal set of propellers churned slowly, and above them billowed a massive sail—probably more for guidance than propulsion. A great quantity of steam wafted out from below the lower back decks, floating away to join the mist as if responsible for creating it. Black smoke puffed sedately out of three tall smokestacks.
Sophronia was enchanted. It was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen, and entirely unlike any of the finishing schools she had ever heard of, which were mostly—according to her sisters—inside castles in Switzerland. She did not, however, want to admit to being enchanted, as this seemed childish, so instead, she said casually, “It’s much bigger than I thought.”
“It’s very high up, isn’t it?” added Dimity nervously.
As the carriage drew closer, Sophronia realized that the floating academy was moving much faster than she had initially thought. It was probably riding the stiff wind that seemed to rush over Dartmoor constantly, tilting small trees into lopsidedness. Just when she thought they might actually catch it, the horses screamed in terror and the carriage jerked to a stop.
The door burst open. A young man stood before them. He was a tall, swarthy fellow of the type that Petunia would swoon over; rakishly handsome in a floppy way. He was wearing a black silk top hat and a greatcoat that covered him from neck to ankle. Papa would call him a “young blunt” in a disgusted tone of voice. Sophronia was briefly afraid that this was some new form of flywayman—except that he wore no goggles and was grinning at them.
“Ladies!”
Monique colored becomingly. “Captain.”
“Winds are fierce this evening. Can’t float down for a pickup. You ladies will have to wait until after sunset, then I’ll give you a lift.”
“Oh.” Monique’s delicate little nose wrinkled. “Must we?”
The young man’s cheerful expression didn’t falter under the weight of her dissatisfaction. “Yes.”
“Oh, very well.” Monique gave the man her hand and he helped her down.
He did not turn to accompany her, instead looking inquiringly at Dimity and Sophronia. “Ladies. No time like the present.”