The remainder of their London visit was uneventful. There were other dinner parties and shopping trips but no explosions and no revelations, if one discounted Agatha’s realizing, finally, that orange was not a good color for her. This, Dimity and Sophronia felt, was an epiphany of epic proportions but of little consequence to the fate of the Empire at large.

They made their good-byes with the utmost gravity. Dimity and Agatha thanked Petunia profusely for her hospitality. Dimity presented her with a bunch of hothouse blooms entirely to Petunia’s taste. Agatha pressed Petunia’s hand and assured her that Mr. Woosmoss would call upon Mr. Hisselpenny on a matter of business come the New Year. Everyone parted ways feeling the better for the visitation.

The young ladies repaired to their respective families for the holidays, declaring their London jaunt an unparalleled success. They each had several new dresses, not to mention hats, gloves, shawls, and boots. Petunia was in raptures over their pleasant company, pleasing manners, and polite talk. A delusion which they considered a profound victory for espionage.

Sophronia enjoyed life back home with her family, grown only larger with married siblings now producing families of their own. But hers was a modest enjoyment. Conversation seemed provincial and limited in scope. Three days was more than enough mundanities. She was delighted when Agatha rolled up in her father’s landau, having arranged to be their transport back to school.

Sophronia was permitted to give Agatha tea in the front parlor while the luggage was loaded. Presumably Petunia had told Mrs. Temminnick of Agatha’s wealth and station. Such a privilege as being accorded privacy in the Temminnick household was unprecedented.

“Was your Christmas perfectly ghastly?” asked Sophronia, all sympathy after the niceties had been dispensed with and the first cups quaffed.

“Tolerably so. I envy you your massive family, Sophronia. I should dearly love to be out of the spotlight and forgotten on occasion.”

“I don’t know. My mother thinks more on her cats these days than me. When we were called in for Christmas dinner, she forgot to yell my name entirely. Not that I mind as such—before Mademoiselle Geraldine’s my name was all too often yelled.”

“Better to be forgotten than the focus of all your father’s hopes and dreams.”

“You have a point. It is a valuable thing for an intelligencer to be forgotten.”

“Oh, I do wish I had a brother. Or had been born a man.”

Sophronia reached across the sofa to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Oh, Agatha, I’m sorry. Is he still making demands?”

“He wants to know why my marks aren’t better. Why I don’t speak fluent French. Why I can’t kill a fully grown man with a nutcracker.”

Their privacy was not to last, for the twins clattered in, yodeling excitedly and heralding the arrival of another coach.

Sophronia and Agatha finished the dregs of their tea, kidnapped the crumpets for the journey ahead, collected the last of their belongings, and rushed out to the courtyard.

It proved to be Dimity and Pillover in a hired hack. The Plumleigh-Teignmotts tumbled out with all appearances of having argued vociferously most of the way.

Since Mrs. Temminnick was otherwise occupied, Petunia saw them all situated and gave the coachman instructions to Swiffle-on-Exe with no little pride. She didn’t object to Pillover’s presence, although by rights he ought not to be left alone with the girls. They’d formed a wary friendship at Petunia’s coming-out ball, and she still looked upon him with favor.

“Whoever knew I should grow myself a sensible sister, in the end?” Sophronia settled back against the plush cushions of the carriage. “Do you think it has something to do with the fact that she is increasing?”

Agatha gasped, gesturing to Pillover.

Dimity came to Sophronia’s defense. “Oh, Agatha, he knows where children come from.”

“Yes, but…” Agatha squeaked.

Dimity moved them on for Agatha’s sake. “I should have preferred a sister like yours, Sophronia, rather than old Pill.”

Sophronia protested, “He’s not so bad. Petunia took a long time to grow a brain. Pillover has had one all along.”

“Thank you for that,” muttered Pillover from under his hat. He was slouched in the corner next to his sister. His chin was sunk into his cravat and his attention fixed on a small book of Latin verse. Occasionally, he popped a lemon fizzy sweet into his mouth.

“He’s a dead codfish.” Dimity wrinkled her nose at the fish in question.

At which Pillover gave every outward appearance of intending to ignore them all for the duration of the journey, although he did sneak a few glances in Agatha’s direction.

Bumbersnoot, who had some minor appreciation for Latin verse, sat on one of Pillover’s feet. Pillover fed him bits of brown paper from the sweets wrapper.

“The ladies seem to like him.” Sophronia spoke simply to see whether Pillover would react.

Pillover flinched.

“One of the great mysteries of the universe. Like why anyone would eat cucumber.” Dimity had firm opinions on cucumber, which she felt was nothing more than slimy, embarrassingly shaped water and should never, under any circumstances, be presented at table.

Sophronia moved the conversation on to young men of Dimity’s acquaintance, and which of them might prove a suitable beau. Lord Dingleproops having been long since discarded, there were other prospects to discuss.

Pillover muttered translations down at Bumbersnoot. The mechanimal paid rapt attention.

Sophronia did not mention Soap. She kept silent about his kisses, even knowing the others might benefit from her experience, but she was both mortified and exhilarated by the memory. She did not want her friends to know, fearing their disgust or worse, pity. Her own feelings were conflicted enough—no need to add theirs to the mix. I have a secret lover, she thought. She experienced no little relish over the secrecy part, it must be admitted. It made her feel wise and bold, and better able to advise Dimity on her romantic choices.

Fortunately, Dimity could talk about her beaux, or lack thereof, for the entirety of a carriage ride. The Picklemen and the flywaymen and their valves were only briefly addressed. Pillover bestirred himself to participate in that part of the conversation. But even an insider from Bunson’s couldn’t add to their knowledge. Perhaps because it was Pillover—as insiders went, he never got very far in, as it were.

“We really must wait for the Picklemen to move first.” Sophronia was not happy about this.

Dimity steered them quickly back to boys, for who could be bothered trying to save the nation from an amorphous threat when flirting was on the line?

A Christmas card addressed to Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, and Miss Woosmoss was waiting in their shared parlor at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. In and of itself that was rather charming, as so few people thought—or even knew—of them as a collective. However, this particular card was from Sidheag, which made it all the more delightful. Not that Sidheag was a great wit, or a particularly talented correspondent, but it was nice to hear from her. Once the staunch fourth member of their little band, Lady Kingair was home in Scotland, with her pack and her affianced, preparing to leave the country on what looked to be a protracted campaign in the Crimea. The card said nothing of consequence—mainly pleasant banalities. It also had little of import encoded. After all, Sidheag knew the teachers read their mail, the same teachers who had taught them how to code. But it was nice to know she was well, and her acerbic nature translated into an aggressive script, for all her prose stuck to the strictures of politeness. Sidheag hadn’t stayed long at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, but she had taken some lessons to heart, in the arena of letter writing at least.