FIVE

The Maltese Tower

The sound, which was a like a gargle meets a warble, only extremely loud, turned out to be The Spotted Custard’s version of a proximity alarm. It had been activated by a deckling in the crow’s nest. The young lad swung himself down to report that the Maltese Tower beacon was dead ahead in the murk of the aetherosphere. His glassicals–the far-focus set handed out to any who manned the nest–amplified his watery eyes into huge blue orbs under the gaslight of the deck lanterns.

“Very good, young sir,” was Rue’s reply. “Now back up with you, please, and let us know when we reach docking drop-down juncture.”

“Aye aye, Lady Captain.” The boy gave a floppy salute before pulling himself back up via a series of rope ladders ending with one long swinging run up the side of the balloon.

“Ah, to be young and agile again,” said Primrose.

“We were never that young,” replied Rue.

“More to the point, we were never that agile,” said Prim with a soft smile.

Rue huffed her agreement and turned to Percy, who had put away his book and resumed the helm the moment the alarm sounded. At least he had a sense of responsibility. “Prepare to drop out of aetherosphere as soon as we reach docking juncture point.”

“Yes, captain,” replied Percy, face a little drawn. “I had assumed.”

Rue spared a moment to worry that this job might be too much for even his arrogance. “Percy, have you ever docked a ship of this size?”

“Not exactly,” replied Percy.

“And what exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

“I’ve read about it.”

“Oh dear. Should I call Mr Lefoux up to take over from you?”

“Absolutely not. I’ll do perfectly well.” Percy’s face went from fearful to fiercely determined.

Pleased with herself for manipulating him properly, Rue said, “I’m sure you will.”

The crow’s nest hollered down, docking juncture spotted. Rue squinted into the swirling miasmic grey, not unlike London during the Great Pea Souper of 1887. Just ahead she thought she could make out… a lamp-post.

Or what looked like a lamp-post, except that it was only the top half of one and Rue knew that it only seemed small because they were still far away. In actual fact, the beacon was very large indeed. It was birdcage in shape and lit from within by a miasmic orange gas.

Rue ordered, “Deck hands pull in the mainsail, navigator prepare to drop out of aetherosphere on my mark.” She went to the speaking tube and bonged the boiler room.

“Yes?” barked a female voice.

“Greaser Phinkerlington?”

“You were expecting an opera girl?”

“Please prepare to engage the propeller.”

“We’re always prepared for that.” In an aside Rue was probably meant to hear, Aggie added, “Imbecile.”

Rue gritted her teeth and tried to think of sticky sweet buns. “Very good. Thank you for your efficiency.”

Before Aggie could add anything more snide, Rue replaced the tube.

“I could grow to hate that woman,” she said to Primrose.

Prim patted her back condescendingly. “You handled it well–bad language never won fair maiden.”

“Prim, dear, I don’t think that’s how the saying goes. Nor do I think Phinkerlington would like being called a fair maiden.”

Prim grinned. “Precisely my point.”

The decklings scrambled to bring in the sail. Rue watched, plotting how to run speed drills. Also, they’d benefit from one among them being put in charge of the others for the sake of efficiency–there seemed to be a lot of squabbling. One of the deckhands was supposed to have them under orders, but he seemed at a loss coping with an overabundance of youthful exuberance. An internal hierarchy might work to everyone’s advantage.

By the time the mainsail was down, they were almost upon the beacon.

“Professor Tunstell, three, two, one, mark,” Rue said, trying not to sound panicked.

The Spotted Custard sank as Percy activated the anti-puffer. Rue’s stomach went up into her throat. It was rather like bobbing on a large wave. They slid through the Charybdis currents easily this time, but unfortunately hit a strong current below that dragged the airship westward away from the beacon.

“Again, professor,” ordered Rue.

Down they bobbed a second time. And a third. And a fourth in quick succession. This was followed by a buffeting spin through another set of fiercer Charybdis currents. Then they were blessedly out. The aether mists cleared and they were floating down through a star-filled sky. Rue wondered, not for the first time, what the aetherosphere looked like from above. And what, in fact, the layer above the aetherosphere was made of–was it even breathable? She was not alone in this curiosity–aether scientists discussed the outersphere as if it were a desirable undiscovered country, and were always concocting new ways to go higher. So far, however, no one had managed to break through.

Percy cranked up the propeller, and The Spotted Custard farted excitedly. Slowly, they swung around to face their original direction of travel, and before them, under the silvered moon, was the upper docking section of the Maltese Tower, the beacon rising above into the aetherosphere.

Rue scurried to the front rail of the forecastle, looking out over the bowsprit at the Sixth Pinnacle of the Modern Age.

The Maltese Tower, one of the Eight Wonders of the British Empire, was as impressive as one might hope. It looked like nothing so much as an immense piece of elaborate cooking equipment–a massive circular oven pot with peepholes and windows and multiple spatulas sticking up and out, only facing the wrong way with their handles in. These spatulas made up the docking ports, a few already boasted dirigibles, ornithopers, and other airships, fresh into port, mooring ropes out. Some were under maintenance, while others were taking on helium, water, or coal. The tiny forms of dock workers scampered along the spatulas like ants along cake servers. The dock of the Maltese Tower resembled a shipyard, only miles up in the air. Not, of course, that Lady Prudence should have any idea what a shipyard looked like.

Rue wasn’t impressed because what made the Maltese Tower one of the Eight Wonders of the British Empire wasn’t its beacon, nor its docking port, but its bottom half.

For when one looked down, it was as if the Maltese Tower kept going for ever, braced and supported by scaffolding so colossal it required most of the island of Malta as its base. This part also looked like an endless stack of kitchen utensils. It was held up not by its own structure, but by hot-air balloons staged all along in a random pattern, balloons that were moved by the winds so that the whole tower swayed one way and then the other under the influence of various breezes. Like some underwater sea worm meets jumble sale.

It must be terribly troublesome in a storm, thought Rue.

The Maltese Tower seemed to have been built with any available material: fabric and net, wood and steel, a massive bicycle here, bits of boat there, very small houses, the occasional train carriage. Rue knew people lived and worked up and down the tower, an entire culture sustained by aetheric travel, but she was hard-pressed to think it wondrous.

Prim came to stand next to her. “Gracious me! It is hideous, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Rue was disposed to be optimistic. “If one squints, it might be called attractively biological. See those parts, dangling. They are like seed pods.”

“Presumably they’re actually habitations and workshops.”

Rue ignored her friend’s lack of romantic vision. “The balloons and air tanks there are like leaves stretching upward.”

“I don’t follow.”

“No, you never do.” Rue was resigned. Primrose was a creature of practical elegance and the Maltese Tower was neither.

They watched as enormous dumbwaiters, carrying coal, moved sedately up one side of the tower on thick cables. There were long tubes winding around and sucking up water from the Mediterranean, filtering and siphoning, destined for the great ships that docked far above but tapped all the way along by workers and inhabitants. Rue remembered reading somewhere that the Maltese Tower had a dedicated side business in the salt trade.

Percy guided The Spotted Custard forward gingerly, heading for a port on the nearside. The Custard seemed to be going rather fast.

“I should prefer it, professor, if we didn’t actually crash into the Maltese Tower,” said Rue.

“Yes, captain, I guessed as much.”

The Spotted Custard sped up as she caught a breeze.

“Percy!” said Rue, voice rising.

“Everything is in order, captain.”

Rue lifted the speaking tube. “Cut the boilers, please.”

“Anything for you, mon petit chou,” Quesnel’s warm voice acknowledged the command. Rue was decidedly relieved it wasn’t Aggie.

She added, “Once we’re docked, please come up for a discussion on the matter of shore leave.”

“It would be my pleasure,” replied Quesnel.

Rue replaced the tube with the feeling that her engineering staff was doomed to be a problem, one way or another.

Percy toggled the switch that reversed the propeller to the sound of triple flatulence. The Spotted Custard stuttered, jerking to a slower speed, almost sedate. They glided in and nosed up next to one of the spatulas, subsiding into stillness with one final tremendous ptttttt noise.

“Not the most dignified of arrivals,” commented Primrose.

Percy snipped at his sister: “I thought the point was not to crash.”

“You did very well, Percy, on that front. And I would appreciate it if you were consistent in this matter,” praised Rue.

Percy looked at her sideways to see if she were humouring him and then subsided onto a nearby deck-chair in a funk.

Quesnel appeared above deck mere moments later. The ubiquitous smudges gave him a rakish look which Rue wished didn’t suit him quite so much. It was horribly annoying of him to look dashing. She ignored his smudgy adorableness. He cocked his head at her engagingly.

With Prim and Percy already close at hand, Rue called the meeting to order. “Let everyone under you know, please, that we will be departing from the tower in exactly one hour. Staff and crew are allowed to explore, but they’d better be back in time. Of course, security measures must be taken to protect the Custard, so half the personnel for each station must remain behind. I don’t care how you make the decision of who’s allowed leave but you had better make it fast. Also, one of our command chain should remain behind.”

Not unexpectedly Percy said, “I’ll stay.”

“Of course you will,” said Quesnel, “but that hardly improves security.” He didn’t await Percy’s rebuttal, instead lifting the speaking tube to engineering. “Aggie? Draw lots for shore leave. Three-quarters of an hour only, so pick a few with pocket watches. What? No, I don’t care if you use it as a reward. Why, has Spoo been acting up again? Well, if you don’t like the chit, reassign her, for goodness’ sake. I’m sure they could use the help on deck. Yes, yes, very good. Of course you have to stay–who else will make certain we take on the right amount of coal and water? Yes, well, that’s the way it is.” He put the tube down. “Sometimes, that woman!”

Rue looked at him in genuine surprise. “Only sometimes?”

Prim bustled off to consult the head steward and cook to determine who might be allowed off-ship and what supplies they required. She returned shortly, having somehow found the time to change into a walking suit of black taffeta with a pattern of embroidered rings in gold and burgundy. She wore a matching black hat perched forward on her head, decorated in gold braid and tufts of burgundy feathers and carried a black parasol.

“Very nice,” Rue said enviously.

“Thank you.” Primrose twirled for full effect. “Queen Mums chose this one as my shore-leave-expedition-and-visiting-over-curry outfit. She has odd notions about Indian foodstuffs, my Mums. I think she was traumatised during her own travels.”

Rue nodded. “Should I change?” Primrose was always wise in the matters of attire.

Primrose gave her a critical once-over. “No, I don’t think it necessary.”

Rue puffed under the praise. She couldn’t help it–Prim was just so elegant, it was nice to garner approval from her. “Shall we, then?”

The ladies linked arms and, without further ado, left the ship. Percy took that as permission to retreat to his library, leaving Virgil at the helm. Quesnel, after a moment, strode after Rue and Prim. Rue peeked over her shoulder to see him making hasty repairs to his smudges with a large white handkerchief. She mourned the loss, and then reprimanded herself for it.

The two young ladies made their way along the long spatula handle towards the centre of the docking port. The whole tower was illuminated via a variety of artificial sources, from gas chandeliers and tubes of glowing orange fog to massive brightly coloured paper lanterns. Since they were clearly women of some standing, the dockworkers parted before them by rote. A few snide remarks were muttered as they passed, but Rue and Prim stuck their noses in the air and pretended not to hear. Quesnel followed a few steps behind, eyes wary. The workers were mainly intent upon The Spotted Custard, dragging pipes, carts of fuel, and other necessities towards it.

Rue frowned, watching as the supply lines targeted her ship. The Spotted Custard didn’t require all that much. “I haven’t signed off on any of this. Where’s the tower steward?”

Only then did she register the fact that a group of her own staff and crew–including sooties, greasers, firemen, deckhands, decklings, stewards, and scullery maids–trailed in their wake like school children out for a jaunt in the park. It was an odd spectacle and made Prim and Rue, at the head of the procession, feel suddenly conspicuous.

Rue became aware of a new kind of bustling. The workers parted before her to reveal an officious elderly gentlemen wearing full evening attire and a red sash across his breast like a military general. He held a leather ledger and a long double-ended stylus. He was using both, rather indiscriminately and not as designed, on any dockworkers who did not get out of his way quickly. “Bad minion!” he shouted at one boy, snapping the lad’s ear with the stylus.

Behind him stomped two men in uniform guiding between them a steam-powered tea trolley loaded with devices, boxes, aetherographic transmitting slates, and other necessities of bureaucracy. Rue thought it a grave misuse of a perfectly nice tea trolley.

The man with the sash stopped, snapped his heels together, and stood to attention, blocking their path. He looked Rue and Prim up and down and then turned to Quesnel, dismissing the ladies as mere fripperies.

“Your ship, sir?” he asked without introduction. “Travelling gypsy barge? Circus troupe? I don’t have anything in the annals expected for today under entertainment or ladybug.”

Quesnel gave him a funny look. “Her ship, sir,” he said, tilting his head at Rue, emphasising the sir as a marker of the lack of proper conversational approach.

The little man’s eyebrows went up but he turned to Prim and Rue. They were quite the pair, parasols closed and masquerading as walking sticks, hats tilted forward although there was no need for shade, arms linked, expressions disapproving. Rue carried her mother’s parasol, which was too ugly to match any of her outfits, but was more sturdy than any of her fashionable ones. This one, felt Rue, could really cause damage to a noggin if applied with enough enthusiasm. Somehow this made her feel more secure about life in general.

The ladies regarded the man with eyes of steely disinterest. Well, to be fair, Prim’s eyes were more a melted cocoa of mock reproach, and Rue’s were the twinkling tawny of barely contained amusement. But it was hard to see this fact through the hats. Rue spared a moment to wonder if Aunt Ivy’s insistence on hats wasn’t a precaution against sub-par acting abilities.

Rue adjusted hers to a steeper angle, the better to hide her twinkle.

The officious man cleared his throat as though expecting them to speak first.

They continued looking at him in silence.

Rue up-tilted her nose in the air, and drew her shoulders back, using physicality to grow more aristocratic. Prim didn’t need any help–such things came naturally to her.

Finally, the man bowed. “Senior Tower Jerquer, Gresham Stukely at your service.”

“Mr Stukely,” said Rue and Prim in chorus, curtseying.

“Your, erm, ship, ladies, it’s not in my registry. That’s illegal docking, add to that non-notification, add to that unauthorised personnel, add to that after-hours fees, add to that—”

“Oh dear me,” said Rue to Prim. “Daddy promised, didn’t he, that she would be on everyone’s books? How terribly upsetting. He promised!” Rue spun her ugly parasol against the metal walkway in agitation. She channelled the most snobbish of Dama’s drones in her voice–enunciating all her vowels as though hampered by particularly large teeth.

Prim instantly fell into the game. “Yes, he most certainly did. Silly Daddy. Oh sister, what are we to do?” Her voice wobbled in distress.

Rue admired this greatly–Prim was very good at being distraught. Rue’s forte was bluster, a native ability inherited from her blood parents, so she went with that. “Did he give us paperwork to that effect? I simply cannot remember. You know I’m terrible with anything of the notation inclination.” She turned to the official, batting her eyelashes, and reached for the part of her that could talk like Dama at his most supercilious. “Just a little world tour, you understand? Of course you do. You have a very understanding brow. Daddy thinks we need culture. Of course, we had to come here first. The Maltese Tower is the last word on culture. Poor Daddy couldn’t come, sadly bedridden. It’s the aetheric particles–they caused him to come over all flopsy. But he did say it was settled. I’m sure he did say that. Or was that Mr Barclay? You know Mr Barclay, don’t you, Mr Stukely? Oh, you must–everyone who is anyone knows Mr Barclay the banker?” When all else failed–overwhelm with inanities.

Prim widened her big brown eyes in distress. “Oh, sister, this is terrible, so terrible! What are we to do? Oh, no, are we going to be detained, or questioned, or searched, or…?” She trailed off, looking as though she might cry. “I feel faint. Where’s my sal volatile? We won’t be locked away, will we? I don’t think I could stand it, not a small bare room. No trim at all.”

Rue put an arm about Prim in a sisterly manner, hushing and comforting her. “I’m certain this nice gentlemen will help us, won’t you, kind Mr Stukely? My sister, you understand, is delicate. Très, très easily overcome by nerves. Poor dear sister.”

The jerquer was himself overcome with remorse and the need to be a hero to such obviously innocent and, more importantly, wealthy young women. “Oh, now, ladies, normally an unregistered craft, well, we would have to at least question—”

Primrose began to sob. One fat tear dripped down her perfect rosy cheek. Rue suppressed the urge to clap.

Quesnel watched this entire exhibition with a well-hidden grin. He was not, Rue noticed, employing his hat, but had merely sunk his chin down into the high points of his collar and cravat in the manner of an undertaker.

Mr Stukely twitched at Prim’s whimpers. “Perhaps, just this once, a small fine? It is a very nice craft, very colourful, obviously not unlawful with such carefree decorations.” He glanced over at The Spotted Custard, deluded by the bright black-on-red spots into disregarding its smooth deadly lines.

Rue compressed her lips. This was, of course, part of her intent with the Custard’s decoration. If Dama had taught her nothing else, it was that the outrageous was often one’s best disguise. It is a very great thing, my Puggle, not to be taken seriously, he had once said. If two young ladies of high society showed up on one’s tower claiming a pleasure tour, it was more believable if their dirigible looked like an enormous, friendly beetle.

Rue latched on to the little man’s last words. “Remuneration for your troubles, did you say, my dear Mr Stukely? How kind you are. How very kind. How much did you say? Not that a lady should talk such details but, as you see, we are currently without our abigail.”

The little man cleared his throat, flushing red, and then, so he would not have to mention the number out loud, scribbled it down with the stylus on a corner of his ledger and showed it to Rue. Rue took note of the amount, as well as the details and rosters of the other ships in dock, helpfully listed on that very ledger. There were no familiar names.

Without flinching, she reached into her reticule and extracted the sum in question, handing over the coins. Pittance indeed–she did not even need a banknote. Which was a good thing, as it would not have been drawn on Barclay’s.

The jerquer carefully counted, noting that the sum was well over the requested amount, over by enough for it not to be a mistake. He pocketed the excess with alacrity and instantly became their good friend. “Ah, thank you very much, ladies. And a very good afternoon to you, Miss…?” He trailed off.

Without pausing Rue said, “Miss Hisselpenny.”

Prim, who was sniffling after her pretend bought of crying, turned a snort of surprise into a new sob.

Rue thumped her on the back. “There now, sister, buck up. It’s all dandy and daisies now. This nice gentlemen will take care of everything. Won’t you, very kind sir?”

The nice gentlemen in question was looking dazed. “And what ship name should I put on the registry?”

“Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon,” replied Rue.

“Very good, Miss Hisselpenny.”

“Will there be anything else, my good sir?”

“No, ladies. Thank you for your cooperation. Your steward?”

“Is aboard and will handle all the necessities. My purser will pay you any additional monies for supplies and stores. Is that the right way of it?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Hisselpenny.”

“Thank you again, kind sir.” Rue delicately passed the man another handful of coinage. She also flashed him a brilliant smile.

Mr Stukely, bowled over by both the gratuity and the smile, doffed his hat, and the two ladies continued on their way without further impediment. Although their deft interactions with the official seemed to have made them more of a spectacle rather than less.

Quesnel tilted his hat at the man sympathetically and followed after them. He caught up as they attained the door to the central area of the port. “Why the façade?”

Rue looked at him, surprised. “Did you miss the part where this was a covert mission? One should try to keep one’s identity a secret.”

“Especially when one is the world’s only metanatural, daughter of some very famous aristocrats?” Quesnel nodded at this precaution.

“Don’t discount Prim either–she’s got some infamous parents herself.”

“But the names you chose!” Quesnel looked as if he really would laugh.

Primrose said, affronted, “Hisselpenny is my mother’s maiden name, and Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon is Lord Akeldama’s pleasure dirigible. They are perfectly respectable names.”

Rue explained, “If one must lie, make it memorable. Hisselpenny is a name which, if called out in a crowd we would both respond to, and that ship name is easy for us to remember and exactly the moniker two frivolous ladies of fashion would give to their craft.”

With which Rue determined she owed Quesnel no further explanation, and pushed open the door into the docking centre.

“Oh, my goodness me!” she squeaked.

It looked rather like the Reading Room of the British Museum, only a great deal larger and without any books in it. Instead there were stalls selling wares around the edge, like at a street fair with various interesting-looking sculptures, booths, and gatherings in the middle. The place was humming with humanity, some fashionable, many questionable. Somehow the centre harnessed part of the orange light of the beacon far above, and it spilled down into the interior in umber shafts.

Quesnel said, “Only you didn’t tell your crew, my beautiful witless wonder.”

Rue turned back to her chief engineer. “What was that?”

“About your plan to change the names of everything. You didn’t tell your crew, yet you gave them permission to leave the ship,” explained Quesnel carefully. “Aren’t you worried they’ll spoil the act?”

“Oh dear, good point. I do hope they don’t go blabbing.” Rue frowned, calculating the time. They had only three quarters of an hour left. How much harm could the crew do?

Quesnel nodded to the gaggle of staff still behind them. “I think most of them witnessed your antics.”

Rue wasn’t certain “antics” was a dignified way to describe a lady but before she could reprimand her chief engineer, Spoo stepped forward. “Yes, Chief Sir and Lady Captain. That was a pretty nice show you put on there.”

“Why, thank you, Spoo,” replied Rue.

“You’re all right, Lady Captain, but this one was a real corker.” Spoo gestured with her thumb at Primrose.

Prim smiled down at the small person in a queenly manner, causing the young sootie to blush. “Such accolades. I was born to carry on a theatrical legacy, but sadly fate had other plans for my family.”

“Fate or Egypt?” wondered Rue.

“There’s a difference?” Prim looked wistful. Egypt was where her mother had turned vampire. The girls knew few particulars, but they understand that everything had changed for everyone after Egypt, 1876.

Spoo said, not following, “I’ll make sure everyone knows who and what we are and what names we belong to while ’round the tower.”

“That is very much appreciated, Spoo,” replied Rue.

Spoo, after a quick hushed conversation with a few of the other sooties, scampered back to The Spotted Custard to waylay anyone else who might disembark or have cause for conversion with dockhands.

Rue and Prim exchanged a look. They were unused to having to widen the scale of their schemes. Adjustments must be made for this new course their lives had taken.

“We’ll plan better next time,” Rue assured her friend.

“Yes, I think we ought,” Prim agreed but was already distracted by their surroundings. “What a very odd sort of place this is.”

Quesnel moved forward to pat her arm reassuringly.

Primrose took it eagerly.

Rue felt a tiny pang but brushed it off as girlish silliness.

Someone dragged a noisy nanny goat past them. Across the way, two men with turbans argued in an exotic language about a clay figurine of a pregnant snake or possibly a cow without legs. One of them had a monkey sitting on his shoulder. Off to one side was a row of massive cages inside which paced tigers, hyenas, and other toothy carnivores. The Maltese Tower clearly did a brisk trade in exotic animals. A stall nearby displayed racks of valves and rows of sprockets in tempting stacked pyramids, as a fishmonger might lay out his wares.

Quesnel’s eyes lit up and he drifted in that direction.

Primrose, on the other hand, had spotted a promising-looking jewellery vendor and began to walk the other way.

Before they could get far, Rue grabbed each by the arm.

Quesnel looked down at her gloved hand on his sleeve. “What now, chérie?”

“How about exploring together? Get the lay of the land? I’ve never been to a docking tower before, have you?”

Quesnel’s shook his head.

“But… sparkles,” said Prim forlornly.

“We can shop after a bit of a wander and a nice nosh, what do you say?” Rue’s eyes were shining hopefully.

Primrose said, suspiciously, “Tea?”

“Tea in a proper tea-shop. There must be one somewhere. All the best towers have tea-shops. Fortnum & Mason has three.”

Nothing else could possibly draw Primrose away from rubies. “Oh, very well.”

Quesnel was disposed to be agreeable. “The opportunity to spend more time in your glorious company, how could I resist?”

“How could you, indeed?”

Quesnel gave Rue big violet puppy eyes–back and forth between her and the stall of gadgets.

Rue relented. “Very well, you may acquire gadgets on the ship’s account. A few, mind you. I’m not made of money. And nothing too greasy.”

Quesnel brightened.

Primrose looked pathetically at her.

“No, dear.” Rue was firm. “I don’t think I could convince even Dama that we needed jewellery on the ship’s account. Spend your own money.”

They shifted so Quesnel was in the middle, as was proper and, arms linked, the three strolled the perimeter.

Rue enjoyed herself immensely. The tower was fascinating. It was so unlike her experience in London, with the exception of the theatre district. Even so, one rarely saw day labourers in the West End during fashionable hours. Yet here was surely every possible example of human life. Not to mention a wide range of objects and animals. They saw so many small dogs carried about the person that Primrose said, “Do you think I should return to the ship for Footnote? I could wrap him around my neck. Everyone who is anyone seems to be wearing a pet.”

“What footnote?” wondered Quesnel.

“Not what, who. My brother’s cat.”

Rue said, “While it does seem the thing to do, and I know you like to follow the very latest styles, you would look somewhat less fashionable with scratches all over your face.”

Primrose nodded. “Quite right, of course. I notice no one is using a cat–probably too difficult.”

“One for cat-kind,” said Rue. “Best not used as accessories.”

Quesnel, only just following their rapid-fire banter, asked, “Wait. Miss Tunstell, your brother brought a cat on board my ship?”

“My ship,” corrected Rue without rancour.

“I beg your pardon, but why?”

Primrose said, “Why not?”

Rue added, “All the best ships have cats.”

Quesnel decided not to press the point.

They continued their perambulations. When they encountered a group of clearly inebriated greaser types, Quesnel insisted the ladies hold tight to their reticules to protect the contents, and their parasols to protect their personages. Quesnel himself–not of a particularly threatening stature–afforded them only the protection of having an escort with both arms occupied. One of the rougher elements made their ineffectual appearance clear by shouldering in close and issuing the trio a lewd remark.

Rue, accustomed as she was to werewolf behaviour, was less upset than she ought to be by rough talk. Certainly, Dama would have reprimanded her for not taking greater offence. But then Rue had never quite grown into as much of a lady as her vampire father had hoped.

Primrose, on the other hand, was shocked and experienced such distress at the application of the phrase “a fine mouthful of muffin, there, ho ho” to her good self as to make it necessary to ascertain the location of the nearest restorative teahouse immediately.

“It is not, certainly not, that I am unaware of the compliment,” said Prim, panting from modest heart palpitations. “But perhaps the young man might have used a more delicate turn of phrase. Mouthful of muffin, I say!”

Rue patted her on the arm. “You did very well, dear.”

“I thought it verging on poetical.” Quesnel’s violet eyes were sparkling.

“Oh indeed, you chomp of cheese pie?” shot back Rue, hoping to distract Prim.

“Yes, O slurp of sweet syrup.”

Prim attempted a giggle but it was clear she was still overset from the encounter.

Quesnel’s brow furrowed in real concern as he realised that her trauma was genuine. He paused his banter. “Perhaps, ladies, this is not an ideal environment. Should we return to the ship?”

“Certainly not!” objected Rue. “Prim and I can take a little rough talk, can’t we, Prim?”

Prim sighed. “Ask me that after we’ve found tea.”

And then there it was–a beacon of light within the mists of mixed society, a diamond in the mud, a teahouse in the rough. A quaintly old-fashioned little shoppe complete with pink and white scroll paint, flowers in the window, lace curtains, and silver bells at the door. Outside stood a number of differently sized gilt cages and a polite little sign suggesting if patrons did not deposit their animals there, said animals would also be supplied with tea. And one never knew how tea would affect a goat.

Quesnel steered them towards it and they attained the tinkling entrance with no further distress to ear or wellbeing.

“What an exhilarating place the Maltese Tower is,” said Rue, nodding to the hostess and taking the proffered chair with ease.

Primrose folded into hers with evident relief. “Perhaps a tad uncivilised?”

Rue agreed but added, “I like it.”

Quesnel disposed of their hats and returned to sit. “Mon petit chou, you are a strange creature. Lovely, of course, but strange. Are you feeling better, Miss Tunstell?”

Prim was still pale. Rue knew from experience that this was nothing a nice pot of Assam couldn’t put right, plus a bit of gooseberry charlotte and maybe some candied orange peel.

Quesnel’s solicitousness was touching, if rather more than strictly necessary. Still, Rue was disposed to think kindly upon anyone who liked Primrose. She was accustomed to losing male attention to her friend, and couldn’t really fault anyone for it. Much as Percy was deadly attractive to the ladies, his sister had a similar effect on the gentlemen. Rue gave a little mental sigh. No one would ever describe her as deadly attractive. She brightened a bit. Perhaps she could aspire to just deadly?

A girl in a pink and white striped pinafore arrived to take their order, and in a very short time they had a pot of tea, an orange with sugar on it for Rue, a gooseberry charlotte for Prim, and a welsh rarebit for Quesnel. Quesnel admitted shamefully that he did not very much like sweets. Dangerous character flaw, that.

Despite the revelation of this appalling shortcoming, it was a delightfully refined repast. Prim’s colour returned and Quesnel resumed distributing his attention equally. They might even have been said to be having a good time… until the lioness attacked.