“No, not flywaymen.”

Conversational flow being as it was, Monique’s last phrase shot out into a lull and reverberated down the table.

Everyone looked at her.

Petunia broke the awkward silence. “Oh, those horrible miscreants.”

Monique tossed her head. “Well, it’s not them I’m worried about. Everyone knows who skulks behind the flywaymen these days. Is that not what we’ve been brought here to discuss? Or am I assuming too much, my lord?”

Sophronia looked through the fronds at her fellow diners for expressions of surprise. Petunia, of course, and perhaps two or three others.

Lord Akeldama leaned back, sipping his fizzy blood. “Has the countess told you something significant, Miss Pelouse?”

Monique stabbed at her fish. “Are you going to let them get away with it?” She looked down the table at the dewan. “Are you?” Then over at the werewolf Beta, gesturing at him with a fork loaded with John Dory. “Are you?”

“Come now, Miss Pelouse, no need to point fish. Let us allow the conversation to flow naturally, shall we?” As if by the vampire’s command, the others turned back to their dining companions.

Sophronia tilted her head at her erstwhile nemesis. Monique looked annoyed.

“Have you any holiday plans, Miss Pelouse?” With her free hand she gave the signal, What was that about?

“I had thought to visit my family, touring in Paris. Beautiful city, have you ever been?” You already know. To Sophronia’s surprise, Monique actually fluttered a reply. The problem with hand signals was that they were limited in specificity, being intended only for extractions from sticky social situations, or sticky physical situations, or, occasionally, both.

“Sadly, no. Someday I should very much like to. I hear the shopping is unparalleled.” Why was Monique, of all people, trying to force the situation? Did she have insight into the Picklemen’s immediate intentions? Was she was under orders from Countess Nadasdy to press the dewan’s hand? The vampires fancied striking against the Picklemen first, asking questions second.

Monique chose to ignore Sophronia at that point, focusing on her food.

Sophronia did the same, listening closely to the conversations ebbing around her. The newspaperman with the piercing voice argued vociferously with the dewan about some malfunction. Whatever it was, Petunia was following, so it must be common knowledge. The newspaperman seemed the type to always argue, but Sophronia blessed his aggression because she could hear every word, even though they were halfway down the table.

“You cannot blame the government for a failure in private enterprise.” The dewan defended the Crown.

“My dear sir, we blame no one. We’re perfectly objective”—someone laughed coldly—“but public perception is that since everyone who is anyone has them, it is a society-wide situation, and the government is responsible. Like the water supply, or the gas, or even helium.”

A hush met that statement. Imagine, mentioning utilities at the dinner table.

Dimity spoke up, compelled by her training to cover for his gaffe. Of course, she was also happy to appear driven to attend his mistake while actually seeking further insight. “Forgive me for asking, but I have been away at finishing school and am regrettably out of touch. Has there been another opera incident?” Never underestimate Dimity.

The newspaperman looked kindly upon ignorance packaged behind a lovely face with wide hazel eyes framed by honey-colored hair. “Yes, my dear. Only recently my paper—you know it, of course, the Mooring Standard?—reported that a wave of mechanical malfunctions has been sweeping the nation.”

Sophronia was momentarily distracted by Bumbersnoot. He had been quietly slung over the back of her chair, but now was scrabbling to be set down.

Fortunately, no one seemed to notice except Lord Akeldama, who gave her a sideways look. Sophronia couldn’t afford to hush Bumbersnoot with a protocol command, so she stuck him in her lap. He remained so restless, she set him on the floor. He scuttled out the door and down the hallway. Sophronia figured if anyone could cope with her mechanimal, it was Lord Akeldama’s drones. They’d probably adopt him and dress him like a maiden aunt.

Dimity continued to coax. “Oh, but the opera, when sung by mechanicals, it is quite offensive. Can nothing be done to stop it?”

“My dear young lady, not opera. More a wave of small shutdowns, brief enough not to be noticed until one of my best investigators uncovered them. They have been happening in multiple households, in isolated pockets, all over the country.”

Sophronia looked hard at the dewan.

Monique jumped on the opening. “You see? They are up to something. Perhaps intending to damage the core of the Empire itself.”

The inventor chap, next to Dimity, joined the conversation. “We have seen no serious repercussions. Nothing but a spate of inconvenient shutdowns, and that first minor opera.”

The newspaperman seemed to take this as criticism of his reporting. “But it did happen, and all over, and no one knew about the shutdowns until we exposed them.”

Petunia moved gracefully back into the conversation. “I read your article on the subject with interest. We employ several mechanicals in our household, and I am concerned over their reliability. And the safety of my family, of course.”

“Exactly my point.” The newspaperman perceived this as support. “You are wise to be cautious, Mrs. Hunnelprissy.”

“Hisselpenny.”