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that’s taking matters too far!
    Mademoiselle Geraldine sat up straight and glared, as though Sophronia were responsible for everything bad in the world. “My face hurts, my dress is in tatters, and I have no slippers!” This last and deepest offense was uttered in a positive wail.
    “Then you’re not our headmistress?”
    “How could I be? I’m only seventeen years old. You can’t possibly think I’m the headmistress of a finishing school. You’re not that naive.”
    “But isn’t that what we were meant to think?”
    “I didn’t think about you at all,” muttered Pillover, returning to his book.
    “Who
are
you, then?” asked Sophronia.
    “I’m Miss Monique de Pelouse!” She paused, as though expecting the name to produce some sign of recognition.
    Sophronia merely gave her a blank look. “So this begs the question: where is the
real
Mademoiselle Geraldine?”
    “Oh”—Monique waved a hand in the air and sniffed—“she never leaves much anymore, and she’s useless when she does. They always send impersonators.”
    “They do?”
    “Of course they do. It’s easier, and it’s a good way to finish.”
    “And who is
they
?”
    “Why, the teachers, of course. But we were talking about me and my problems.”
    Sophronia looked Monique up and down gravely. “I don’t think we’re going to solve those in the space of one carriage ride.”
    Pillover
tut-tut
ted at her from behind his book—but there was clear amusement in the reprimand.
    Monique sneered. “Who do you think you are?
Covert recruit.
You’re not that special. You’re not that good. Proud of yourself and your little carriage rescue, are you? Well, I didn’t need your help! I’m a top-level student, on my finishing assignment. Ordered to retrieve three useless
children
.”
    Pillover’s voice emanated from behind his tome. “I hardly think that was all.”
    “Of course it wasn’t
all
,” Monique snapped. “I had the prototype to collect as well, now didn’t I?”
    Pillover took interest at last. “The one the flywaymen were after?”
    Sophronia asked, “What’s it a prototype
of
?”
    “Don’t be daft. I don’t know
that
.”
    “Do you think you might at some point tell me what
finishing
actually means?” Sophronia was getting more and more curious about the particulars of this finishing school. It seemed Mumsy might have been misled as to the nature of the establishment.
    “No.” Monique gave her a decidedly nasty glare and then turned her attention out the carriage window.
    Sophronia wasn’t certain what she’d done to incur such loathing.
Should have left her with the flywaymen.
She looked at Pillover, who ignored her. So she sighed and sat back, frustrated. After a moment’s consideration, she switched to the spot next d. e spot to Pillover and attempted to read over his shoulder, ignoring his faintly goaty smell. All boys smelled of goat. So they passed the rest of the ride, until the carriage pulled into the sleepy little town of Swiffle-on-Exe.
    As they ratted to a halt, Dimity blinked awake. “Ow. What? Did I fall asleep?”
    “No, you fainted. Blood,” explained her brother tersely.
    “Oh, did I? Pardon.” Dimity glanced down at her wounded shoulder. “Oh!” Her eyes began to roll back into her head.
    Sophronia quickly leaned forward and clapped her hand over the injury. “None of that, now!”
    Dimity refocused on her. “Ouch. Uh, perhaps we could tie something over it?”
    “Good plan. Close your eyes.” Sophronia worked the long hair ribbon loose from the grip rail inside the carriage door and wrapped it around Dimity’s shoulder.
    “Oh, I do wish I were more like Mummy. She’s terribly fearsome. Wish I looked more like her, as well. That would help with everything.” Dimity sat up.
    “Why? What does she look like?”
    “More like Pillover than me.”
    Sophronia, who had seen very little of Pillover’s appearance, outside of his massive outer garments, could only say, “Oh?”
    “You