The hive’s rescue dirigible arrived, full of sooties and Mademoiselle Geraldine. The headmistress explained everything she knew, or at least pretended to, under the solicitous attention of various large gruff men. She made for an excellent front, in more ways than one, while her students and sooties quietly avoided questioning.

Even Monique showed up, a great deal later, after she had reported to her hive. It was a miracle she came at all. At first they thought it remnant loyalty to her old school. But then, after she filled in some details concerning the last of Sophronia’s adventure, she demanded the return of her airship. “That dirigible is my responsibility. I should like it back now.”

Since it wasn’t part of the investigation, the authorities permitted her repossession. She left, with a few sooties paid to help float, but with no more information about Sophronia’s survival than anyone else.

At which point, Soap panicked.

The skinny, black-furred loner wolf started weaving back and forth, a whine he couldn’t control keening out. The Staking Constabulary thought he might be mad, and prepared their silver to attack if necessary.

Soap thought he’d know. If Sophronia died, he thought, somehow he would be aware of that fact—feel it in his bones. But there was nothing, no clue, no message she’d left in the wreckage, just a few of her dresses and some bits from her room in a pile. Her scent was on one or two of the prisoners, their bonds were her handiwork, but nothing more.

Dawn was soon to come—Soap could certainly feel that in his werewolf bones. There was only one more possibility. So he left.

He was too far gone in beast to care that Dimity and Agatha stood sobbing to one side, clutched together, certain their friend had died. He registered his old enemy, Felix Mersey, crying, the charcoal smell of wet kohl from the lines about his eyes as it ran down his face. What right had he to cry? His father had survived, although both the duke’s legs were broken. Soap spared the duke a glance—the man who had killed him once was in the Bureau of Unnatural Registry’s custody amid mutterings of high treason. Wolf Soap found it all petty and inconsequential when his Sophronia was missing.

His beast brain could remember but one thing: Regent Square an hour before dawn. And dawn was coming. So Soap ran back into London as fast as supernatural speed could take him.

Sophronia extracted herself from the Brussels sprouts and thought about the time. She wondered what she should do and how she was going to get anywhere to do it. Her plan had finished with the ship. With no other ready options, she headed to Regent Square on the off chance that Soap would remember their meeting place—because really, what else was there to do?

She had to walk, and it was a long walk, because she hadn’t any money and no hackney would stop to pick her up—a roughed-up boy with two black eyes, a useless arm, and a slight limp. Perceptions, thought Sophronia as she hobbled along, really are everything in this world.

She didn’t quite make it in time. It was about half an hour before dawn when she finally stumbled into Regent’s Park. Sophronia had never been so tired, or so thirsty, or so hungry in her life. She tumbled onto a small patch of ground under a thorny bush and lay there, aching. Every bone in her body had something to say about the state of the universe, loudly and likely profanely. Her skin hurt all over, and her mind was pressed down with the weight of the lives she had taken. Like the mechanicals who had gone before her, she simply shut down.

Soap, who was running a pattern about the park, nose forward, found her sleeping. He entirely forgot he was still a wolf and licked her face all over.

Sophronia awoke to slobber and wolf breath.

She couldn’t have been happier. She wound her good hand through his thick black fur and rested her chin atop his ruff. Foolish boy, he wriggled about onto his back, tail wagging in an excess of delight. It was almost embarrassing, if it hadn’t been so cute.

Then Soap remembered himself—or at least that there was another half of himself to remember—and transformed. Only now he was naked, crouched on the ground next to her, and that really was embarrassing.

“Soap, what are you—”

And then they were both kneeling, and Sophronia was in his arms. Embarrassment didn’t really matter, for he was kissing her fiercely and that was awfully nice, although also embarrassing. Her lip had been split at some point and her face really did ache, but she hadn’t the strength to stop it even if she’d wanted to.

Eventually, he paused, tilted her back, and took a good long look at her.

“I thought you were dead.”

“Evidently not, or I’m a rather substantial ghost.”

Soap kissed her again, because he could, and because she wasn’t a ghost, although this time carefully on the uninjured side of her mouth. Sophronia liked that so much, she forgot about her injuries, for a short space of time, and kissed him back.

Finally he drew away. Both of them were out of breath, as if they had been swimming in a cold lake. Though that was not at all how Sophronia felt.

“It won’t work, Soap. The dewan. My parents, society, no one will permit—”

Soap put his hand over her mouth. “Enough of that. Think of it as a challenge.”

Sophronia cocked her head.

“No, listen to me for a change. What you have forgotten is that we are both already outside of society. I don’t have to fit into your world, and you are already in mine. We share these shadows. What did you think would happen with your indenture? The dewan knows that you’re better in the field. You’d be wasted on marriage to some prince or duke. Why do you think he’s kept me secret? He wants us teamed up—intelligencers to the Crown, Geraldine’s trained and werewolf strong. I think we’d make a great pair, in more ways than one.”

Sophronia really considered what he was saying. And, shockingly, it seemed almost possible.

She stuck her tongue through her lips to lick his hand. With a start, he dropped it.

She looked into his eyes. “Marriage would not be possible. No office would provide a license, not to you and me, not for any bribe.”

“Did I ask to wed? I was rather hoping we could live happily in sin for a very long time. Lovers has a nice ring to it.”

Sophronia huffed out a startled laugh. “How very French. No one of any rank would receive me if they knew.” But she kind of liked the idea. I would never have to lose my freedom to a husband. I thought Soap would insist on being honorable, because he is such an honorable person. Silly of me not to remember he can also be sensible.

“Shadows, my heart. No one need know.”

“Endearments, already?”

If he could have, Soap would have blushed. “Too soon? I’ve said it so often in my head, it slipped out.”

Sophronia tried a tentative smile. “I don’t mind. It’s only, what do I call you?”

Soap’s face lit up. He knew she wasn’t trying to evade the conversation, that she liked the idea. “I’m rather partial to honey-sop piggle-wig.”

Sophronia raised an eyebrow.

Soap grinned at her. “You’ll come up with something, but it has to happen naturally.”

“Very well, dear… No, that doesn’t work.”

Soap wrinkled his nose. He had a very nice nose. “Most certainly not. Too stiff.”

“I’ll give it consideration, honey-sop piggle-wig.”