He landed, swearing a blue streak.

Two flywaymen leaned over the edge and fired down on him.

He merely tilted his head back and bared his teeth.

Sophronia worked to lever herself out from under Captain Niall. He was bleeding from a shot to the shoulder, which seemed to have passed through and out his back.

“Captain Niall?”

“It’s not silver, Miss Temminnick. I’m in for a bit of a rough few hours but should be shipshape in no time.” He sounded more annoyed than hurt.

The dewan walked back toward them, looking very put-upon… and very hairy and, well, dangly. Oh, dear, and Dimity was running over to them. How on earth was Dimity going to react to dangly bits? Will she faint? She’ll probably faint.

Sophronia righted herself and looked over Captain Niall’s equally na**d body. “Captain, would you mind shifting a little to the…” She went perfectly still; horror hit so hard it felt as if her skin would crawl off her flesh.

Soap?

Soap was lying, fallen and still, a surprised look on his face, clutching at the side of his chest, where a great deal of blood was pouring out of him and onto the grass. A very great deal indeed.

Strangely, Sophronia’s mind kept on with her previous thought. Oh, dear, that amount of blood will certainly make Dimity faint.

She let out a raw scream, like that of an animal at the slaughter. It was coming out of her own mouth, but she couldn’t control it. And then she was moving, shoving away poor Captain Niall, her arms no longer weak from shoveling coal. She threw herself across the distance separating her from Soap and knelt next to him.

“Miss, what a noise,” reprimanded Soap, his voice a whisper.

Sophronia stopped screaming. “Soap,” she said hoarsely, “I forbid you to die.”

“Now, miss, that’s not fair. You know I always try to do as you ask. This time it might not be up to me, and I hate to disappoint you.”

Sophronia placed both her hands over his, pressing against the wound. But there was so much blood. It was a litany in her head, so much blood. She couldn’t do anything. For the first time in her life there wasn’t a single action Sophronia could take, no information to discover, no trick to pull, no climbing to do, no action to turn about and bend to her ends.

Captain Niall came over. Captain Niall could save Soap. He was trained on the battlefield, accustomed to bullet wounds.

“Let me see, child,” he said, not unkindly. He pulled away her blood-covered hands.

Soap looked pale. Sophronia hadn’t thought that possible. Normally her Soap was dark as Christmas cake and just as full of nutty goodness. He seemed flat and empty now.

The dewan was there, standing a little back. “Goodness’ sake, what’s wrong now?” He was not intentionally unkind; at the sight of Soap’s wound his gruffness turned soft. “Ah, dear me.”

Soap’s eyes were emptying. There was no twinkle there anymore.

I’ll take serious and longing over empty. “Oh, please, Soap, please don’t die. What’ll I do without you? Who’ll keep me grounded?”

“Now, now, miss, don’t be silly, I never was all that…” His voice faded off. Then he said, as if surprised, “Burns a bit, that does.”

Captain Niall looked up from his examination. “No good, I’m afraid. Even if we had a surgeon to hand, looks like it’s gone through to the gut, nothing fixes that. I’m so very sorry.”

Sophronia barely registered that Dimity and Sidheag had joined them. Her mind had no thought in it but blood.

Sidheag knelt next to her. Reserved, austere Sidheag was weeping openly. Tears carved rivulets down her soot-covered face. Dimity stood back, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide in horror.

“You’re not fainting?” Sophronia inquired, dumbly. Her voice sounded as if it came out of a mechanical—tinny, distanced, unemotional.

“This is too serious for fainting,” replied Dimity. And then, because they’d been friends for so long, “What are we going to do?”

Sophronia felt her face tingle. I’m supposed to be able to fix things. She wanted to scream again, and vomit, and cry all at once. It felt as if the skin around her eyes would split open under the strain. And there was so much blood, and nothing she could do. There was nothing she could do.

“Well,” said the dewan, “at least it’s not someone important.”

Sophronia rounded on him. “You!” There was no my lord. She pointed a finger into his chest. She was about two heads shorter and half his weight.

He didn’t know how to respond. “Yes, little miss?”

“You’re an Alpha, aren’t you?”

“Of course, miss.”

“True Alpha?”

“Of course, miss!”

“Bite him.”

“What!”

“Go on, bite him!”

The dewan looked utterly confused at being ordered around by a small bundle of girl who was apparently quite insane.

But Lady Kingair added her insistence to the demand. “I think you should, my lord. He’d make a fine werewolf. He’s a good lad, strong and fit, nice age for it. Healthy, apart from the bullet wound.”

“But he’s”—the dewan struggled—“he’s not one of us!”

Sophronia said, “You take lower class for clavigers all the time. In fact, we were taught that you prefer them, unlike the vampires. What’s wrong with Soap?”