TWO

For Queen and Custard

Rue watched her mother’s face for signs of distress.

The aristocratic features remained inscrutable except for a slight flare of the nostrils. Rue touched her own nose, checking for signs of expansion. It was a characteristic mannerism adopted whenever she was in Mother’s company. She’d developed it as a child, worried that her nose might suddenly, out of envy, begin to grow into a similar beak. It hadn’t yet but it still might.

Rue’s mother wrinkled said protuberance and swished the tea carefully about her mouth as though she were a French wine expert in imminent danger of expectorating. Except, of course, that Mother never expectorated. Apart from the indecorous idea of an aristocrat spitting, she would abhor the waste of tea.

Rue had never entirely forgiven her mother for naming her Prudence. Despite a shared and inexplicable love for treacle tart, their relationship was contentious at best and combative the rest of the time.

Rue’s mother was a veritable battle-axe, boasting a shape not unlike that of a tragic soprano in a Germanic opera, only with less inclination to throw herself off bridges. In fact, she was not overly demonstrative about anything, least of all bridges. Not that Rue felt she suffered from the lack. As muhjah to Queen Victoria herself, Mother had an empire to manage which should take precedent over such inconsequential distractions as fashion, household management, and child-rearing. All three of which she left in the capable hands of Dama. With good reason, for if asked, Rue had no doubt that Mother would have stated, in tones of mild disgust, that the vampire was not only better at such mundanities, but actually appeared to enjoy them.

Her mother took another sip of the tea and then rendered judgement. “Aggressive malt overtones, lots of smoke, a little like licking the inside of a fireplace.”

Rue added, “In the best possible way, I’m sure she means to say, Dama.”

Dama, perched on the edge of his seat like some brightly coloured bird, nodded. “Like Lapsang?”

“Yes. Lapsang, but brighter, more acidic tones. Good for blends, I’d hazard a guess. And Lapsang does very well these days, I am given to understand.” Rue’s mother put the tea-cup down as firmly as if it were a dog she had just instructed to stay.

Rue added, “Oh yes, it’s served in only the very best drawing rooms.”

Dama positively gleamed in excitement. “Ah, my dearest, darling, Alexia bonbon, I knew you would have all my answers for me.” He might even have bounced slightly.

Rue’s mother determined that settled the subject, and turned to her daughter. “And what have you been up to this evening, infant?”

Rue bridled at the tone of her mother’s voice. She wished she could act like someone else around Mother–pretend to be Uncle Rabiffano, for example. But it was useless to even try: her mother always brought out the worst in Rue. Which is to say, Rue’s actual personality proved impossible to repress and all acting ability deserted her. When Lady Maccon used that tone of voice Rue was irreversibly thirteen again. “I was at the Fenchurches’ ball with Primrose, as I informed you I would be. Would you believe the Stilton on the cheese plate was misplaced? And they had the latest floating dirigible lighting arrangement from Quimble’s–a ridiculous expense. And Mrs Fenchurch was positively vulgar–she must have worn an entire breastplate of diamonds.”

Dama obligingly switched his delight from tea to gossip. “Were they paste? I’d wager they were paste. His business concerns have taken a tragic downturn recently, did you hear? Very weak indeed.”

Unlike Dama, Rue’s mother was not to be misdirected. “Ah, then you weren’t running through London in your bloomers? Oh good. I did hear this wild rumour about a werewolf in bloomers. And I thought to myself, here now, none of my dear husband’s pack are that experimental.”

Dama looked intrigued. “Are you quite certain?”

Rue snickered, imagining the fuzzy uncles in bloomers. She could see, perhaps, on a lark, some of Dama’s drones bouncing about in lacy pantaloons, but not a werewolf. They were much more dignified.

“You must be mistaken, Mother.” She stopped smiling and tried to be prim, crossing her hands delicately in her lap in a modest manner.

Mother tapped her parasol, an impossibly ugly accessory she dragged with her everywhere day or night, dinner party or ball. “Yes, I suppose I must. You couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with, perhaps, the acquisition of this unusual tea?”

Rue looked affronted. “I’ve no idea to what you are referring, Mother.”

Accustomed to her daughter’s stubbornness, Lady Maccon turned to the vampire. Her famous Italian glare pierced Dama. “What are you two hiding?”

Dama looked equally innocent. “Us? Nothing, gooseberry pearl. Nothing at all.”

Lady Maccon leaned forward and grabbed Dama’s hand. At the contact, the vampire turned mortal. Her power wasn’t like Rue’s–she didn’t take on the vampire’s abilities, and the effect wouldn’t last once she let go, but she did turn him human. It was this skill that made her soulless, and made most vampires loathe her upon the very realisation of her preternatural state. Of course, once her personality asserted itself, vampires tended to loathe Rue’s mother for her own sake.

“Lord Akeldama, I will not have you involving my daughter in some seedy tea extraction mission!”

Dama sat back, affronted. “My darling girl.”

Rue leapt to his defence. “When has Dama ever done anything even remotely seedy?”

“Of course, infant, permit me to rephrase. I will not allow you to involve my daughter in some stylish tea extraction mission, either.”

“Could we say ‘stylish tea infusion mission’?” Dama suggested meekly.

Rue was not going to let her mother coerce her Dama. She mounted a secondary defence. “Pish-tosh, Mother. May I kindly remind you that I am all grown up and perfectly capable of making my own tea-related decisions.”

“Like rampaging around London in your bloomers?”

“I wasn’t in human form, no one knew it was me. At least, not until the tether to Uncle Rabiffano snapped.”

“So it was you? Oh dear me, the scandal! You’ll have to retire to the countryside until it blows over at the very least. How will we keep this out of the popular press?”

Rue felt like stamping her foot, but didn’t on principle. “Of course it was me. And I will certainly not go to the countryside.”

“I hope you learnt something from this,” said her mother, looking a little hopeless.

“Frankly, all I learnt is that I must give up bloomers. Perhaps a short silk underskirt would work better? It’s the tail, you see, it rips the seams.”

“And what on earth has happened to your stays, young lady?”

“Pshaw, Mother. I gave up wearing corsetry years ago. Far too inconvenient. And so old-fashioned.”

“Oh mercy me, how did I not know this? What kind of child have I raised?”

“I got permission!” Rue whined.

Her mother whirled on Dama. “This is what comes of your overindulgence! My daughter prancing around in split bloomers!”

Dama only smiled, his fangs politely tucked away. “My dear sugarplum, be reasonable. I would never allow my daughter to go without proper foundation. It wasn’t me who gave her said permission.”

Rue’s mother threw her head back and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Conall! Get your furry posterior in here post haste!”

Rue giggled. “Paw’s got great hearing but he’s at the Bureau tonight. Even he can’t hear you all the way across London.”

Her mother’s face was all thunderclouds. “Give up stays, indeed! With your figure? To think, you’ve been dancing without support. Lordy, lordy. The uncontrollable wobble of it all! And now bloomers as well?” She turned to Dama as a new possible ally rather than enemy in the matter of her daughter. “My dear lord, how are we to remedy the catastrophe that is my progeny?”

Rue would have none of it. “Mother, it’s done. Besides, why should I obey the bounds of polite dress?”

“Because, infant, you are a proper gentlewoman. The daughter of two lords and a lady. You have standards to maintain.” Her mother was moved to impassioned gesticulation for emphasis. It was the Italian ancestry that did it.

Rue rolled her eyes.

Her mother turned again to Dama. “What are we to do with her?”

“Ah, good, Alexia my gherkin, I’m delighted you brought that question up. I do believe that what our Puggle requires is an occupation.”

Rue’s mother sputtered.

Dama was ready. “Now, now, my dear, cast your mind back some quarter century or so. I do believe you once got into a great deal of trouble yourself, all because you hadn’t an occupation. Now, you are settled into your duties, I have my potentate responsibilities, your husband has BUR, even Rabiffano has his hat shop. Puggle needs the same, don’t you, darling?”

Rue would hardly have put it like that, but since she was keen on the idea of travelling, she nodded, and watched her mother for an adverse reaction.

Whatever incident Dama alluded to seemed to do the necessary because her mother’s imminent boil-over subsided. She twisted her parasol about in her grasp and actually gave the matter serious thought.

She caught Rue’s eye. “I suppose, were you an ordinary child, you’d be married by now. And since you’ve been vampire-raised, people have mostly stopped trying to kill you. I worry, that’s all. What will become of you?”

Rue was touched. “Aw, you actually love me.”

Alexia Maccon scooped her child in closer to her on the couch with one arm and kissed her temple. “Of course I do, infant.”

Rue hid a smile. Sometimes it was too easy. “So, this ball I was at…” Before you get hold of tomorrow’s gossip rags.

“Very well, tell me all. What’s the situation with the tea? What did you do to poor Uncle Rabiffano? And why were you gallivanting about London in your bloomers?”

Of course, poor old Mother became quite agitated all over again at the idea of her precious daughter travelling to India. Although, as Rue pointed out, it was most certainly the countryside. Dama reminded Lady Maccon of her own misspent youth which, much to Rue’s surprise, appeared to include plagues in Scotland, a mad dash across Europe, and one ill-advised trip to Egypt. “At least with Puggle here, we can see her well prepared, properly outfitted, and decently dressed.”

“Really, Mother, I had no idea you were so reckless. You seem so very staid.”

“I’ll have you know, infant, I was a madcap adventurer of epic proportions. Not that you should take that as permission, mind you.”

“So you agree I should go to India?”

“What did I just say?”

Rue crossed her arms and glowered, looking rather too much like her Paw for anyone’s comfort level. “I can take care of myself. Did you forget the little fact that I can steal supernatural abilities?” Nothing irritated Rue more than overprotectiveness. Except possibly flat champagne.

“Infant, there are times when there are no vampires or werewolves around. Not to mention daylight hours rendering you powerless. Also, I am not the only preternatural in existence and able to thwart you.”

“I have other skills,” Rue grumbled.

Her mother looked her up and down as if she were a military captain evaluating Rue for a mission. Then she turned back to Dama. Some silent signal passed between her parents. Dama had trained Rue in mysterious ways and Lady Maccon knew of Rue’s theatrical abilities, even if she rarely witnessed them first-hand, and preferred not to think about the ramifications.

“Oh, very well,” Mother capitulated, “but take this. You’ll need it. Very hot in India, I understand.” She handed over her parasol, an ugly if well-meaning gesture.

It was a good thing to have Mother’s approbation, for even Dama hadn’t the persuasive powers to convince the Alpha of the London Pack that his daughter traipsing around the empire was a good idea. Lord Maccon might be firmly wrapped around Rue’s little finger, but when her safety was at stake he could be militant. It would take Mother’s cajoling to bring him on board. Rue had never inquired too closely into her mother’s skills in this arena. Suffice to say that, on those occasions when Lord and Lady Maccon argued most virulently, a pattern inevitably emerged. They disappeared to their private quarters in disagreement and re-appeared in accord, generally to Mother’s way of thinking. Rue’s mother was fond of saying, “I am always right. Sometimes, it simply takes him a little time, flat on his back, to realise this.”

“India, infant, is going to take me most of our daytime repose,” was her mother’s assessment before they took to their beds before dawn.

“Oh, Mother!” It was nice to know her parents still enjoyed physical expressions of affection even at their advanced age, but also very much not nice to know.

The matter was thus settled, as far as Rue was concerned. She retired before her Paw returned home with the certain knowledge that plans would continue the next evening.

Rue came down after sunset in a dove-grey visiting dress trimmed with black velvet and white beadwork to find Dama and his drones preparing for a trip. The vampire, unlike his hive-bound fellows, often went out on the town, taking in the latest play or opera, occasionally calling upon his mortal acquaintances. Every such jaunt was an event, for everyone and everything in conjunction with the expedition must be aesthetically coordinated. Tonight, Rue’s appearance in the grey dress occasioned a line-up, two drones on either side, as they were to make up a party of six in the landau.

Winkle was instructed to go upstairs and change immediately as his yellow waistcoat did not go with Rue’s muted colour palette. The drone returned in a sage vest, carrying Rue’s hat. Queen Ivy’s millinery influence dictated this accessory be a massive affair richly decorated in what looked like the flattened corpses of three seagulls. Rue thought it rather detracted from the beauty of her dress but Uncle Rabiffano insisted it was the very latest thing, and Uncle Rabiffano was never wrong about hats.

“Was Mother successful, do you think?” Rue asked Dama as he helped her into the coach. The horses sported grey tassels at their bits and the coachman a grey silk top hat.

“You are in some doubt? My Puggle of little faith.”

Rue smiled. “Of course. Silly me. It’s Mother. She always gets her way.”

“Mmm,” said Dama. “Except, of course, when you do.” He made room for his four drones to join them.

They made a very fetching picture, and Rue was delighted with the entire outing. She savoured the envious looks of the other ladies parading through Hyde Park. Rue was accompanied by five of the best-looking men in all of London, and was still young enough to enjoy the envy and not mind that it had little justifiable cause. For young women of burgeoning romantic hopes, these men could provide only decoration and conversation rather than amorous solace or entanglement. They were, as far as any lady was concerned, like the fake fruit on Baroness Tunstell’s favourite hat–entertaining, pretty, and apparently delicious but not actually useful in the event of starvation or even an attack of the nibbles. Rue, secure in this knowledge, was free to enjoy their company without expectations. Which she did, to the mutual entertainment of all.

Dama directed the driver through Hyde Park and out onto the Edgware Road towards Regent’s Park. Far less popular and less populated by the supernatural set, Regent’s Park was quiet at night. They drove along one side before turning in towards a dense plot of trees near Boating Lake. There, in the centre of a petite forest, sat an abandoned cricket pitch now occupied by a small but cheerful family of squirrels and Dama’s latest acquisition.

“Oh, Dama! She’s so beautiful.” Rue was embarrassed to find herself actually clutching both hands to her breast like the heroine of a romantic novel, for there in the middle of the pitch was moored the most amazing airship she had ever seen.

Rue was particularly fond of floating. She’d spent many a summer’s day up in Dama’s personal aircraft, Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon. He himself never used it of course, but kept it on the roof because it was the kind of possession that a man of means kept on his roof. Dama always made the appearance of doing what was proper and modern. He would never want to be thought old-fashioned–that was for other vampires. When Rue turned sixteen, the drones taught her to fly old Fluff. Since then, Rue had never missed the opportunity to bundle Prim up in hair muffs and goggles, pack a suitable picnic, and take to the skies. Prim grew to enjoy it more than she would admit and had invested in a wardrobe to complement.

“I don’t want to be thought an outdoorsy sort of female,” she initially objected.

“Don’t be silly, Prim–everyone is taking to the skies these days. It’s not only the country set. It’s not like we’re riding horseback or something passé like that.”

“But, Rue, I’m all too often seen on wolfback. If I take to floating as well, people will say I’m–oh, I don’t know–athletic.”

“They will say no such thing. The height of your heels alone belies any suggestion of brawniness.”

That hadn’t helped–the mere mention of “brawn” nearly gave Prim hysterics. Through dint of cajoling and application of a very handsome drone to assist with lessons, Primrose eventually allowed herself aboard.

But this dirigible was utterly unlike such a poky little craft as old Fluff.

“Dama, she’s perfectly topping.”

“She is rather, isn’t she? I commissioned her several years ago, before some of the technology was even ready. Now she has all the very latest of everything, from navigation to habitation to mechanics to munitions. She’s lighter, better, faster and more deadly than anything, even Her Majesty’s floatforce. And, my darlingest of puggles, she is yours to command.”

Rue was moved to italics by the gesture. “Mine?”

“Indeed. I think you two will get along swimmingly. Or should I say floatingly?”

The coach pulled up next to the beautiful ship and the drones jumped out.

Winkle helped Rue to step down and she approached the dirigible reverently.

It wasn’t as big as one of Her Majesty’s mail ships but it was large. Rue suspected the gondola alone of being about the size of Dama’s town house, if the house were tipped on its side and made into the shape of a streamlined boat.

Dama said, “We took our cues from the basket homes of the balloon nomads of the Sahara and sourced an extremely light bendable wood from China for the hull.” The wood in question was a lovely golden colour. Rue stood on tiptoe to run her hand along one beam reverently.

The ship bobbed, straining against its mooring ropes, eager to take to the skies.

“May I go inside?” Rue pleaded, her golden eyes big and shining–almost a match to the exotic wood.

“Of course you may, my petal. Although you will permit one of my drones to accompany you and excuse me the pleasure?”

“Oh but, Dama, she’s moored very low, can’t you…?”

“Best not to risk it, my love. Ropes can snap and then we’d suddenly be beyond the limits of my tether. I am an old vampire, little Puggle, and I did not get so old by being reckless.”

Rue nodded and in lieu of Dama, grabbed Winkle’s arm. They made their way up the creaking gangplank and onto the main deck of the ship. The open squeak decks, below the massive balloons, seemed protected enough from the helium above to not cause undue voice modification. Although Rue suspected that, in the case of a leak, the poop deck, which was raised the highest, might be a danger zone–that would make for a funny sort of command.

The navigation centre on the poop deck was made to look like an old-fashioned ship’s helm, but it was the design aesthetic rather than any indication of dated engineering. The balloon could be inflated and deflated by means of either helium or hot air, or both, depending on local resources. A paddle propeller below aft did most of the steering and propulsion with a single mainsail off the stern for use in high-floating in the aether currents. When down, the mast looked like the tail of an inquisitive cat.

Rue was only disgruntled by one thing.

“Pigeons!” She dropped a surprised Winkle’s arm and charged across the deck, waving at the roosting birds like a mad woman with her parasol. Rue had an abhorrence of pigeons. Some childhood encounter involving a stolen sausage roll was to blame. The birds squawked and flapped off. Rue in turn flapped at a nearby deckhand. “Keep them away, would you, please? Repulsive creatures.”

“Yes, miss,” said the deckhand, eyes wide at this erratic behaviour.

“I don’t like pigeons,” Rue felt compelled to explain. “And I think you’re probably supposed to call me captain.”

“Who does like pigeons, captain?” wondered the deckhand philosophically.

Belowdecks in the forecastle were crew quarters, and in the stern, officer quarters. Rue wholeheartedly approved of the lavish captain’s chambers, featuring a wardrobe with sufficient room for most of her shoes. There was a nice-looking mess and a galley which included the latest in refrigeration boxes and every possible pot and pan, even crumpet rings. Rue supported this excess–she was awfully fond of crumpets. A beautifully decorated stateroom sat across from a smoking room, down from a sickbay-meets-laboratory and a few guest berths.

The lowest deck was made up of a hold at the fore, with ample room for supplies and other necessities, and a massive chamber aft. This proved to be engineering, containing coal bunkers, boilers, and the very latest in steam engines charmingly designed to look like a bank of cheerful chubby teakettles.

Rue was not a particularly handy person. Her nature had never led her into much interest in how things worked. She felt the important thing with machines was that they did work and when they did, she appreciated it. When something broke, she identified the closest possible expert and asked them–nicely of course and with remuneration–to fix it. Thus much of what passed for mechanics, gadgets, instruments, and devices on the ship was beyond her ken. But she liked the teakettles.

“I’ll need to hire a chief engineer and navigator first,” she said, concerned with the care of the technology around her.

Winkle nodded, mouth slightly open. “I can see that you would.”

The ship already boasted a skeleton crew: a smattering of deckhands and decklings scampered above while firemen, greasers, and sooties manned the one active boiler kettle. This motley collective stood to attention at the appearance of a lady among them. Caps were doffed, awkward murmurs were made, and Rue felt guilty at having imposed herself upon them.

“Pleased to meet you all,” she said after the senior greaser had performed some bumbling introductions. “I am Lady Prudence Akeldama and I will be your captain.”

The revelation that their skipper was a female aristocrat seemed not to bother any of the young men one whit. Either someone had already warned them or they had been selected for their forward-thinking. Rue scrutinised her nascent crew more closely. Only then did she realise that the senior greaser and at least half the firemen and sooties were in fact female. She wondered where Dama had found such workers but was secretly delighted. Rue was not, to the best of her knowledge, a lover of women, but she did have a number of lady friends and enjoyed having females around. This might be because she’d been raised, mainly, by two tribes of men, one scruffy and werewolf, the other tidy and dandified. It’d be nice to go traipsing around the globe with a fair representation of the fairer sex. She could institute a proper teatime without grumbles.

She grinned at them all, dressing herself with a bit of her Paw’s leadership style mixed with a touch of Dama’s technique for making announcements to the drones. “Ladies and gentlemen, it will be, I am sure, an honour to serve as your leader, and to become better acquainted with you all. We are going to have some grand adventures, you and I. Probably not dignified, knowing me, but grand.”

The assembled company perked up. Their fears over the evident youth and inexperience of their captain, Rue hoped, were now mollified by the indication of her egalitarian nature and good-humoured approach to life. A few of the sooties smiled back, their smudged faces brightening in anticipation.

After a moment’s thought, Rue added, “Very good. Carry on.”

As one, the little crew dispersed and went back about their business, steps lighter for having met the Young Lady Captain.

Rue turned to the senior greaser, knowing the importance of getting this woman to trust her. The greaser was a strapping female in her early thirties, her frame long and lean and well-muscled. She had reddish-brown hair cut short and a voice almost low enough for a man. Rue trusted Dama to have found her the very best, but this woman also looked unkempt, gruff, and gloomy. Not to her vampire father’s ordinary taste at all.

“How do you do?” Rue said, sticking out her hand in the American fashion.

“Miss,” answered the woman, not shaking it.

Rue was tolerably certain the greaser should have said captain. Still, it was better to be nice, even in the face of insubordination. She retracted her hand. “Might I know your name, senior greaser?”

“Phinkerlington, miss. Aggie Phinkerlington.” She spat it out as if it should mean something significant.

“Very pleased to meet you, Greaser Phinkerlington.” Rue moved her assessment from gloomy to outright sullen and bad-tempered.

“Miss?”

“I trust you will keep her up until I can fix the officers in place?”

“Am I not doin’ so already, miss?”

“Of course you are. Thank you for you proficiency.” Rue was a little taken aback by the bluntness; it bordered on incivility.

The woman jerked her head. Was that a nod?

With an internal sigh, Rue said, “Dismissed.”

Aggie Phinkerlington sauntered off, leaving Rue perturbed. Not that she hadn’t met a number of people who hated her on sight. Her metanatural state had made her the target of prejudiced antipathy on more than one occasion. Still, it was outside of enough to be disliked for no apparent reason whatsoever. She’d simply have to win Miss Phinkerlington over. She wondered if pretending to be more like Primrose would help.

Winkle, all forgotten standing next to her, said, “She might be a bit of a problem, that one.”

“We shall see,” replied Rue. “I’m beginning to suspect problems are about to become my business. Now, where shall we—?”

She was cut off as one of the teakettle boilers nearby shrieked loudly and then exploded in a great flash of heat and steam.

Rue reacted on instinct, flattening herself to the floor of the soot-covered chamber. Winkle was right there with her. He had excellent reflexes for a fop.

“What the devil?” Rue turned her head, trying to see through the smoke. All she could make out was Winkle’s dark eyes, wide in shock. His top hat tumbled off and rolled towards a pile of kindling.

There were shouts and Greaser Phinkerlington began yelling. The smoke and steam cleared slowly to reveal sooties running everywhere.

The floor of the chamber began to lean as the ship lurched to one side.

“Keep her steady, keep her up!” hollered Phinkerlington. “Puff, Spoo, Kip–man the redundancy boiler, get her stabilised fast. Wute, Ribbin, Jikes–find out what’s wrong with boiler primary. Firemen? Where are my firemen?”

The chaos resolved itself into a controlled scurry under Phinkerlington’s orders.

Rue stood, dusting herself off–glad she’d chosen to wear grey. She offered a hand to Winkle, who looked a bit shaken by the experience. He stood and retrieved his hat, examining both it and the state of his knees with a distressed expression.

To take his mind off the problem of attire, Rue commented, “She’s very good at her job.”

“Unfortunately, she isn’t as good at personality,” replied the drone.

“Dama has his priorities. Personality can be improved upon–efficiency is a natural talent.”

Winkle chuckled. “Very wise indeed.”

As they watched, the activity became a well-coordinated hum, the floor levelled out, and soon everything was more or less back to normal.

Aggie Phinkerlington gave Rue a look that suggested she would never forgive the young captain for having witnessed this shameful debacle.

Rue grinned hopefully at her.

The senior greaser spat out of the corner of her mouth and went back to work.

“Charming,” said Rue.

“Don’t you worry about Aggie, captain,” said a small voice. One of the young sooties, barely twelve if she was a day, stood next to her, cap in hand. “She’s a crotchety old thing, but she’s fair.”

Rue smiled softly down. “Thank you…?”

“Spoo, captain. She shortens all our names, better to shout quickly-like.”

“Thank you, Miss Spoo.”

“Just Spoo’ll do.”

“Spoo,” came the yell from Greaser Phinkerlington. “Stop your dawdling!”

Spoo popped her cap back on and scampered off.

Rue left the ship reluctantly, already planning which gadgets, tea, weapons, china, and shoes she would be packing for India. She’d have to see if Uncle Rabiffano could take the air sickness long enough to give her tips on decoration and furnishings. She emerged to find Dama sitting on the footboard of his coach, chatting amicably with his drones. He looked up as Rue came trotting over, wafting Winkle in her wake.

“Dama, she’s glorious.”

“Delighted you approve, Puggle. But what happened to your face and your lovely achromatic dress?”

“Problem with one of the boilers.”

“We thought we heard a shriek and a bang.”

“And you trusted me to sort it and didn’t send a drone to investigate? Dama, how lovely of you.”

“My dearest Puggle, my whole life with you has been a series of explosive events. Why should this be any different?”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” said Rue happily. “This one was not my fault–I feel compelled to defend my honour. And anyway, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed, said the horrible Phinkerlington creature.”

“Ah, you met Aggie, did you, Puggle my pet? Not to worry, she grows on you.”

“Like mould?”

“And like mould she can be very useful.”

“And tasty on cheese?” Rue was thinking of teatime.

“I wouldn’t go that far, my little petunia blossom.” Dama hopped lightly down and came to stand next to Rue, looking back over to the ship. “She still needs a few light touches by way of adornment.”

Rue was proprietorially offended on the ship’s behalf. “She’s perfect.”

“Now, my little Puggle-muffin, no insult intended. I merely wished to point out that her balloon needs to be oiled and painted. You’ll have to select the colour palette. Make me proud, please, darling dewdrop? Also you need to name her.”

Rue was nothing if not decisive. “Can I have it painted red with black spots, like a great big ladybug?”

Dama let out an uncharacteristic bark of uncontrolled laughter. “I should have guessed. And the name?”

Rue considered and then, after taking into account the pale golden nature of the amazing Chinese wood and the generally warm spirit of the craft said, “The Spotted Custard.”

Dama suppressed a slight snort. “Are you certain, my brilliant child?”

Rue’s chin went up. “She’ll be spotted and custard is my favourite food.”

Dama didn’t question her further. “One of the drones will see her registered.” He reached into his emerald-green waistcoat pocket and pulled out a list. “Now, you require additional crew. I’ve already selected deckhands and three stewards, but you’ll need more domestic staff and, of course, officers. Here’s my list of recommendations.” He handed the bit of paper to her, almost nervously.

Rue would never have thought Dama capable of apprehension. Then she looked down the list. It was not very long and one name instantly jumped out at her. “Oh, bosh! Percy? Must I?”

“Now, Puggle, he’s the best man for the job of navigator in all of London. Who’s not already committed to queen, country, or contract. Do be reasonable. He’s smart and capable and used to being bossed around by a woman.”

“But he’s a pollock. And he whines. And he’s easily distracted.”

“He knows all about the history of every country in the British Empire. He can find out about almost anything else.”

Rue capitulated with a grumbled, “Prim won’t like it.”

“He speaks six languages,” weaselled her adopted father.

“And ignores instructions in all of them!”

Dama pursed his lips and then faced the lion’s wrath. “You haven’t finished the list.”

Rue perused further. Then she encountered the name Dama was really nervous about. “Absolutely not.”

“Now, now, Puggle, darling—”

“Dama! No.”

“Just think about it, my dear. He is absolutely perfect for chief engineer.”

“She’ll never let him go.”

“Which she?”

“Either she.”

“I think you’ll find he’s got a mind of his own these days.”

“Oh, you think so, do you? That’s a manifold problem. I don’t like men who won’t listen to my mind over theirs.”

“He designed most of the boilers and steam engine controls on The Spotted Custard.”

Rue shook the piece of paper at Dama in violent exasperation. “Of course he did. I should have known from the kettles.”

“And he might have mentioned recently to Winkle how eager he is to leave London for a while.”

“Got some poor young tradesman’s daughter pregnant, did he?”

Dama was truly appalled at such crassness. “Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama, that is enough.”

Rue admitted she might have gone a little far. “I suppose you did just give me charge of the best ship ever made. I could think about it.”

“Perhaps even meet him?”

Rue sighed. “I do love you, Dama, but sometimes you can be the most vexing of all my parents.”

Dama accepted victory and shifted to look fondly over at his cadre of drones. “Come along, darlings, we must take the Puggle to the train station. She must visit Woolsey Hive.”

The drones were re-enacting the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet over the edge of the middle squeak deck of the ship. Winkle was back on board, draped in a tablecloth for hair and gesticulating dramatically at his doomed lover below.

Rue could not resist one last complaint. “He’s so very difficult.”

“The best ones are, my darling.” Dama’s eyes were misty with memory.

Woolsey Castle was situated some two hours outside London in particularly lush countryside. The rolling unspoiled beauty of it gave most vampires the screaming willies, for vampires vastly preferred city life. The Woolsey Hive had settled in a swarm of desperation, and was as ill-suited to the green as a family of goats would be to sitting in the House of Lords. Since their move, the Express Whistler, intended to steam straight through to Barking, would stop at an unmarked and unnamed station by special request. No one but the conductor knew the location and everyone was afraid to ask. From that station–the Countess’s Crouch as some called it–there was a tiny automated tram that puffed up the long low hill to Woolsey proper. The tram only ran if the vampires approved the visitor, and there were still check-points to clear, manned by large, muscled drones with more cravat than cranial capacity.

The most aggravating aspect of the Woolsey Hive was not its location, rustic though it might be to a young lady of Rue’s urban sensibilities. Nor was it Woolsey Castle’s appearance, that of a hodgepodge manor house with too many flying buttresses and too little symmetry. No, the most irritating thing about Woolsey Hive was its queen, Countess Nadasdy.

Countess Nadasdy was always extremely nice to Rue. Most vampires were, outwardly. Woolsey Hive made a particular effort–an unpleasantly particular effort. Lady Prudence Akeldama was always invited to all hive events. Never had a single gold-embossed invitation passed Rue by since she first came into society at seventeen. The countess made it a point to leave her inner sanctum, the back parlour, and walk out to meet Rue in the hallway any time Rue visited, a courtesy she did not extend to muhjah or dewan. She never failed to compliment Rue on some part of her attire, seeming genuinely interested in what the young people were wearing these days. She intended Rue to be aware of her approval of Rue’s unflaggingly stylish choices. As if Rue would dare go calling less than perfectly turned out with Dama for a father and Rabiffano for an uncle.

None of this made up for the fact that the entire hive would quite happily see Rue fried like an apple fritter and take turns dipping her into the brandy sauce. Quite frankly, it was not comfortable paying a call on an aristocrat who wanted one dead, particularly not when that aristocrat is a very old vampire of means and social skill. It became, in a word, incommodious.

“My dear Cousin Prudence.” The countess advanced, both gloved hands out in the greeting vampires extended to family members. Vampires took the concept of adoption seriously. In the hive mind, Rue was solely and entirely Dama’s daughter. The Maccons had relinquished their lawful right to her, and as such their parental control. The fact that they remained next door was a source of aggravation but not contention. As long as Rue was legally the child of a vampire, she was one of theirs. And by George they would treat her as such.

The countess grasped Rue, carefully, by the upper arms. Her hands were well shielded from Rue’s skin by several layers of cloth. The vampire kissed the air a good six inches away from Rue’s cheek. “Welcome. To what do we owe the honour of you gracing us with your delightful presence?”

She was laying it on rather thick, but Rue was Dama’s daughter and, if nothing else, she could entertain and rebut flattery in all its forms.

“My dear Cousin Nadasdy, how stunning you look this evening. Is that a new gown? How very modern.”

Rue was not exaggerating. The outfit was lovely–a bloodred velvet reception gown with rose-printed cream silk sleeves, divided overskirt, and scalloped hem, all trimmed in the barest hint of Chantilly lace. The countess wore her honey-coloured hair piled in a profusion of curls atop her head with red roses nested throughout. She was a mite round for such an elegant gown but she carried it off by dint of regal bearing and the certain fear always bestowed upon those in her company that she was far more interested in nibbling one’s neck than anything else. Even fashion.

“Do come in, Cousin Prudence. You are always invited. But such an unexpected call. And without a chaperone. We did not receive your card. Did it go astray?”

“No, no, forgive my horrid bumbling. I must presume upon our familial relationship to call unannounced. I did not have time to send ’round as this is a matter most urgent. Since we are practically family, I thought this once I could leave off my customary escort.”

“Well, then, my dear cousin, do not stand on ceremony. Come right through, do.” The countess was sickeningly obliging, gesturing Rue magnanimously into the hall. The entranceway of Woolsey Castle was decorated in shades of wine and cream, beautifully complementing the countess’s dress, a fact that may or may not have been accidental. A stunning crystal chandelier in the shape of a dirigible dangled from the gilt ceiling and the very latest in mechanised hem cleaners rested near the door. Valuable works of art decorated the walls, set off by what could only be original Greek statuary. The Woolsey Hive took stately elegance seriously. There wasn’t a whole lot they could do about the exterior appearance of Woolsey Castle but they took great pains that the interior be beyond sumptuous. There were drones and vampires lurking nearby, any number of whom glared at Rue out of hard, unkind, glittering eyes.

“No insult intended, dear cousin,” replied Rue, anxious to get out of the cloying atmosphere of the hive quickly. “But it is actually your ward I wish to see.”

The countess was taken aback at such a request. “Quesnel? But I thought you two loathed each other.”

“Now, now, cousin, loathe is such a strong word. We have been known to clash on a few occasions.”

The countess raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Indeed? I believe you once stole poor Ambrose’s vampire abilities merely so you could dunk Quesnel into the duck pond.”

Rue blushed. Admittedly, Quesnel’s behaviour had been very bad indeed, but she had escalated matters more than she should. “That was a long time ago.”

The queen looked misty-eyed. “Was it? Ah, time passes so oddly for you mortals.”

“She was eight,” said a mild tenor voice, tinged with a slight French accent. “I was down from university. I remember it well.”

Rue whirled to face Quesnel.

The man advanced towards her.

Quesnel Lefoux was one of the few males Rue had ever met whom she could not manage. He was unlike the large gruff werewolves of her father’s pack, easily swayed by feminine wiles. Nor was he like the effete elegant courtiers of Akeldama’s domicile influenced by whispered gossip and cheeky innuendo. Quesnel Lefoux was a different breed entirely, which accounted for a great deal of Rue’s difficulty with the man. He would not be categorised. He was of medium build and medium height. He moved like a dancer but had the manners of an academic and an inflated opinion of his own repartee. He smiled easily and was inclined to wit rather than wisdom despite his being one of the most brilliant mechanics of the modern age. He was a terrible flirt, which everyone blamed on his being French. To cap the offence, Rue’s acting abilities always failed her around him. As a result, he was prone to either making her head spin with banter, or overwhelming her with the desire to dump tea on his head, sometimes both at the same time.

“Lady Prudence, to what do I owe this unalloyed pleasure?” Quesnel took her hand and bent to kiss her wrist, lips whisper-soft and actually daring to touch skin. He was entirely human and had nothing to fear from Rue in that regard. Except that she badly wanted to box his ears for the impertinence.

Instead Rue simply withdrew her hand as soon as was polite. She resisted the urge to rub at the spot his lips had touched. “I was looking for you, Mr Lefoux. If you could spare me a moment?”

Quesnel exchanged a pointed look with the vampire queen.

Countess Nadasdy shrugged–the barest hint of a movement so as not to upset the drape of her gown. There was a dangerously covetous look in her blue eyes. However, she made no objection to the proposed private assignation.

Quesnel tilted his head. “Very well, mon petit chou, come into my lair. Or would you prefer a walk around the grounds?”

Rue decided it was best to keep matters in the open. “The grounds. I could use the fresh air.”

Quesnel offered her his arm, which Rue took, almost scared of his warmth.

He led her through the hall and out the back into the beautifully tended grounds. Before leaving the house, he casually paused to unstrap and toss aside a whole mess of gadgetry. It was a mark of how unsettled the man made her that Rue hadn’t noticed it until that moment.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He dismissed the advanced assemblage. “Tools mostly. I find it useful to have everything on me when I’m working. But they get in the way the rest of the time, when one has lovely visitors to attend.”

Woolsey had once been home to Rue’s father’s pack. In fact, she had been born there, but had never lived in the place herself. It still bore a few signs of wolf occupation. The occasional scratch mark, silver chains in a hall cupboard, and extensive dungeons underground. Over the last two decades, the countess had done her best to improve Woolsey, with only modest success. The castle itself was a patchwork of buildings, for it had been added to by a variety of owners with wide-ranging tastes, including several Alpha werewolves. It proved that even with a millennium of knowledge not every house could be made beautiful.

The grounds were a different matter. The vampires had hired a veritable army of attractive gardeners. The countess, confined inside, could only appreciate them at night–both grounds and gardeners–from the windows of her abode. But she did both, frequently. Much had been done to make the view from above, as well as the walk within, a delight to the eye. There were gazebos and fountains, ponds and dells, bird baths and statues, not to mention an elaborate maze of creamy gravel with contrasting topiary and a cluster of silver birches at the centre.

Under the three-quarter moon, Quesnel led Rue along a winding black-stone path, passed well-tended shrubs, beautiful herbaceous borders, rows of fruit trees, and the occasional Grecian temple. They talked of mutual acquaintances, asking after each other’s families until they arrived at a picturesque pond with water-lilies and weeping willows all around.

Rue looked at it thoughtfully. “Is that the pond?”

“Why, yes, it is. Such a high-spirited young thing.” Quesnel rubbed his posterior as though still remembering landing on it.

“Who? Me or you?” Rue wondered.

“Both, I suppose.”

Rue was willing to let bygones be bygones if he was. “Mere childhood kerfuffles.”

“Speak for yourself. I was fully grown and should have known not to tease a spoiled metanatural. I should have also known the rest.” He led her to a marble bench.

They sat.

“What rest? That I’d be strong enough to dump you in a pond at eight years of age?”

“That you’d eventually grow up beautiful with a very long memory.”

He really was a horrible flirt. “But still spoiled? Is that an apology? Accepted.”

He raised golden eyebrows at her. “And?”

“Oh, no, I’m not apologising for dunking you. For all I know, it might need to happen again.”

Quesnel laughed. “Touché. Ah, so, what did you need to see me about, mon petit chou?”

“I’ve been given an airship.”

“I know. I built her. Or at least part of her. Fantastic, isn’t she? I do excellent work. Particularly with kettles.”

Rue swallowed down any snide remarks at this blatant arrogance. “Dama thinks you’re the best candidate for chief engineer. At least on short notice. We’re going to India. What do you say?”

Quesnel did not answer, only gave her a strange look.

Rue babbled, “It’d only be this once. I should think we could easily find a replacement for you after. I could…” She trailed off, uncomfortable.

Finally, Quesnel said, “That’s the most oddly phrased invitation I’ve ever received. Sweet, of course, but odd.”

Rue immediately stood. “Well, if you don’t want to accept that’s perfectly understandable. I only said I’d ask. I know you’re awfully busy and that the countess and your mother like to have you at their disposal.”

“Now, now, pretty lady, don’t be impulsive.” Quesnel grabbed Rue’s hand to keep her from walking off and pulled her back to sit next to him. “Did I say no?”

“It’d be much easier if you did.”

“Now, chérie, when have either of us ever taken the easy route?”

“Good point. So you’re willing?”

He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. Rue knew from past experience they were a disturbing violet colour, but under the moonlight they were silver. He said, “Of course I’m willing.”

Rue said, “Oh bother,” before she could stop herself.

“See, I knew you wanted me there.”

Rue gave him an exasperated look. “Couldn’t you say you had other commitments?”

“When I could torture you for weeks on end in a confined space?”

Rue sighed. “I suppose I can somewhat see the appeal.”

At which, Quesnel Lefoux slid closer and put one arm about her, leaning her back in exaggerated mockery of a Shakespearean lover. “Several weeks aboard ship and you will be unable to resist me.”

Rue batted at him. “Stop it, you ridiculous man.”

Quesnel dived in to administer a loud buzz of a sloppy kiss on Rue’s cheek.

“Mr Lefoux!”

He snickered at his own theatrics and let her go. “Who else has signed on?”

Rue extracted a handkerchief and made a point of wiping off her cheek. “We’ve got a skeleton crew right now. I’ll recruit Primrose and a few others. I’m going to call upon a possible navigator this very evening.”

“Primrose Tunstell? Topping.” On those few occasions when they had met socially, Quesnel always seemed to enjoy Prim’s company. Rue wondered if she detected genuine interest in her friend or if he was simply being Quesnel about it. He did so enjoy the company of women; the ship wasn’t all that big. Either one could prove awkward. Primrose was also a terrible flirt but she had a propensity to actually fall in love, which Quesnel avoided. Besides, if Quesnel felt the urge to be rakish he ought to be rakish with her. Rue was better equipped to withstand his overtures.

“Why India?” Quesnel asked.

“Ostensibly, tea.”

“Ostensibly?”

“Well, Dama is sending me.”

“And you think he has an ulterior motive?”

“When doesn’t he? Fond as I am of Dama, he is still a vampire. Not to mention the potentate. Mainly, I think he’s giving me something to do. So I don’t get into any real trouble here. Cause a scandal in London that even all my parents can’t extract me from.”

Quesnel, horrible creature, did not make the appropriate noises about how unlikely that should be. “Good point, mon petit chou. Anything else I should know?”

“There’s a very disagreeable redhead under you as senior greaser.”

“Aggie Phinkerlington?”

“You know her already, do you?”

“Of course I do. We’re grand old chums. Protégée of my mother’s.”

“Of course you’re friendly. And naturally, she knows your mother. Isn’t that simply spiffing?”

“Ah, chérie, I shouldn’t fret. You’ll manage to keep us all in line somehow.”

He was a dozen years older than her, but Rue wasn’t going to let that impinge on her authority. “And don’t you forget it. I’m your captain on this trip and…” She paused, searching for an appropriate threat. “I’m certain they have duck ponds in India.”

Quesnel grinned. “Speaking of which.” In a terribly fast movement for a mortal, he stood, scooping Rue up into his arms. He was strong for a mere inventor–probably from moving all those steam engine kettles around.

Rue protested, wiggling.

Quesnel stilled and looked deeply into her eyes. His glittered with guile.

Rue’s stomach sank. Was he going to try to kiss her? She was both terrified and curious. Rue had allowed herself to be kissed before, of course she had, she wasn’t that old-fashioned. But not by Quesnel.

He bent down, face more serious than she’d ever seen it, looking actually handsome instead of boyishly cocky.

She opened her mouth to protest but found she hadn’t any words.

He leaned in closer.

And then she was hurtling through the air to land with a tremendous splash on her posterior in the duck pond.

Rue emerged sputtering but feeling in more control than she had since she first entered Countess Nadasdy’s abode. “Mr Lefoux, this dress is a Worth.” Her lovely grey gown had been through quite a lot that evening, what with the boiler explosion earlier and now this.

“Had to be done, mon petit chou. If you’re to be my captain shortly, I can’t spend weeks cooped up on an airship with you, constantly faced with the mad temptation to dump you overboard. You must see the necessity of getting such things out of the way now?”

Oddly, Rue did. “I understand your reasoning.” She waded out of the pond with as much dignity as possible, trailing lily-pads. Uncle Rabiffano’s lovely hairdo sagged and the seagull hat was a non-starter. It floated away, looking as if something monstrous had drowned.

Quesnel stepped up to help her out of the pond. Rue took his hand warily. But he acted the perfect gentlemen, just as if he hadn’t tumbled her in.

“I suppose I’ll have to leave Percy until tomorrow now, unless I’m lucky enough to dry out on the way back to town.”

“Percy?” Quesnel let go of her hand.

Rue almost slipped back into the pond. She recovered her balance and glared at him. He remembered his manners, embarrassed. However, when he tried to assist her in dumping water out of her boots, she issued him a sharp, “Shoo!”

Quesnel did not try again but he did not let the matter of Percy drop. “Professor Percival Tunstell? Are you in earnest? Please tell me you aren’t in earnest?”

“What, you thought you were the only impossible man I’d have to deal with? Much as I hate to admit it, Dama is as right about Percy as he was about you. He’s my best option. You two will have to get along. Without dunking each other in ponds, I hope. He’s unlikely to be as understanding as I.”

“But he’s so very annoying.”

Rue cocked her head. “Funny, that’s pretty much exactly what I said about you.”

Quesnel was so centred on the fact that he might be trapped on a dirigible for weeks on end with Professor Tunstell that he didn’t bat an eyelash at this insult. “I don’t know what anyone sees in that man.”

“I did hear a rumour that he inadvertently stole something from you last season. I hardly gave it credence at the time but I take it the rumour’s true? Care to elaborate?”

Quesnel bit his lip. “How on earth did you hear such a thing?”

“You forget about my father’s pack. Terrible gossips, werewolves. Worse than Dama’s drones.”

“Are they really?”

Rue nodded gravely. “Yes, less circumspect and louder about it. Plus the drones are actually more interested in politics and fashion than the liaisons of others. If he didn’t steal your waistcoat, hat, or social standing, they don’t give a fig. The werewolves, on the other hand, like to be tangled in relationships. And if they don’t know the details, they’ll make them up.”

“I see.” Quesnel, raised in a respectable sort of hive, clearly didn’t see at all. “But if Pompous Percy’s coming I don’t know if I…”

“Oh no, you can’t back out now. I have your word. And you dumped me in a pond. Fair dues, Quesnel.”

“You called me Quesnel. How nice. Now, how about calling me sweetheart? Wouldn’t that be even nicer?”

He was incorrigible. Sensing the imminent return of her customary urge to poke Quesnel Lefoux in the eye, Rue decided to make good her escape. She gave the man an insultingly brief curtsy before lifting her damp skirts high and saying, “I bid you good evening, Chief Engineer Lefoux. We leave in three days, with the aether current. Do tender my regards to your mother and beg my leave of the countess? I should be getting on.”

Quesnel bowed, taking the hint for once. “Lady Prudence. I look forward to our next meeting.”

Rue sniffed. “So do I, as long as it’s a good deal less soggy.”