Waistcoats & Weaponry by Gail Carriger

Sophronia a utilitarian, masculine look. The white underskirt was full enough to disguise the fact that it was actually divided down the middle and could act as trousers if necessary. Over this was draped the skirt of the black gown, split up each side so it looked even more apronlike. To it they had sewn multiple pockets in shades of black and gray, in variable sizes, largest and lightest at the bottom, smallest and darkest near the waist, forming a pattern. In those pockets Sophronia had stashed useful objects. Not that she expected trouble, but she had the pockets so she might as well use them.
    “Sophronia, what
are
you meant to be?” Petunia was disgusted.
    Sophronia pulled out her mask; it was an asymmetrical slash of black lace, like a large smudge. “I’m a sootie, of course.”
    The young ladies all gasped. Imagine going to a masquerade as something lower class! There was some muttering about the fact that at least Sophronia wouldn’t be competing for masculine attention.
    “Well,” sniffed Petunia, “I suppose we should be glad you didn’t actually don masculine attire.”
    Sophronia blinked at her.
Yes, yes you should
. She said, “Oh, dear, do you think this too plain?”
    “Of course it’s too plain!”
    “I was thinking of your finer feelings, sister dear. I wouldn’t want to distract the gentlemen. After all, I’m not officially out yet. You’re on the market; you should have first crack.”
    “Oh, well, that’s very thoughtful, Sophronia.” Petunia fluffedthe skirts of her shepherdess outfit, trying not to look pleased by the consideration.
    Dimity grinned from behind her mechanical mask.
    Sophronia winked at her.
    They both knew the truth. The very plainness of Sophronia’s dress would make it stand out in a sea of color. Besides, Sophronia had the figure to carry it off. After a stint at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, she also had the bearing. Also, the simplicity would make others underestimate her, never a bad thing. Sophronia loved the gown for its practicality and for its nod to her friends belowdecks. Soap would have thought it a great joke. After all, it looked like a feminine version of the apron he wore to shovel coal.
    The ball had started, but there was still an hour or more before they could safely go down without being thought desperate. Sophronia and Dimity made their way to the settee corner. Sophronia occupied herself checking the sharpness of her scissors and letter opener and wishing for a bladed fan while relaying softly some of her conversation with Felix in the cart.
    Suddenly an excited twittering emanated from the door, opened by a very uncomfortable-looking Pillover. He cleared his throat.
    Before he could say anything, Dimity pushed through the crowd to face him. “Pill, you aren’t supposed to
be
here. We’re dressing!”
    Pillover grumbled something unintelligible. Dimity nodded. She replied sharply and then shut the door in his face.
    The hubbub died down and the young ladies returned to fixing masks and fussing with hair, now accompanied by discussionof Pillover’s finer points. This startled Sophronia and Dimity—who would have thought he had any? Apparently his complexion was considered lovely, and he was a nice height for dancing, and the sullen glumness came off as deliciously mysterious.
    “Don’t you want to cuddle and console him? Poor darling, he looks so unhappy,” said one, pulling on long white gloves.
    “I wager he’s had his heart broken,” suggested another. She wore the costume of a Greek goddess—swathes of white silk draped over a turquoise ball gown and large crinoline. She was one of many who had opted for the classics. “I should love to be the one to repair his tortured soul.”
    Dimity made her way back to Sophronia, not bothering to advocate for or against her sibling. Pillover would suffer the slings and arrows of willing young ladies without her help. “Pillover needs to talk. Alone. He’s been trying to all along,