FOUR
A Floating Custard
The Spotted Custard left London on her maiden voyage with much less fanfare than one might expect from the departure of two of London society’s darlings.
Thinking they were to leave that evening, Rue’s parents, the Wimbledon Hive, and the Woolsey Hive had agreed for once to coordinate the outdoor event of the supernatural season. They planned a moonlit masquerade in Regent’s Park with invitations accepted by many of the best kinds of people. Provisions included unlimited champagne and sanguine fluid, treacle tart and blood sausage. The event would have played host to the season’s most extravagant dresses and fantastic hats. The next day’s papers referred to its cancellation as a scandalous upset; several young debutantes went into serious emotional declines. The precipitous departure of the guests of honour did not, many felt, warrant the event’s demise. Lady Prudence and the Honourable Primrose Tunstell were, in hushed whispers, thought to as have behaved in a very shabby manner indeed. Why should they spoil everyone else’s fun?
Rue and Prim knew none of this.
Rue’s thoughts were of her hapless Dama, who would be frightfully disappointed. He did so enjoy a fuss, and if it couldn’t be over him, his Puggle was the next best thing. He’d have had his outfit planned and all the drones furnished to match. Then again, he might have predicted Rue’s sneaking away early.
Only Quesnel’s mother came to witness their departure, arriving in the steam roly-poly. How she’d found out was anyone’s guess. Drone Lefoux merely hugged her son goodbye and stood quietly to the side while he made ready for float-off. She was statue-like–a bony older woman with short cropped hair and a preference for gentlemen’s garb that the age of American novelists had ensured was no longer as shocking as it once had been. Quesnel checked the rigging, conferred with the ground crew, and re-boarded with a final wave. As the mooring ropes were pulled up, his mother removed her hat and held it to her breast in the attitude of a mourner.
Rue, Prim, and Percy assembled on deck. Percy took the helm behind and above the others, his face drawn in concentration. Primrose had supervised the installation of a large parasol over his poop deck navigation area, a pretty red one to match the balloon, which rather clashed with Percy’s hair but would keep him from acquiring additional freckles during the journey. Prim was overly worried about her brother’s freckles. Quesnel, of course, disappeared below to supervise engineering.
They floated up smoothly, if rather more round and cheerful than elegant. Once clear of the trees, the propeller whirled to life, driving them forwards, preparing to push them into the correct current once they broke into the aetherosphere. Then, quite unexpectedly, the chimney off the stern belched out two great burps of smoke along with a tremendous flatulent noise.
Rue could feel herself blushing, for this was not the dignified float-off she had imagined. Some pigeons, all unnoticed until that moment, squawked and left their roosting spots on The Spotted Custard. Rue gave them a dirty look.
Percy let out a bark of laughter.
“Is that normal?” Prim wondered.
“It’s fine, only somewhat lacking in gravitas,” Rue assured her hopefully. She looked up. “And you’re never going to let Quesnel forget it, are you, Percy?”
“Certainly not.” The redhead grinned at her.
“It is going to do that every time we lift off?” wondered Prim.
“Very probably. Design flaw, I’m afraid,” said Percy, grinning even more broadly.
“Ah well, these things will happen.” Rue looked over the railing. The trees of Regent’s Park began to blur together, then the buildings around it became visible, then they too lost detail, and finally London herself was spread out below in one big dirty blob. The pigeons accompanied them up a short way. Rue shouted at them about the brief nature of their future existence and they lost interest, gliding lazily back down in search of statuary.
Thus unchaperoned, The Spotted Custard farted again and floated sedately upward.
Rue did not see, hidden under the trees on one side of the clearing, a tall couple. The woman wore no gloves and held the man’s massive hand in one of hers–fingers interlaced, skin touching skin. Lord Maccon had once been a strong enough werewolf to stand under direct sun, but he was getting weaker, and his wife’s touch was now vital during daylight.
He still looked as big and as strong as he had when Rue was a child, but he slept each night touching Lady Maccon, mortal, shaved each morning, and had aged ten years to Rue’s twenty as a result. His dark brown hair was salted with grey but it was worth it. His wife’s touch was the only medicine that staved off the Alpha’s curse of age-born madness. As far as Conall Maccon was concerned, ageing slowly was a worthwhile price to pay.
Alexia leaned her dark head on her husband’s shoulder and said, “Good enough now, my love? She’s safely away and on her own.”
“Indeed,” Conall grudgingly agreed, nestling his chin into his wife’s curls. Alexia had forgotten to wear her hat. “But safe?” He whispered the query into that glossy hair, still as thick and dark as when they had first met. He’d sat one evening upon a hedgehog and never forgotten–the hair, the magnificent figure, or the hedgehog.
Alexia squeezed his hand. “She’ll survive and thrive in India. It will be good for her to be away from all of this. All of us.”
“Yes, but will India survive her?” the werewolf wondered legitimately.
Alexia chose to tackle his underlying concern and not his sarcasm. “She has resources and friends. That’s the best one can ask for in life. And I gave her a parasol.”
“Oh, indeed, was it the parasol?”
“No, simply a parasol. She’s not ready for the parasol… yet. I’m taking this journey as a test of worthiness.”
“You think she will be ready when she returns?” Conall drew back to look down into her face.
Alexia’s brown eyes were thoughtful. “I think this will temper her. Travel is very broadening for the mind, don’t you find? Our daughter is a sharp edge but of the kind that could grow dull, stuck here in London.”
“I hate it when you are reasonable, wife.”
“I know, but you really ought to be accustomed to it by now.”
“Never. It’s one of your many charms.” He bent and kissed her deeply, a safe thing to do, hidden from prying eyes by trees and an early hour.
Alexia blushed like a schoolgirl under her tan skin but leaned eagerly into his kiss. “Ridiculous man.” She pulled away. “Now. Don’t you think it’s time we considered your retirement?”
Conall glowered. His amber eyes, so like his daughter’s, went hard. “Are you saying we should send a summons?”
“To Scotland?” His wife was thoughtful. “Perhaps.”
“India. Kingair is billeted in India at the moment.”
Alexia turned all nose, like a hound scenting a fox. “You knew that when you let her go, didn’t you? Of course you did.”
“Why else would I have permitted it?”
Alexia was relieved but unwilling to praise his fatherly interference. She returned to the subject at hand. “Do you think Biffy is ready?”
“Oh, he’s ready. It’s only, I’m not certain that I’m ready to let go.”
Alexia cupped her husband’s cheek with her free hand. “You let go of our daughter today, next to that…” she trailed off.
“A pack is no small thing, my love. Even balanced against a daughter. And I still have a little time left, I think.”
Alexia had confidence in her adored, if frustrating, husband. “Then you must use it to reconcile yourself to our future.”
“I hate it when you’re right.”
Alexia grinned. “Almost as much as when I’m reasonable?”
He growled at her. “Possibly more.”
The moment they hit the aetherosphere, Rue fell instantly and entirely in love with her new ship. They crossed into the blurry nothingness of aether, losing sight of both the world below and the sky above. It was a great scientific mystery that the aetherosphere was invisible, except when one was inside it. And inside was a treacherous space to be. However, Rue’s ship took to the currents with such grace it was almost as though they were still floating in normal air.
Percy was equally charmed. “This is what she was made for. Goodness, feel her go.” His self-importance gave way before a misspent youth tagging after Rue and Prim as the girls took Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon out for yet another illegal jaunt. Percy might be a bluestocking but he did love to float. It was one of the reasons he took Rue’s job offer.
The Custard slid smoothly through the aether where any other ship would have shuddered and jolted. Percy examined the Mandenall Pudding Probe’s dial. It was set for the Gibraltar Loop but the first hop into a current was always the hardest. The moment they entered the aetherosphere they began drifting with the local idles southward.
“Take us up, please,” said Rue.
Percy pressed down hard on the puffer button to put a little more rise into the balloon, and they glided up and began drifting east.
“And again, please,” ordered his captain. Rue was enjoying command. Especially over Percy. “This time, bring her nose around to the south.”
Percy puffed the Custard up once more and engaged the propeller to maximum. It farted loudly and they started a slow spin. At that moment, the Mandenall emitted a squirt of viscous milky liquid, not unlike rice pudding. This was how it had earned it its name. This was also the only sign they would get that they were directly below the correct current.
“There she is–the Gibraltar Loop,” crowed Rue. “Hop it, Professor Tunstell, on my mark. And… mark.”
Percy engaged the puffer once more and the ship rose up, hooked into the current, and began drifting.
Rue grinned in pleasure. “That’s our lift–let’s button it down.”
Percy went into a flurry of dialling things to the correct places and cutting all steam power to the propeller.
Rue called out to the deckhands to raise the mainsail and the Custard came about beautifully, hauling fully to sit entirely within the Gibraltar Loop.
They all held their breath, hoping that they had settled into the correct side of the Loop–the one that went towards Gibraltar rather than away from it. The probe could tell them the right current but not whether it was heading in the right direction.
Percy checked his compass.
“Steady on course, captain–floating the Gibraltar southbound,” he crowed.
“Next hop?” Rue wasn’t about to let him glory in his accomplishments for too long.
Percy instantly sobered. As dangerous as the first hop could be, it was hopping between charted currents that took real skill. He took out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “Four hours, twenty-six minutes.”
Rue smiled. “Excellent. More than enough time for tea. Carry on, navigator.”
“Captain,” said Percy slightly sarcastically, but it was good enough for Rue.
The boiler room was a busy hum of activity: sooties scampered to and fro guiding the coal feeders, firemen manned the kettles, and greasers oversaw the smooth coordination of it all. It wasn’t a big crew but they managed to look substantial by being everywhere at once. Quesnel stood to one side, watching in confident superiority. Aggie Phinkerlington slouched next to him, occasionally barking out an order. The two had worked out a system that involved Quesnel calmly and softly pointing out some flaw and Aggie yelling at someone about it.
“How’s she floating, chief engineer?” Rue asked.
Quesnel acted as if he hadn’t noticed her until she spoke. Although there was no doubt he had been aware of her presence the moment she entered the room. “Perfectly, captain. As if I should design anything less than sublimely efficient.”
Rue decided to play along and not prod him in the ribs with a tong. “Compliments from ship’s navigator–the Custard hopped the aether beautifully. We are right on course.”
“Compliments from old Percy? Stoats might float.”
“Mr Lefoux.” Rue pretended shock. “Language.”
Aggie said, “Our captain’s a real lady, boffin. Respect her as such.” The look on her face suggested this was meant to be an insult.
Rue only bobbed a regal curtsey, acting like Primrose at her most haughty. “Thank you kindly for the support, Greaser Phinkerlington.” She continued to Quesnel, “However, I was wondering about the noise.”
“What noise?” Quesnel was all innocence.
“You know, the noise the propeller makes when she cranks up, out of the smoke-stack.”
“No, I don’t know. Can you make it for me?”
“No, I most certainly cannot! It was slightly, well…” Rue lowered her voice. “Flatulent. Percy suggested it was the result of a design flaw.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Rue couldn’t tell if Quesnel was pretending to be offended or genuinely upset.
“Is it going to make that sound every time we crank up?”
Aggie snorted out a laugh. “Troubles your delicate sensibilities, does it, Lady Captain?”
Rue openly acknowledged this fact–she didn’t think it a character flaw. “Well, yes, it does rather. Not to mention Miss Tunstell, whose sensibilities are far more delicate than mine. And there are appearances to consider.”
“Pox to appearances,” said Aggie rather aptly.
“Now, now, Greaser Phinkerlington,” remonstrated Rue. “Some of us have to think of every possible angle. What if we need to be stealthy or sneak away from a situation?”
“In a ship painted like a ladybug?”
Rue was beginning to suspect Aggie of disliking her decorative choices.
“Paint,” said Rue quite primly, “can be covered over. Farts cannot.”
Aggie bristled. “Don’t you argue semantics with me, you prissy—”
Quesnel, trying hard not to laugh, interrupted what looked to be quite the argument. “Very well, captain, I’ll look into correcting the noise, or at least stoppering it over when we’re in grave need.”
Rue nodded. “That’s all I ask. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She glared at Aggie. Prissy. I’ll give you prissy. She pretended to be Mother at her most autocratic–stuck her nose in the air, put her shoulders back, and narrowed her eyes at the horrible female. This seemed to give Aggie some kind of minor apoplectic fit.
“So soon, mon petit chou?” said Quesnel, swooping in to grab Rue’s hand, bending over it gallantly.
“Gladly,” said Aggie at the same time.
Rue returned above deck feeling she had mainly lost that particular conversational battle. But disposed to be pleased that she had at least got what she wanted out of Quesnel.
The second hop didn’t go quite as smoothly as the first. For one thing, it took Percy by surprise. Fortunately, he’d stuck the Mandenall Pudding Probe up and set it to register correctly, but it squirted out the current cross-point a good quarter-hour before he’d calculated it should. Since the crew was relaxing over sustenance at the time, this was rather an upset to everyone.
They were taking tea on the main deck. Primrose had requisitioned deck chairs and small side tables, and Cook had provided them with a large pot of a most excellent Darjeeling blend and some buttery little crumpets with clotted cream and jam.
Prim was playing hostess, outfitted in a black velvet travelling suit with purple swirl detailing–not unlike one of Percy’s aether current maps–and a large purple hat lavishly decorated with silk roses.
Rue had opted to only pack and wear her most military-inspired gowns–she felt this better suited her role as captain. She wore a travelling dress of navy blue with black cord stripes, the jacket featuring prominent gold buttons and a crossover front. It was almost plain and would have given Dama heart palpitations with its severity. Her hat was an oval of navy straw with an up-tilted front and a very large feather spilling over one side which looked pleasingly piratical. The ensemble suited her beautifully, emphasising by contrast her womanly figure and mercurial expressions.
Percy was slurping his tea while reading a book on the microfauna of the aetherosphere and the threat inherent in such creatures to the vital humours of chronic aetheric travellers. Percy was a bit of a hypochondriac. His outfit of tweed and mismatched jacket combined with floating goggles and tool strappings was hardly worth mentioning. Although he had stuck a sunflower in his button hole for medicinal purposes.
Quesnel, slightly smudged but presentable, chatted amiably with Primrose. He wore a day suit of steel grey with a green waistcoat, which perfectly corresponded to both his occupation and standing. He refused, it must be admitted, to wear his top hat while in engineering, although he had religiously donned it whenever above deck.
Even with Percy and Quesnel at odds, the teatime conversation was civil. Prim was adept at inane chatter and applied it with such dexterity that even her brother had to bow to her consummate skill. With Rue gamely holding up her end of the gossip, the gentlemen didn’t stand a chance.
Until the probe squirted.
Virgil, who was manning the helm in his master’s stead, gave a squawk of surprise not unlike that of the pigeons earlier. The sticky stuff plopped onto his shoe. Having been told to alert Percy should anything out of the ordinary occur, the valet sent up a wail of distress. Everyone but Prim jumped up, scattering crumpets, and dashed to the poop deck to ascertain the nature of the catastrophe.
“What? What is it?” Rue demanded.
Virgil pointed an accusatory finger at the probe and then his shoe. “That thing excreted at me.”
Percy paled beneath his freckles. “Already? But it’s far too soon. We shouldn’t be hitting the Mediterranean Shifter for another fifteen minutes.”
Quesnel said, “Your calculations must be off.”
“My calculations are never off!”
Quesnel was already running for the stairs, removing his hat at the same time. “Well, explain that to me later, O wise one–right now we’ve a hop to make with limited preparation and less time. Lord save us all.”
Rue tried to look debonair and calm. She thought about Uncle Rabiffano, and allowed herself the hint of a dandy’s slouch. She thought that she might–at least–be fooling the decklings.
Percy continued protesting at Quesnel’s vanished form. “The current must have moved from its last charted location–there’s no way I could have predicted—”
Rue interrupted him. “Never mind that now, Percy. Virgil, stop squealing and use a handkerchief to clean your shoe. There’s a good lad. Percy, grab the helm and prepare for a hop.”
Percy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not prepared.”
Rue gave a rather ferocious grin. “No time–we’re making this hop now. It’ll be a good test of the Custard’s mettle.”
Percy stared at her. She did look a mite crazed.
“Now, Percival!”
Percy sprang into action. He yanked at levers and cranked dials, getting the ship out of flotsam status.
Rue ordered the mainsail pulled in. It took the decklings longer than she liked. She’d have to run some drills on them to improve speed.
“Propeller at the ready?” she barked.
Percy grabbed and cranked over the appropriate bar. “Ready, captain.”
The Spotted Custard farted.
Rue chose to ascribe it to nerves. “Steady, girl,” she said to the ship, then to Percy, “Which nodule registered? Are we dropping or lifting to catch the Shifter?”
Percy examined the probe. “Lifting, captain.”
Rue picked up the speaking tube that connected her to engineering and pressed the button that would sound a bell there.
“Yes?” Quesnel’s voice was almost snappish.
“Prepare for a puff, chief engineer.”
“I don’t know about this. We’re pushing her.”
“She was made to be pushed or Dama wouldn’t have given her to me.”
“As you say, mon petit chou.” She heard Quesnel turn away from the tube and murmur into the hubbub, “It’s a lift, Aggie–have them stoke all boilers hot.”
There came the sound of Aggie yelling.
Quesnel returned to Rue. “Ready, chérie.”
“Here we go!” Rue hung up the speaker tube and turned to face Percy.
“Do it, Professor Tunstell. Now, please.”
Percy pressed the puffer button to give the balloon its boost.
They bobbed out of the Gibraltar Loop into the loose uncharted swirls of the Charybdis currents. The Spotted Custard’s balloon caved in at several points as the dirigible was buffeted in various directions at once. The gondola section shook. Prim, still seated in a chair on the main deck, gave a little squeak of alarm and dived to secure the tea things.
“Find that current, professor,” Rue ordered, her heart in her throat.
“Almost there, captain, a little higher,” reassured Percy, looking utterly terrified.
He pressed the puffer button again.
They rose, but the balloon began to collapse inward on the leeward side. The gondola lurched to starboard as the balloon caught one current, while the lower part of the ship caught another. The two halves were being torn apart. If they weren’t quick, the gondola could separate from the balloon entirely and they would spiral down to certain death far below.
“Not enough power,” yelled Percy.
Rue battled the tilt of the deck, reaching for the speaking tube, holding her hat to her head out of instinct. She lifted the tube to her mouth, pressing the alert.
“What now?” came Quesnel’s voice, oddly calm under the circumstances, only that extra French to his accent indicating stress.
“More heat to the boilers, please, Quesnel,” said Rue, forgetting to use formal address in her fear.
“Since you ask so nicely, mon petit chou,” was Quesnel’s pleasant reply.
Percy gave The Spotted Custard another puff.
The ship rose up in a quick bob, hooked in and then…
Everything levelled out, the balloon returned to its chubby ladybug state, the gondola hung straight down as if it had never tilted. Everything went calm as a loon floating serenely on placid waters.
Rue set the tube down with a whoosh of breath overset by a terrible temptation to give in to wobbly knees and collapse to the deck. But as captain she had no time for such silliness. She turned to Percy. “Everything as ordered, Professor Tunstell?”
Percy blinked at her. “Erm. Yes, captain. A completely seamless hop, as I predicted.”
“Indeed, seamless.” Rue arched an eyebrow at this outrageous statement. She turned to Virgil who was lurking to one side with a group of panting decklings. They’d only just managed to lower the mainsail in time for the hop.
“Deckhands, decklings, everyone still solid? Virgil?”
“Floating pretty, Lady Captain,” said Virgil with a grin. He’d recovered his aplomb with the remarkable speed of the very young. The other decklings only seemed able to nod, awed by what had just occurred.
Rue picked the speaker tube back up.
“What now, chérie?” came Quesnel’s voice, now devoid of accent.
“How’s everything in engineering?”
“Bit of a bumpy ride but we weathered it well and good. Couple of welts and bruises, the odd small burn, nothing requiring Matron. Got us a coal spill to clean up if you could spare any hands from up top?”
It was certainly a good thing no one needed a surgeon, as they didn’t have one on board. Rue pointed at the decklings. “You six, report to engineering. Back up here post haste, mind you. We’ll need that sail up again shortly. You two to the crow’s nest–I want eyes on that current. You two stay on deck at alert.”
They sprang to do her bidding. Virgil wandered over.
“Six coming down to you now, Mr Lefoux,” said Rue into the speaker.
“Ta, mon petit chou.” This time Quesnel hung up on her.
Rue replaced the tube and went to attend to her last concern.
“It’s a good thing you started out bossy before you were given command,” Primrose said from where she sat, slightly swallowed by a partly collapsed deck-chair.
“Are you well, Prim?”
“One tea-cup down. But it was empty, thank goodness, so nothing spilled. And the pot’s still warm. Would you like a refresher?”
Rue, feeling all-conquering and victorious, waved a casual hand about her head in what she felt was a field marshal manner. “Just pour it, darling, just pour it.”
When she returned to her seat, however, it was to learn that all the crumpets had overturned to land buttered-side down on the deck. “Why must that always be the case?”
“Laws of the unnatural humours,” sympathised Prim before sending Virgil to Cook for some more. “And lemon curd please this time, not raspberry jam. Lemon is so much better with crumpets, don’t you feel?”
“Indubitably,” replied Rue, sipping her tea.
They made the Maltese Tower in just under three days. Percy bragged that this was almost–although not quite–a record. “Next time we could do it in two and a half if we kicked in the propeller more frequently.”
“I’m not pushing my sooties and tapping the fuel reserves so you can have a record on the slates with the Royal Society,” replied Quesnel.
They were enjoying a nice supper in the mess hall. Or at least it could have been nice. Cook had managed macaroni soup, roast pork ribs, cabbage, and Napier pudding. Unfortunately, Percy and Quesnel’s constant squabbling could upset even Rue’s iron stomach.
Rue put down her knife and fork to glare at them. “Don’t you two ever stop?”
“Everyone needs some form of entertainment, mon petit chou,” replied Quesnel with a charming smile.
Percy returned to his book, a treatise on the health benefits of sea-bathing versus aetheric emersion. They had unsuccessfully tried to stop him from reading at table. In the end, Rue had insisted he wear a pinafore if he continued to try to eat and read, but if he had already finished his meal, she no longer objected. He seemed perfectly able to participate in the conversation, even when he was to all appearances entirely absorbed by the written word.
When Quesnel would have said something more to aggravate the navigator, Rue shook her head at him. “Leave the poor thing be. For goodness’ sake, what exactly did he steal from you to make you so annoyed with him all the time?” she wondered, knowing the question was both intrusive and daring.
Primrose put a hand to her mouth in shock. “Rue, should we discuss such things at the table?”
“We should if it continues to impinge upon everyone’s enjoyment of social discourse.”
“Fair enough.” Quesnel hit her with twinkling violet eyes. “So discuss.”
Rue tried to arrange herself to look sympathetic. “Was it a woman?”
Quesnel inhaled his cabbage and began to cough.
Rue slapped him on the back, hard, and Prim passed him wine.
When he had swallowed two full glasses and wiped his eyes, Rue said, “Well, was it?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.” Quesnel actually blushed, something he did rather well given his fair skin.
Rue, who had her mother’s swarthy complexion, had always considered it rather a blessing that she didn’t blush easily. It made her, she fancied, seem cool and untouchable. But if she could do it as prettily as Quesnel, she might try in the future.
Primrose jumped to her brother’s defence. “To be fair, Percy is like that.”
Quesnel looked at her. “Like what? A poacher?”
Percy pretended to remain above the whole conversation, although he was obviously listening closely.
“No. He’s deadly attractive to the ladies. Always has been, since Rue and I were little.”
At that, Percy rolled his eyes and Quesnel looked offended.
Rue tried to swallow a smile. “I don’t think you’re helping matters, Prim.”
Prim amended her statement. “Not that you aren’t handsome yourself, Mr Lefoux.”
“Thank you,” said Quesnel immodestly, giving her a seductive glower.
Rue kicked him under the table. He didn’t even flinch.
Prim continued, “Not that I could possibly understand the appeal, but females are always flirting shamelessly with Percy. He’s quite the ladykiller, aren’t you, brother dear? I understand our dad was a bit of a dasher as well in his day.”
Percy looked at his sister. “Tiddles, I don’t know what you think you’re doing but it isn’t helping.”
“Not that he tries to be a ladykiller. Of course. He simply can’t stop himself.”
Percy grumbled at his book. “Oh no, it’s my dashing good looks.”
The funny thing was, of course, Primrose was perfectly correct. At any given ball, Percy inevitably found himself surrounded by young ladies angling for a dance. After suffering what amounted to two sisters, Percy was a marvellous dancer and all the society mothers knew it. They also knew that he had powerful relations without being a risky supernatural proposition himself. Untitled, yes, but rich was almost as good, and he ranked high with the sunset crowd by association. One could overlook his parents’ theatrical background and his own curious case of bluestocking fever in favour of such amenities as money, connections, and appearance. As for the young ladies, there was something about his academic snobbery that drew them in like butterflies to a flower–a gawky, uncomfortable flower. They even liked the aloofness. One could never expect to be flattered by Professor Tunstell. Exposure to Percy at a ball, Miss Prospigot had announced recently, hands clasped to her lips, “was positively soul quivering”.
Primrose continued, “He’s always getting himself accidentally engaged. That’s why he withdrew from polite society, isn’t it, Percy? Tired of breaking all those hearts.”
Quesnel sat back, watching the interchange with eyebrows arching so high they almost ate into his hairline. “Very noble of him.”
Rue felt compelled to add, “Sad to say, Mr Lefoux, but she’s perfectly correct. I can’t explain it either.”
“So you haven’t fallen victim to the professor’s unavoidable allure?”
Rue baulked. “I should say not. He’s practically family. Why, I find you far more appealing than old Percy here.”
Prim said, “Hear hear.”
Quesnel looked suddenly pleased with life.
Percy slammed his book closed. “Really, girls! I hardly know the medicine from the ailment.”
Quesnel said, “It’s a strange back-handed compliment, ladies, but I’ll take it.”
Rue sighed, realising that this was all her fault and that she had opened up a topic of far greater intimacy than she should have, being the captain. “I do apologise, gentlemen. And of course, Mr Lefoux, if Professor Tunstell poached your lady-love, whether by accident or design, it is bad form, to say the very least. Professor, did you… poach, as it were?”
Percy snorted. “This conversation is ridiculous. Why should I care for the leavings of a mechanically-minded Frenchman?”
Quesnel stood at that, face flushed. “I say, that’s too far.”
Rue sighed. “Gentlemen, forgive me–this is getting us nowhere. I had hoped to clear the air so things could be more pleasant. That seems unlikely at the moment. Shall we adjourn?”
Percy was already up and away, extra helping of Napier pudding in one hand, book in the other.
Quesnel turned to look at Rue as if he felt he owed her an explanation. “It’s the principle of the thing, chérie. Ungentlemanly behaviour. You know my heart belongs only to you. The sunshine of my life, the moon on my horizon, the—”
“Yes, of course, dear. The pearl of your necklace, the rose of your garden.” Rue rolled her eyes and tried not to be actually flattered.
“Oh, yes, those are good too.”
Rue sighed. “Scoot off, Quesnel, do.”
“You are all sweetness and light, mon petit chou.”
Rue did not rise to the bait. Nor was she going to ask him to stop calling her mon petit chou. He knew it galled her but as long as he confined it to the semi-privacy of the stateroom, she would ignore it.
Quesnel strode out and Rue sat back down with a sigh.
“More tea?” Prim’s eyes were dancing.
“Thank you. Prim, was that a foolish thing to discuss?”
Primrose remained silent.
“It can’t only be some silly painted lady, can it? Aren’t you dying to know why they hate each other so?”
“Certainly not.” Prim’s tone indicated she probably already knew and that it had something to do with the twin connection. Often it was difficult to remember that Percy and Primrose were related, let alone twins, but a lifetime of experience had given Rue a sense of when she was intruding on their sibling bond. She was about to attempt a new line of conversation when the most amazing sound emanated throughout the ship. It was a new noise entirely and it seemed dangerous.
Rue and Prim leapt to their feet and made for the poop deck as quickly as their skirts would allow.