The dewan was dismissive. “Nonsense, Gengulphus.”

The newspaper man took offense.

So did Monique.

The dewan, Sophronia realized, had very little training in the matter of conversational manipulation. I shall have to educate my own patron. How tiresome.

The dinner table erupted into argument, political accusations flying. No one named the Picklemen, and it was clear the newspaperman—and others—didn’t know of their existence. Some thought the conservatives might be trying to discredit the progressives. Some thought the vampires and werewolves, both always anti-mechanical, were somehow causing them to malfunction to prove a point.

Soon the entire table was involved. A gleeful Dimity egged everyone on. It was a good tactic, as high dudgeon often yielded information. Agatha paid rapt attention to the proceedings, inserting an occasional well-timed and seemingly innocent question that tossed more coal upon the fire.

Sophronia turned to stare, quite obviously, at Lord Akeldama. What is he up to?

The vampire’s face was impassive, but the person holding most of his attention was the newspaperman. What was his name? Ah, yes, Lemuel Gengulphus.

Perhaps we are going about this wrong, Sophronia thought, watching both vampire and muckraker. Lord Akeldama wants to know what the Picklemen are up to. So does Monique. So do I. But perhaps this is what they are up to. Perhaps their real plan is not death, destruction, or war but to make the government and the supernaturals running it look incompetent and unable to control technology. What if the Picklemen intend to force a major mechanical malfunction and then arrange for their political allies to heroically rescue everyone from the mechanicals? They could then overturn the supernatural stronghold on the government by arguing incompetence.

The dewan seemed to think that greater controls should be in place over mechanical technology. His stance was that the government might have to step in and remove or destroy them all, by force if necessary.

Petunia practically fainted at the idea. “But what would we do without mechanized staff?”

The newspaperman and the other humans at the table, including the inventor, also found this idea scandalous.

“Knives are dangerous, my lord, but we do not regulate them!” objected the inventor.

“True,” said the dewan. “But gas can explode, and we regulate that.”

The argument was becoming one of ideology rather than specifics, as these things do. Sophronia, however, wanted specifics. If she didn’t know exactly what the Picklemen were up to, how could she stop them?

Lord Akeldama stood. He was not very physically imposing, but he was their host, and his rising caused the table to quiet.

“Most entertaining, my dears, but as the cheese is away, perhaps we should adjourn to the drawing room? I have something there that might interest everyone.”

A murmur of excitement met that, and accordingly the gentlemen assisted the ladies to rise. The guests made their way out into the hallway. The dewan actually offered Petunia his arm. And Petunia took it!

Dimity, Agatha, and Sophronia lingered. Dimity pretended to have misplaced something. Agatha intentionally forgot her gloves. Sophronia found herself fascinated by the fern arrangements.

They clustered close.

“What do you think?” Sophronia asked.

Dimity’s nose wrinkled. “The food was rather too similar to something we might get at school.”

Agatha said, “Monique’s dress is divine.”

Sophronia glared at them.

Dimity giggled. “You are so predictable.”

“Quickly, please.”

“Now you sound like Lady Linette.” Dimity still wouldn’t play.

“So?” Sophronia was driven to put her hands on her hips.

Agatha crumbled. “The dewan doesn’t like that the government might be accused of malfeasance, but he also doesn’t want Parliament to attack the Picklemen openly. Not when, so far as they can prove, the Picklemen haven’t done anything legally wrong.”

“Agreed. Dimity?”

“Mr. Gengulphus is not as objective as his profession suggests. He would prefer to see the government humiliated, and if the vampires and werewolves share the sin, so much the better.”

“Is he politically conservative or in the pay of the Picklemen?”

Dimity pursed her lips. “I don’t think either. Simply one of those men who always suspects the people in power, whoever they may be.”

Sophronia nodded. “I can understand that stance.”

“Of course you can, you heathen.” Dimity was slightly proud of her reprobate friend. “Except that we know that Picklemen in charge would be worse.”

“Yes, we do.” Sophronia bit her lip. “We’d better follow before we’re missed. Plan of action?”

“I’ll keep egging them on when I can.” Dimity knew her strengths.

Sophronia grinned. “You do egg beautifully.”

Dimity went all over sly. “It’s all fun and information until the yolk breaks.”

Agatha said, “I’ll stick to the inventor. I don’t know why he was invited. He doesn’t seem to have a political stake in this situation, and while he works for the queen, he’s not that powerful.”

“Is it possible he’s a Pickleman intelligencer?” suggested Sophronia.

“Would Lord Akeldama invite one into our midst?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t figured out why he’s doing any of this.” Sophronia was only mildly frustrated. She doubted anyone could fully understand their vampire host in the space of a human life-span, let alone during the course of a dinner party.

“A man of many motives,” suggested Agatha darkly.

“Or, worse, none at all,” replied Sophronia.

They made their way out into the hallway, precisely in time to hear a shrill whining nose and then a woof sound, which ended in an impossibly loud boom.

The door to the drawing room exploded outward. Several top hats were carried with the blast, flying through the opening on a cloud of smoke, falling to roll sadly on the plush carpet.

Sophronia could only think of one thing.

“Bumbersnoot!”

A PROBLEM OF MOTIVATION

Sophronia, Agatha, and Dimity ran toward the door now hanging by its bottom hinge. Drones came dashing from all parts of the house.

Sophronia’s mind was in a loop of worry. Is Bumbersnoot in there? Is the explosion his fault? Or has he exploded himself, without permission? And then, Petunia!

They clustered at the doorway, peering into chaos. The smoke cleared, exposing a remarkable tableau. Something large and mechanical had caused the blast. It had started out on a table in the center of the room, but now its parts were scattered everywhere and the table was cracked in half. It was hard to tell what it had been, but now it wasn’t anymore. There were shards of glass or possibly crystal, as well as gears, valves, coal, chains, and springs everywhere. But what really drew the eye was the guests.

The supernatural creatures had leapt to shield the mortals. Lord Akeldama had whisked Monique behind a couch. The sandy-haired werewolf had the inventor and the newspaperman down flat on their fronts with him partly on top. The dewan had taken Petunia under his wing. The deadly butler, who might or might not be supernatural, had two others shielded by an overturned table in the far corner. But they hadn’t been able to get to everyone. There was a good deal of blood, mostly on arms and backs, as those without guardians had turned away to shield their heads. No one seemed dead, but several were certainly prone and writhing. Both active members of the Staking Constabulary, the chief field operative for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, the overseer of the Vault of England, and the Ghost Wrangler were down.