“You do know the by-invitation-only thing is just vampires, don’t you?” said Pillover, under his breath.

Sophronia wasn’t certain if her mother would take the presence of an underdressed Scottish aristocrat and two beast-form werewolves as an honor or a horror. So she stepped forward. She had better make certain it was thought an honor or they’d all be in trouble. “If you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I believe I have a situation to rectify.”

None of them objected.

SESSION 7: HELPFUL BARNACLEGEESE

Sophronia pushed her way through the crowd. Her mother was at the top of the stairs, agitating like a malfunctioning mechanical. Her father seemed to be already at the cards. Sophronia was glad to note his absence. One less parent to bamboozle.

“Who are you and why have you brought those animals to my party?” Mrs. Temminnick demanded. She must be near hysterics, for she knew better than to address a werewolf with anything but the strictest courtesy. Poor Mumsy did not like chaos, which made it all the odder that she had eight children.

Sophronia stepped up. “Mumsy, I believe I may be of assistance.”

“Sophronia, this wouldn’t be your fault, would it? Did you invite these… these… hirsute interlopers? Is that academy a complete failure? I thought you were doing so well.”

“Now, Mumsy, I brought the son of a duke to Ephraim’s party, didn’t I?”

“That is something.”

“Well, this is Lady Kingair, daughter of an earl, a very important person indeed.” Technically it was slightly more complicated than that, but daughter of an earl was good enough for Mumsy.

Mrs. Temminnick looked at Sidheag doubtfully. Not for the first time, Sophronia wished her dear friend sometimes dressed the part of a peer. Today Lady Kingair was wearing a gown so drab that even a governess wouldn’t have bothered.

“But, but, dear, that dress is tweed.… Oh, has she come costumed as a parlormaid?” Mrs. Temminnick was disposed to be optimistic on behalf of an earl’s daughter.

“Now, Mumsy”—Sophronia was quick on the flip—“don’t you see? It’s a symbolic allegory of the famous myth of Romulus and Remus. Since a werewolf is almost never female, Lady Kingair has dressed as a nanny to foil the wolf shape and properly represent the she-wolf who fed the great hero-founders of Rome.”

Mrs. Temminnick balked.

Sophronia looked at her, eyes wide. “Oh, dear, isn’t it obvious? I thought it was obvious. I’m sure Sidheag did, too. Didn’t you, dear?”

Sidheag balked almost as much as Sophronia’s mother.

“Goodness, well, at least they are giving you some kind of education at that finishing school.” Mrs. Temminnick liked that she hadn’t understood a word her daughter had said.

“I could say it in Latin, if that would help?”

“No, dear, no, not Latin as well as tweed. Not in one night.”

“Oh, Sophronia!” Sidheag did not want to play along. Fortunately, she also seemed incapable of cogent speech. Solid, unflappable Sidheag was so relieved to see Sophronia, it seemed she might cry. Or cast herself into Sophronia’s arms. Impossible options in public, the both of them.

Sophronia had thought Sidheag would be recovered by now, yet she seemed to have gotten worse.

Since she was unable to console her friend with intimacy, Sophronia’s training kicked in. “Mumsy, Lady Kingair appears to have misplaced her mask on the journey. Was it terribly distressing, Sidheag dear? Why don’t I take her to the family parlor for a restorative cup of tea? I might be able to settle matters, find another mask. This would get us all away from the ball. Ephraim would like that.”

Brought back to the purpose of the masquerade, Mrs. Temminnick could think of no better solution.

Dimity appeared at Sidheag’s elbow.

No one mentioned the werewolves, although Sophronia and Dimity both nodded at them. Politeness deemed they only be acknowledged, not addressed directly. When in wolf shape, they couldn’t exactly engage in polite conversation. It was thought best not to remind them of this fact by attempting an introduction.

Mrs. Temminnick threw her hands up to heaven. “Fine, fine, but the young gentlemen all stay here dancing!”

“Of course, Mumsy. They can make up the numbers.” Sophronia sent a silent prayer to Pillover to keep Soap and Felix from murdering each other.

“This way, Sidheag dear.” Sophronia grabbed her friend’s hand. It was icy cold. Sidheag must have ridden through the rain for hours. Sophronia guided Sidheag hurriedly away from the ball.

Captain Niall and his unknown companion followed. It was a mark of how little, if ever, Mrs. Temminnick fraternized with werewolves that she had decided to categorize both as friendly dogs, rather than na**d men. Otherwise, she would never have permitted them to accompany her daughter.

The family parlor was a cozy enclave of puffy furniture and unbreakable objects much used by the Temminnick children over the years. They settled Sidheag on the couch nearest the fire. Dimity sat next to her, patting her on the arm, trilling consoling banalities.

Sophronia sent one of the clangermaids off to retrieve tea. She then suggested to Captain Niall and the strange werewolf that they find some of Gresham’s old clothing in the nursery and requested they go change shape there. She worried about the second werewolf, who was a good deal larger than the captain. It meant he would be a good deal larger as a man as well, and Gresham was not particularly large.

With werewolves gone and fire stoked, Sidheag stopped shaking. The tea, once it arrived, had its customary effect—engendering comfort and loosening the tongue. That’s tea for you, thought Sophronia, the great social lubricant. Soon they had the whole story out of her. No wonder tea was considered a vital weapon of espionage.