Imprudence

by Gail Carriger

  “Miss Phinkerlington. Yes. Yes, he’s up here. No, I can’t send him down. He’s been shot. Yes, it is serious. No, you must stay there. We’re still in danger. I don’t know. Let me ask.” Tasherit looked up and shouted over to the medics, “Mr Floote, sir, engineering wants to know if you’d like a hot poker to cauterise the wound?” She returned to the tube. “He says no, and don’t be barbaric. Yes, well, I thought it was a good idea, too. But I’m no surgeon. Yes, we should. I imagine the captain will rectify that soon. I don’t think you should say such things about the captain!” She held the tube away from her ear briefly and closed her eyes. “That’s enough, young lady. No, you get stuffed!” Miss Sekhmet slammed down the speaking tube. “What an unpleasant creature. Surely she realises that talk of stuffing to a werelioness brings up taxidermic nightmares?”

  Rue rumbled an agreeing cat noise – half purr, half meow.

  “Now, how do I get my immortality back? You look healed yourself, and you speaking at this juncture would be a good thing.

  “Meroooow!” agreed Rue.

  Percy came over and took the helm away from Virgil.

  Virgil gave him a look that said clearer than words that even an ornithopter battle full of flying bullets and crossbow bolts was no excuse for a lost cravat.

  “That boy,” Percy grumbled, sitting down in his customary position, “gets bossier and bossier.”

  “He didn’t say anything,” Tasherit defended the lad.

  “Didn’t need to.” Percy was more melancholy than usual. “Rue, could I have a private word? You don’t mind, do you, Miss Sekhmet?”

  “Not at all. She’s all ears.” The werecat was perfectly civil to Percy but there was an edge to her voice that suggested she still hadn’t quite forgiven him for publishing her existence to the world.

  “Exactly why I want to talk to her now. How often does one get to bend Rue’s ear without threat of interruption?”

  “Rourow!” objected Rue.

  Tasherit gave them both an evil smile and drifted back to the crowd around Quesnel to see if anything more was needed. Their balloon escort returned, surrounding them in a friendly flock of chubby shadows. They all hooked into the same southerly breeze and floated along at a nice pace, putting comforting distance between themselves and Khartoom.

  Anitra left off her medical ministrations to give a long handkerchief-wave report to the Drifters, under the light of a single lamp. It had a beautiful dancelike quality. The waving handkerchiefs were awfully temping; Rue wanted to bat at them.

  Percy snapped his fingers near her whiskers. “Rue! Do pay attention. I’m trying to have a revelatory moment. This is a serious epiphany and you’re busy staring at handkerchiefs.”

  Rue turned tawny eyes on him and blinked slowly. The cat version of, I trust you. Trust me.

  “Look…” Now that Percy had her attention, he couldn’t seem to find the right words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  Was Percy being contrite?

  “I overreacted about the weremonkey publication. I shouldn’t have written about Miss Sekhmet without her approval. I treated her like a scientific subject, not a person. It was wrong of me.”

  Rue gave a rrupp noise of agreement, hoping to articulate that perhaps he ought to be apologising to Tasherit, not Rue, but Percy soldiered on. Clearly her rrupps were not nuanced enough.

  “And now Mr Lefoux is gravely injured and it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t let it be known we had a werelioness aboard, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  Oh, so now he decides to have a guilty conscience? Rue lashed her tail and grumbled at him.

  “It’s only that he’s so friendly and everyone likes him and he’s a great inventor and well regarded and I’m just” – Percy gestured to his rumpled self – “this.”

  Jealousy? Rue hadn’t thought to pry into Percy’s motives. She’d believed his actions spawned from an arrogant belief in his own intellectual superiority. She hadn’t realised he felt threatened by Quesnel. Percy never had understood his own value in society or as a friend. He saw other people as either worthy academic opponents, fellow awkward intellectuals, or irrelevant. He applied the same judgement to himself. It was why he found the constant attention of interested young ladies at parties so mystifying. He didn’t understand that he was an attractive man, not to mention well connected and reasonably solvent. If only he put himself forward and tried to be polite, he might be just as charming as Quesnel, in his own way. But he never bothered to try.

  Rue, of course, couldn’t tell Percy any of this. So she lashed her tail and hissed at him.

  Percy took this as criticism. “I will try to do better. I never wanted him to die. And now he’s injured and we’re all in danger and it’s my fault.”

  The last thing Rue needed was to lose another crew member, this time to despair.

  “I’ve ruined everything.” Percy was displaying the Tunstell family’s flair for the dramatic. “You’re one of my best friends and you love him. What if he dies and it’s all my doing?”

  Percy was slumped over the helm, weighted by guilt. Luckily, they were floating fully in the breeze and needed no course correction, but he’d be pretty darn useless if they were attacked again.

  Rue leaned forward and put her damp cat nose against his so he was forced to stare into her eyes. Then she licked his face in one massive swipe of her very rough tongue.

  “Rue!” he sputtered, flicking one hand to get her away.

  However, it did seem to bring him out of his maudlin humour.

  Rue really wanted to talk to him but she needed to break her tether to Tasherit first. It took a whole city block back home, further during dry seasons. They could get the nets out between the balloons and she could run out to the furthest one – that might work. But could they cast nets during fast float? She could get the decklings to lower her in an improvised cat basket. But did they have rope long enough? They could dip up into the aetherosphere, but uncharted currents might yank them leagues away from their escort and course. They could head back to the Nile. Rue could dunk – full water immersion would do the trick.

  But all these options would delay their journey. Right now they were making good time and had hunters after them. Aside from waiting until sunrise, Rue could see only one shipboard option for returning to human form. She gave a hiss of annoyance and, tail lashing, made her way down to engineering.

  The boiler room was quiet as she climbed down the spiral stairs.

  Everything but the absolute necessities had been cycled down, casting the big room in red tones and slowly shifting shadows. They must conserve as much fuel as possible if they were to make it to the source. Most of the sooties were off sleeping or on deck with the drama. Only two still tended the main boiler. Responsible for all the ship’s internal functions as well as engine and propeller power, the Big Kettle was never totally cool.

  Aggie had, as always, made all the correct decisions. Rue didn’t have to like the woman to know she was good at her job.

  Rue trotted through, annoyed by how the pads of her paws picked up soot. No wonder Tasherit avoided the boiler room.

  “You!” accused Aggie.

  Rue blinked at her slowly. Cat trust, cat calm.

  Aggie seemed to find this annoying.

  “Shoo! Get out. You’re not welcome here.”

  Rue sneezed as a bit of coal dust got caught in her whiskers and then continued walking towards the back corner of the room where the preservation tank nested under its tea-cosy cover. She went up on her hind legs and kneaded it with her front paws.

  “What on earth?” Aggie followed her.

  Rue continued to pick at the cosy.

  “You want to get inside it? Why? It’s not gassed at the moment.”

  “Rrrrrourrt,” said Rue.

  “Oh, of course. If you immerse yourself fully, you should get your humanity back. Certain you want that, ladyship? You’re a whole lot easier to kill when you’re nothing more t
han prissy human.”

  Rue continued pawing.

  “How could you let Quesnel get hurt? He was only up there because he was worried about you. I told him not to bother.” Complaining the entire time, Aggie pulled off the protective cover and cracked the tank top.

  Rue leapt inside.

  The orange-tinged liquid was cold and weirdly slimy. She took a breath and lowered herself until she was totally submerged in the stuff, even the tips of her ears and tail. At which juncture, the liquid cut off her tether.

  She turned back into a prissy human.

  Rue reemerged, gasping for air. She’d gone from the painful agony of shift to the general discomfort of the numbing feel of liquid. She hoisted herself out, entirely naked except for the slime, and decided to simply be at peace with this. She was a metanatural after all. She was bound to be naked in front of her crew. The two sooties on duty carefully pretended not to look.

  Aggie didn’t care. “You’ve treated him shabby, poor lad. Taking advantage of his expertise and affection. Imagine boldly as to ask for an education of that kind!”

  So Quesnel told Aggie that, did he? Well, to be fair, I told Primrose. “Now who’s prissy?” Rue wiped liquid from her eyes, nose, and mouth. She made a put-put-put sound, trying to blow the foul-tasting stuff off her lips.

  Aggie almost stomped her foot she was that angry. “You owe him an apology!”

  Rue said, “I happen to agree with you. Unfortunately, he was unconscious last I checked.”

  “Try again!” A pause. “Wait. You agree with me?”

  Rue rolled her eyes and marched towards the spiral stairs. “I didn’t think he really cared for me.”

  Aggie followed. “But he’s been potty about you since the duck pond incident.”

  Rue wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting. I was eight!”

  “The second duck pond incident, you idiot. Why else do you think he stayed aboard?”

  “To see the world? To get away from his mothers?” Rue was flushed with annoyance but tried to keep an impassive demeanour. She was learning much from Aggie’s diatribe.

  Aggie scrunched up her face. “Well, yes, that, too, but also he’s in love with you.”

  Rue’s thoughts whirled. Is Aggie right? Is it really more than a lust-filled whim? She shied away from the word love. It was too bold, even in her own head. The very notion that Quesnel properly loved her was slippery with impossibility, like an oiled ferret. Could they really have that honest constant kind of love? The kind that meant he might stay the whole night in her bed and wake up next to her? He hadn’t acted like it so far.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake, don’t you understand anything?” Aggie huffed, her tone modified in her own confusion at Rue’s persistent unwillingness to rise to the bait.

  By this point, Rue was halfway up the spiral staircase.

  “Apparently not. Thank you, Miss Phinkerlington, for a most educational conversation. I may come down and have you yell at me again, next time I need my relationships explained to me.”

  Aggie put her hands on her hips and glared up. “You do that.”

  “Now, if you will excuse me, I should get back to the man in question.”

  “You might want some clothing.”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Phinkerlington.”

  Things were quiet on deck.

  Rue, wearing a perfectly respectable brown paisley robe, hair loose but thick with orangeish goop, found the group around Quesnel busy planning to relocate him to his quarters.

  Primrose was in charge. “I think we can improvise a litter. It’s better to move him to an environment where we can keep him safe, out of the way, and clean. Oh, Rue! Thank goodness. Tasherit said she felt her tether snap. We worried you might be dead.”

  “Thought Aggie killed you,” said a weak voice.

  Rue was on her knees next to her chief engineer instantly. “You’re awake.” She grabbed his left hand. “How are you feeling?” It was an utterly inane question to ask, but everything else she thought of was impolitic.

  “Like I’ve been shot, strangely enough.”

  “It’s no joking matter. You just collapsed. It was horrible.” Rue felt the prickles around her eyes from that memory. She shook herself and went on. “Smart of you to choose the right kind. Apparently through-and-throughs heal best. We doused you in cognac as well.” Rue caressed his palm with her thumb.

  “Percy’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Still, it’s a bloody waste.” Trust a Frenchman to lament lack of cognac.

  “It is not! What better use? We’re going to move you below now.” Rue let go of his hand.

  The two footmen hoisted Quesnel up, trying to keep him as steady as possible. The ship was not made for this kind of transport, but they managed to get him down the main stairs and into the guest room previously occupied by Rue’s parents. It was closer to engineering and easier to get to than his actual room.

  By the time Quesnel was set on the bed, he’d turned an unbecoming yellow colour and was sweating heavily.

  Fortunately, Anitra reported no additional blood loss had resulted.

  Rue tried to be nice about it. “You’re doing a wonderful job, Miss Panettone. Please don’t take this amiss, but did you ask the other Drifters if they had a surgeon aboard?”

  Anitra nodded. “I did indeed. I don’t want this kind of responsibility. All I’ve got is limited herb lore and some training for the woman’s balloon, when those times come.”

  “Midwifery?” Rue reached for the outdated term.

  “Something like. This is beyond my limited skills.”

  “We will all do our best. Hopefully Percy has a book on bullet wounds.”

  Quesnel gave a weak snort. “I doubt it. Books on badminton, possibly, but nothing more useful.”

  Anitra finished checking on everything. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Feeling rather spoiled. Two beautiful ladies tending to my every need.”

  “He’s flirting. He must be feeling better.” Rue smiled.

  Anitra reached for a small bottle of clear liquid. “Laudanum, for the pain. It’ll put you to sleep. Don’t take it on your own – we want to keep track of how much.”

  Quesnel wrinkled his nose. “No fretting there. I loathe the stuff. Makes me feel like I’m being smothered slowly by a flock of malevolent robins, red breasts first, all pushing in against the sides of my eyes.”

  That was oddly specific. “When have you had laudanum?” Rue bustled about, making certain there was water next to his bed, and a book, and some biscuits.

  “Believe it or not, in my childhood I was prone to explosions.”

  “Liked to experiment, did you?” Rue smiled again, imagining a tiny Quesnel running around mixing noxious chemicals and destroying his mother’s laboratory.

  “Broke my right wrist once. Seems I have it in for the right side of my body.”

  “Good thing, too,” said Anitra. “Left side this time and it’d be awfully close to your heart.”

  Rue shuddered.

  Anitra helped Quesnel take a nip from the laudanum bottle. He made a disgusted face.

  “I can’t think of anything else.” Anitra turned to go.

  Rue nodded. “Send Virgil down, would you, please? Ask him to check in with Cook, eat something, and bring us tea. I’ll stay with Mr Lefoux for the time being.”

  Anitra agreed and left, leaving the door to Quesnel’s room wide open. As if anyone still cared about Rue’s reputation. As if Quesnel were capable of doing anything with the tattered remains of said reputation. Rue wished he could.

  The Frenchman was looking strangely young. His blond hair was darkened by sweat, spiky against the pillow. “Rue, chérie, I have to tell you something.”

  “It’s not important.” Rue made herself sound reassuring. He seemed so worried. “I’ll be nearby when you wake. Send Virgil and I’ll come right away.”

  Quesnel forced his eyes open. “No!” They were heavy-lidded with th
e poppy’s fateful effects. “Robins are here.”

  Rue drew up a chair and leaned close, wanting to touch him very badly but not wanting to cause any further pain.

  “I left it too long, didn’t I?” he whispered, slow and slurred.

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you ever ask me how I felt about you, Rue?”

  “I’m frightened.”

  He was trying to focus on her face through the robin feathers. “No one has ever accused you of lacking courage.”

  So Rue screwed that courage to the sticking point. “Why did you do as Dama asked, about the preservation tank? You don’t owe him any favours.”

  “Perhaps I wanted to please the father of the woman I loved.”

  Rue blinked. He said it first. The word was out there, hovering above them, like a tiny explosive dirigible. “Are you secretly traditional and” – she paused, unsure of the right word – “romantic?”

  “Perhaps I am.”

  “But you’re so devil-may-care.” Rue’s stomach went all wobbly.

  “You thought that meant I hadn’t a working heart underneath? Perhaps I hide the one with the other.” His voice was slurring. His eyes were closing again. “Perhaps I thought you were only curious.”

  “Oh.” Rue was taken with this idea.

  “Say it back, Rue. I might not wake up again, you realise?”

  “Now who’s being melodramatic?”

  He smiled, eyes closed.

  Rue leaned over and whispered, very quietly, into his ear, “Well fine, then. I love you, too.”

  He was already asleep.

  “Lovely,” said Rue into the resulting silence. “Now I have to go through this again.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The Lost Pride of the Desert Wind

  “Go through what again?” Primrose marched into the sickroom.

  “Oh, nothing. He’s sleeping.”

  “That’s good. Sleep heals.”

  “Most sagacious, my dear.”

  Primrose was holding a large reticule, stuffed to bursting, as well as a round pie tin, empty, and an embroidery hoop, full.