Primrose left off screaming and cradling Tasherit’s head (like some sort of gothic heroine over a corpse) as soon as she realised that the werecat was not, in fact, a corpse at all. Sleeping. Only sleeping.
She dragged herself away, even though tiny needles around her eyes tried to persuade her to stay. It really was simply the shock of it. A flaw inherent in loving an immortal, Prim supposed. One assumed they would always be there. The idea that they might die first was beyond comprehension. To be confronted brutally by such a possibility explained her laboured breathing and heart palpitations. Of course, she was only hypothesising. This was all idle speculation.
Desperate for some kind of distraction, she wandered over to navigation, where Quesnel had defied orders and come up top to find out what had just happened.
Rather daring, that Frenchman, because he’d dropped down into the navigation pit, which was most assuredly and distinctly Percy’s domain. As a rule, only Virgil and Footnote were allowed down there. Even Rue feared to tread into Percy’s sanctified territory, and she owned the ship.
“Uh, Quesnel, is that wise?” Prim asked, looking down at his blond head. He was poking about in Percy’s stuff.
“Miss Tunstell, to be wise one would never float at all.”
Rue got tetchy with her paramour. “Get out of there. I won’t defend you, you realise?”
At which exact juncture Percy reappeared up top, looking like the cat who got the proverbial cream. Until he saw Quesnel in his lair, of course.
Percy lost his temper in a stereotypically redheaded manner. (Which is an unfair way of putting things, as he was ordinarily admirably stoic.) “Get out of my pit!”
“What did you learn?” the Frenchman demanded back.
Percy only glared at him. “Did you touch anything? Please tell me you didn’t touch anything.”
Primrose couldn’t help herself, her eyes were drawn to the top of her brother’s head. A sort of blue velvet and silver-embroidered flowerpot perched there. It sported a long silken tassel out the top which trailed down one side to tickle his temple.
“Percy, what are you wearing? Is that a Turkish lounging cap? It’s midday! We’re outside. There are so many things wrong with that right now, and I can’t even begin—”
Percy swung around to glare at her instead of Quesnel. “Well, you clearly have begun! And it’s not my fault, Virgil made me wear it.”
“It’s truly appalling.”
“Listen to the lady, Professor, my eyes, they bleed.” Quesnel added his voice of support. It was most welcome, the French were to be trusted on such matters.
“It’s a gift from Mother.” Percy attempted to either defend or excuse himself, probably both.
Prim nodded her complete and total understanding. The world being what it was, someday odes would be written to their mother’s abysmal taste in hats. “But Percy, she isn’t here. You don’t have to actually wear the Turkish lounging cap. Not in public. People can see!”
Rue moved beyond frustration and into anger. “Oh my goodness! You three will be the death of me. We have work to do. Did you forget? You are officers aboard my ship.” She reacted, predictably, by ordering everyone about. “Quesnel, get out of Percy’s pit. Percy, get inside your pit where you belong. Primrose, stop prattling on about Turks. No one cares about Percy’s apparel. Could we get to the business at hand?”
Quesnel flashed that charming dimpled grin of his, the one that made him look about twelve years of age, and climbed out of navigation.
Percy slithered back in and glanced around, presumably to ensure that nothing had been touched by greasy engineer fingers.
“Did you adjust anything? It’s absolutely vital that we not alter any part of our current course.”
“I didn’t touch a thing, you conker. We’re adrift in the aetherosphere, exactly as you left us.”
“That’s the point, we aren’t, not exactly.”
“We aren’t what? You do realise being intentionally obtuse doesn’t make you smarter than the rest of us, it simply means you’re more of an ars—”
Rue put a hand up to stop Quesnel from proceeding any further. “Percival Tunstell, explain to me right this minute, and in terms we all can understand, what is going on here.”
“Cappiocra,” said Percy, as if this one word should satisfy everyone.
“Cappiocra? Which is what, a kind of pasta?” Rue’s mind ever turned towards comestibles.
Italians again? was all Prim could think. Why is it we are always plagued by Italians? Really, Rue’s ancestry has a lot to answer for. But Primrose knew better than to interrupt her brother when he looked to actually be getting to the point at long last. It always took Percy forever to address matters of import, best not to detour him with questions about vermicelli.
“No. It’s a kind of mathematician. A rather discredited one, I’m afraid.” He whirled on Quesnel. “I want it established up front that this time I get first placement on the byline for the resulting article. This must be settled now or I’m not saying anything further.”
Quesnel shrugged. “That’s fair, as I still don’t know what you’re on about.” His violet eyes crinkled. “Oh. Cappiocra. Wait a moment. You think that insane theory of his might be true. Zut! What was it called?”
Percy gave his most annoying small smug smile. When they were children, Prim would bop him on the head with her reticule when she saw that smile, on principle.
“It’s called spontaneous aetheric pocket phenomena. And yes, I believe it is the best explanation we have. The only one, if I’m honest. It fits all current unexplained occurrences.”
“There is an easy way to check and confirm,” said Quesnel with a thoughtful narrowing of violet eyes.
Percy looked, if possible, even more smug than ever. “Yes, of course there is.” He raised his eyebrows at Rue. “Should the good captain wish to check, we could depuff and then we would pop out and be entirely visible to our enemy who is, no doubt, still waiting for us inside the atmosphere, guns blazing.”
“Ah,” said Quesnel, looking a little abashed, “I forgot that part.”
“Engineers,” spat out Percy.
“Percival.” Rue drew his name out into a long growl. She sounded very like her werewolf father in that moment. “Explain!”
Percy explained. “Cappiocra’s theory of aetheric pocket phenomena was developed in the late 1860s. Given how little we know about the original formation of the aetherosphere, he deemed it likely, if not inevitable, that a combination of specific atmospheric conditions and low-hanging Charybdis currents would cause parts of the lower aetherosphere to break off. These would drift, like weighted bubbles, or pockets of aether, down into the atmosphere. He was laughed out of scientific circles and blacklisted for bubble extremism.”
Rue frowned. “So we are trapped inside a bubble of aether?”
“No, not trapped. We can get out at any time. But we are inside one. A prevalence of aether pockets in this area would explain the strange shape of that airship.”
Quesnel perked up. He was, after all, a master builder. “What? What shape?”
Rue was frowning. “That incredibly long bowsprit?”
Percy nodded.
“With the gun at the end!” said Primrose.
“Exactly.”
“What shape!” Quesnel yelled.
Rue took pity on her Frenchman. “The one that attacked us was shaped very like a soup ladle. So that most of the airship might be inside one of these aether pockets with just the end of the handle part sticking out into normal atmosphere. Mount a gun, and put a gunner and a lookout with a speaking tube on the end, and you have what amounts to an invisible ship. So long as you can mostly stay inside the aether bubble.”
Percy was frowning. “I don’t think it’d be too difficult to rig up a Mandenall Probe for that. I mean, the aether pockets would simply float inside whatever breeze they’re caught in at the time. Like a hot-air balloon. Or
a cloud.”
Quesnel looked amused. “So you’re saying the enemy ship was inside one of these bubbles or pockets when they fired on us. And somehow they popped out of it and we got inside instead?”
Percy nodded. “That’s the gist of my hypothesis.”
Primrose let out a little gust of a breath that she didn’t even realise she’d been holding. “And since we are, essentially, surrounded by aether, Tasherit - I mean to say, Miss Sekhmet - fell asleep without warning.”
Rue put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Exactly. Percy, how common are these bubbles likely to be in this area? Are we going to be hitting them all willy-nilly as we float through the atmosphere in this part of the world?”
Percy nodded. “Very likely. And difficult to avoid. It’s not like we can see them. It’s like the northern lights - mix the right conditions and they occur, but they are hard to predict, chart, or fully understand. At least, that was Cappiocra’s theory. They happen when they happen, and then they go away again.”
Quesnel was shaking his head. “Then why go to the trouble of building a ship exactly to take advantage of the pockets? No, I think there Cappiocra must be wrong. We must have a predictable, even chartable, series of these bubbles which the locals take advantage of. Otherwise why evolve the technology?”
Percy looked like he agreed but didn’t want to say anything to that effect. Because he hated it when Quesnel was right.
Rue brought them back around to practicalities. “So, why hasn’t the enemy ship come in after us?”
Percy and Quesnel looked at each other. “Can’t,” they said at the same time.
“Why not?”
“Even if this pocket were big enough, one can’t fire explosives in aether.” Percy explained.
“No?” Rue blinked.
“No,” corroborated Quesnel.
“Whyever not?”
Percy frowned and Quesnel bit his lip.
Finally, Quesnel said, “Aether is charged, or experts think that it is. Like light or sound.”
Percy added, “One theory claims it has its own vital humour.”
“Guns don’t work in aether.” Quesnel put it bluntly.
“They don’t?”
“And that’s a very, very good thing,” insisted Quesnel.
Rue still looked confused. “It is?”
Frankly, Primrose was confused too, but she didn’t say anything. Let Rue ask the questions.
“Why?” Rue asked obligingly.
Quesnel flinched and looked to Percy for help.
Percy, uncharacteristically, stepped into the breach. “Because, my witless friend, it might start a chain reaction.”
“Oh,” said Rue, and then, “Oh!”
Primrose did so hate being the only one not following. “What? What does that mean?”
Rue was nodding. “The whole aetherosphere could explode.”
Prim blinked. “Oh, that’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Except, didn’t Percy just say that we aren’t in the actual aetherosphere? We are in a pocket of it.”
“Guns still won’t work, we don’t think. And I wouldn’t want to test it out. Would you?” Percy said.
“But…” Prim was still trying to understand. “Wouldn’t it also work in reverse? I mean, couldn’t they stick the end of their ladle handle with their gun into our bubble and fire away at us?”
Quesnel nodded. “They’d risk losing their gunner and a piece of their ship if the chain reaction is fast enough, but nothing else. A desperate but still possible tactic. They’d have to really want us dead.”
“And they’d also lose one of their pockets of aether,” added Percy.
“But we would explode?” Rue wanted to be certain.
Percy nodded. “Why yes, Captain, yes we would.”
Rue blanched. “Percy darling, I think it is a very good idea at this juncture to get us out of this bubble. I’ll take regular gunfire over a possible massive explosion, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Agreed, cherie,” said Quesnel, breaking for the ladder to return to the boiler room.
“Agreed,” said Percy, who probably would love to debate the whole thing further and maybe do a few calculations and take some measurements. Fortunately, Prim’s brother was smart enough to respond to urgency in others when absolutely necessary.
“Agreed,” said Prim. Although they didn’t really need her agreement.
It’ll be nice to have Tasherit awake and alert once more.
The Honourable Percival Tunstell was rather pleased with himself as he depuffed the Custard. Despite all efforts to the contrary (as the fez was a clear attempt to undermine his authority) not to mention the gravity of their situation, he’d deduced exactly what was occurring. He was the hero of the hour. And there was a good chance, if only Rue would let him take measurements before they left the area, that he’d get a bally good scientific paper out of it.
Of course, they had to survive battle first. But that was a minor concern in the grand scheme of things. Percy contemplated handing over the helm to Virgil. He should jot his conclusions down now, for posterity. If they were about to be shot out of the skies, there ought to be notes with his name on them detailing the existence of pocketed aether, so future scientists understood his genius.
Percy, after all, had priorities.
Rue, unfortunately, had different priorities. Like survival. Silly girl.
“Percy, bring us about broadside. Willard, prepare to fire.”
At which juncture, Percy realised that they were being shot at. Again. Enemy fire seemed to have resumed the moment they returned to normal air, it had just taken Percy a moment to notice it. Well, he had his legacy to consider.
He also had an airship to steer. Percy toggled the propeller knob and they swung around. This is where the Spotted Custard had the advantage. Their dirigible design made them more manoeuvrable in atmosphere, and their guns were mounted on both sides of their airship. This gave the Spotted Custard a much wider field of fire than their enemy, who had only the one gun sticking off the end of a long handle.
Primrose was standing on the poop deck near Percy. She had her deadly parasol in one hand and a small pistol in the other. When did my sister acquire a pistol? And how does she reconcile herself to its ownership? Really, it is quite out of character.
He was about to ask, when Tasherit stumbled over. “What happened?”
The werecat looked decidedly ill. Well, it was broad daylight and she’d recently been knocked out.
Primrose said, “It seems there are these bubbles of aether in this part of the world. We hit one. You collapsed.” His sister’s tone intimated quite clearly that she found this kind of behaviour unacceptable in werecats.
“Little one, were you worried about me?”
“I was not worried!”
Primrose was a horrible liar. Percy had no idea why she bothered.
His twin stuck her turned-up nose into the air. “I was maybe a little concerned. But only because it was a highly confusing situation.”
Tasherit nudged up against his sister and put an arm about her waist. “I love that you care.”
Sometimes that werecat reminds me so much of Footnote. Percy shook his head. Primrose looked like she wanted, more than anything, to lean into the embrace. Instead she glanced around, panicked (even though no one was looking except Percy) and broke away.
Percy glared at her. Silly bint. He rather liked the idea of having a werelioness as part of the family. Of course, Mother will be appalled if word gets back to her, but Mother is always appalled at everything. Prim ought to simply be happy and stop trying to make everyone else happy. Besides, I’m fond of cats. She ought to take my wishes into account too. I am her brother.
Another volley of gunfire passed over them. They were being shot at, but not very efficiently.
“Nordenfelt,” said Tasherit. “Terribly old-fashioned, and
that’s saying something, coming from me.” The werecat grinned.
Percy looked up at her. “You believe so?” She should know. Tasherit favoured a rifle so new and fancy it technically wasn’t yet in production. Percy may turn up the proverbial lip at those who insisted on solving everything with bullets, but he still knew his guns. Not well enough to distinguish them by noise alone, however. Still, if the werecat had access to brand-new firearms, she must know something out of the ordinary about them.
Tasherit nodded. “Sounds very like. Formerly Floote could confirm, of course, but it’s daylight so he’s not up.”
Percy said, “Interesting that you are.”
Tasherit made a dismissive gesture. “It’s not pleasant or comfortable, I’ll tell you that much.”
“You can identify the type of gun by the noise of it shooting alone?” Primrose was impressed despite herself.
Tasherit smiled. “I have excellent hearing and rather too much familiarity with Nordenfelts.”
Percy nodded, that made sense. He didn’t know all of the werecat’s history but if she spent the lion’s share of it in North Africa and Arab nations, well… “Germans?”
“All too often, yes.”
Which means she knows how often a Nordenfelt needs to be rearmed. “Have you been keeping track of the volleys?” Percy asked.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Long enough for them to change the feeder.”
“In that case, we have two more passes to go.”
“Tell the captain, do.” Percy put one hand to the helm, using his other to speed up and adjust the angle of their propeller. “I’ll bring us in close enough so we have a clean line of fire once they stop shooting to reload.”
Tasherit strode away to find Rue.
Primrose stayed behind. “You did well, Percy. Remembering about the bubbles and the Italian mathematician and such. It was a bad situation and you got us out of it.”
“Pockets, not bubbles,” Percy corrected her, and tried not to glow at the praise. It was rare for his sister to say anything nice to him. He hadn’t realised how rare until that moment. “Bubbles is Rue’s word.”
He couldn’t help but gush. “The very idea that Cappiocra pockets are real! That they exist. And that we were inside one! Tiddles, it’s amazing.”
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