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?”
“He isn’t a claviger! He hasn’t been prepared. He hasn’t been trained in what to expect. He’s not ready. He’s not petitioned. He’s not paid his dues in service. It’s against the supernatural order.” The dewan protested. “He’s not from England!”
“He most certainly is! He’s from Tooting Beck!” protested Sophronia.
The dewan said, “I mean, his skin color!”
“It’s a perfectly lovely color!” protested Dimity. Dimity, of all people.
“He said he’d consider it. He was talking like he’d try, just the other night,” insisted Sophronia.
Soap blinked at the argument going on around him. “Yes,” he croaked.
“See that! Go on, then, you bite him, my lord, prove you’re the superior Alpha.”
The dewan threw his hands up. “That is not how it works.”
Sophronia scrabbled for something to threaten him with. She hadn’t a sundowner weapon. She hadn’t even a silver knife. The dewan was too strong for her to attack him outright, anyway; he’d simply brush her aside.
She had nothing but bargaining left. And she could think of only one thing the dewan might want. She bartered herself. “Do this and when I’m trained I’ll indenture to you as an intelligencer. I’m good, you ask Captain Niall. And when I’m done, I’ll be even better. I’ll be the best there is, just so you won’t regret it.”
Captain Niall said, “Miss Temminnick, is this wise?”
The dewan seemed even more startled by this attempt at bribery, but he did pause. He looked down at Soap and then up at Captain Niall. “Is she that good?”
“One of the best Mademoiselle Geraldine’s has had in a long while. She will be an asset to whoever holds her contract in whatever form.”
Competitive instinct. Werewolves had a strong competitive instinct; Sophronia played on that. “Mrs. Barnaclegoose wants me.”
“Mrs. Who?”
She tried another one. “Lord Akeldama has already given me patron gifts.”
“Has he, indeed?”
That was a name he knew.
The dewan appeared to be considering everything that had happened recently—the fact that Sophronia had kidnapped a train and scared off a duke. But he was no fool. Only a cautious werewolf could have survived so long a loner and sit in the queen’s shadow. “It’s a fair offer. But you understand our deal will stand whether my bite is successful or not?”
Hope sprang in Sophronia’s chest. Hope and fear and horror, but mostly hope. “I understand Soap’s survival is not a matter of your ability. It is a matter of his soul.”
“Or lack thereof. And you are willing to risk his life and your future on such a small chance?”
Soap was limp and silent now, his eyes heavy lidded. They were running out of time.
Sophronia took a breath, face still tingling with the strain. “I am.”
The dewan nodded, decided. “Very well, then, I will try. It would be better, ladies, if you were not present. This is not a pretty undertaking. Captain, if you would?”
Captain Niall limped around and forcibly picked Sophronia and Sidheag up, one under each arm, and carried them away. Meekly, Dimity followed, carrying Bumbersnoot under her own arm in a similar manner.