Lady Manami returned to fully human and let out a sigh of relief.
“Was that necessary, Doctor?” she asked.
Arsenic nodded. “We must know what.”
Quesnel growled. “You sound like Percy.”
“Sometimes he’s correct, he’s just na verra graceful about it. More often than sometimes, actually.”
Quesnel sighed, drying himself on one of the clean blankets. “I know, I simply hate telling him that.”
The baby hadn’t cancelled out Lady Manami’s transformation. She hadn’t stolen her shape, either.
Arsenic handed the newborn to her now clean father. “She’s human. Only human. Nothing special.”
Quesnel cooed down at his daughter. She had a tiny tuft of blonde hair, his colour, but her eyes were almost yellow, like her mother’s.
“Oh, she’s special, ma petite fleur.”
“She’s perfect,” avowed Primrose, who was helping Rue to clean herself and then settling her back into the funny bed-nest.
Quesnel sat down next to his wife and offered to return the baby.
Rue nudged up against him, clearly too exhausted. So Quesnel kept hold of Alexandra. Rue rested her head on his shoulder. She put out an arm and pulled Primrose down to join them.
“All right, Prim?” she asked.
“Perfect,” repeated Primrose. She was only crying a little.
Rue looked up plaintively at Arsenic. “May I please have tea now?”
They gave Floote, what was left of him, a sailor’s farewell. They wrapped his body in a nice quilt and set him out to sea.
Anitra said he would have liked it. He’d travelled the world with Alessandro Tarabotti, she explained, but he always loved the ocean best. It was a good resting place.
They put Lady Manami into the preservation tank in Floote’s stead. Fortunately, Quesnel had reserves of the special orange liquid, so she didn’t have to get into the same water. This seemed to please her more than the idea of sharing with a corpse.
After some consideration, Lady Manami elected to strip and pull on one of Prim’s bathing costumes, a navy-and-white-striped affair which was rather large on a kitsune, but had enough stretch to fit well enough. She put one of her own robes over it, a pale blue one with lots of embroidered cherry blossoms, which she explained was her least favourite.
She floated in the orange liquid, the robe wafting about her as if she were some species of large preserved moth. When fully immersed the kitsune breathed evenly, asleep or insensate, the gas bubbles all around her glinting in the light from the boilers below. A truly remarkable invention. Technology that preserved the corpse of a ghost one moment and a supernatural creature the next.
Arsenic was impressed and told Quesnel so. “Ingenious device, something that maintains tethers.”
Quesnel was pleased by the compliment. “Mother came up with the idea after Rue here had issues with bathtubs.”
“I loathe bathing,” confirmed Rue.
Arsenic blinked at her.
Rue blushed. “Oh, I use a sponge and such to stay clean. It’s full immersion that gets me.”
“I suppose that makes sense. It cuts off, or at least numbs, aetheric contact. Good thing it was Percy and I stuck wandering around Japan and bathing in groups.”
“Yes, apparently they steal shoes, too. I love my shoes.”
Arsenic only then realized she was still barefoot. She’d left her favourite bicycle boots in the temple. “Oh, bother.”
Sometime later Arsenic finally chivvied everyone along to the swoon room, where she could weigh the baby and perform the appropriate tests on eyes, ears, nose, and throat. Despite being at least a month early, the infant seemed perfectly topping, as Percy might say. Arsenic wondered if perhaps Rue’s inception calculations were off.
Primrose gave up her worship of Alexandra and went abovedecks to sort out their travel situation. At which juncture Percy came limping down to meet the new addition. At some point Virgil had persuaded him into one boot, his bad ankle still splinted up, but otherwise he was still wearing antiquated dress, including tight buckskin breeches.
He looked down with an expression of mild censure at Rue, Quesnel, and baby. Only Quesnel bothered to glare back at him.
“’Pon my soul, it has fingernails and all such nonsense.”
Arsenic nodded.
“Will it grow eyebrows or is it permanently surprised?”
“It is a she. And she will grow both eyebrows and eyelashes.”
“Remarkable.”
“Pretty standard, actually, m’eudail.”
“Human, you say?”
“Aye,” said Arsenic.
“Metanatural and preternatural must be deeply recessive characteristics, you suspect? In terms of that bally gene theory, the one the Mendel chap was bandying about a while back?”
“Aye.”
“I agree. Good showing, her being human.”
“I thought so too.”
Rue said to her husband, “There they go again. Do you think they’ll ever stop?”
“No, not now. You’ve gone and done it, chérie. Given them something to mutually hypothesize about until the end of time.” He nuzzled Alexandra’s tiny head adoringly.
“Do you think they’ll pause long enough to kiss?”
“Stop matchmaking, they’ll come around to it on their own time. Or not.”
Percy was looking back and forth between Arsenic and the baby, a curious expression on his face.
He plucked at Arsenic’s sleeve so she looked up at him. “Arsenic, petal, would you like one?”
Petal, hum? Arsenic considered the endearment and the question, decided she didn’t object to either.
“We both keep rather busy but I’m willing to debate the idea.”
“But you’d be, perhaps, interested in the activities that revolve around trying?”
“With you? Certainly.” Arsenic could feel herself blushing. Trust Percy to ask her such a question while they had an audience.
“And perhaps, the occasional quiet evening spent reading with Footnote.” Percy seemed to think this request even more daring.
Arsenic considered. “Who gets your lap, me or the cat?”
Percy gave a delighted smile and parroted her words back at her. “I’m willing to debate the idea.”
Quesnel snorted loudly. “I may be in a constant state of intellectual battle with that man, chérie, but I am unquestionably superior at flirtation.”
“Of course you are, darling.”
Primrose reappeared. “What happened while I was away?”
Rue said, “Your brother seems to be attempting to seduce our doctor. It’s rather a catastrophe.”
“Well, it would be.”
Arsenic felt a slight tug on one hand. Percy had sidled close and twined his soft capable fingers with hers. She cocked her head and saw yearning in the way he didn’t quite look at her. She slid against him, trying to be reassuring. They were close enough for her to see the three freckles on his ear that she liked so much. Feeling brave, she stood on tiptoes and kissed his neck, just there, below them.
Percy trembled slightly and wrapped his arms about her. It was lovely, gentle, less stiff than she might have expected.
“We should, erm, marry, do you think?” He was endearingly hesitant and he only winced a little.
“I look forward to you attempting to persuade me.” Then because she knew Percy would be in fits of nervousness about the whole endeavour, she added, “How about I ask you, when I feel persuaded? That way you dinna have to fret about it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
She arched a brow.
“Well, yes I would, but you’ll give me time to research?”
“Which part?”
“All of it, of course.”
“I’ll give you time, Percy. I know very little on the subject myself. We should discuss.”
“Library then?” Percy blushed quite red.
Arsenic pressed her advantage to
see how much redder he might get. “I ken the mechanics, na the practicalities.” Quite a bit redder, as it turned out.
“I have a book for you,” offered Primrose.
“To be fair,” said Rue, passing Alexandra over into Prim’s eager embrace, “it’s actually Quesnel’s book.”
“Can’t blame a book for its source,” replied Percy, philosophically.
“Why don’t you two go off and talk about it in private?” suggested Quesnel. “We’ll be good here for a bit.”
Arsenic tore her gaze away from Percy to peruse her charges.
Rue and Quesnel were curled on the cot together, heavy-lidded and exhausted. Primrose was cradling the baby, rocking and humming softly.
Out the porthole behind them, the wide dark ocean was beginning to look actually blue. The sun was rising at last.
It had been a long night.
The library sounded like heaven.
Tasherit appeared, bleary and moon-worn, but pleased to meet the new addition to their crew. Primrose snuggled against her, showing off the baby, and refrained from asking about the survival of her hats.
Percy smiled to himself. His sister was growing up.
He led Arsenic out into the hallway and across to her quarters. She looked knackered and he thought it best that everything else wait until she got some rest.
Still he found himself sort of bending towards her hopefully, and when her eyes crinkled up at him, he decided this was a good sign and tried for a kiss. It came out more of an anticlimactic peck, but he felt like that was the challenging bit over with. He pulled back quickly, checking her eyes again.
Still crinkled in pleasure. Oh good.
“Bit more?” she suggested.
Percy took a breath, then applied what he had once learned, long ago, from a capable older female. He started soft, just a light pressure, then a tiny nip, so her lips parted in surprise. Then deeper.
This time, when he drew back, her eyes were wide but delighted. “You dinna need to read anything on the subject. Do you?”
Percy rewarded her for that by kissing her again. “It’s always worth researching and discussing.”
His ran his thumb down her lovely face, feeling the smoothness of her skin – pleased when her eyelids lowered under the caress.
“Petal. You wish ta call me petal?” she wondered.
He smiled and kissed her again, petting along her chin to her throat. “Your eyes are like a pansy and your skin is like a rose petal. It suits you.” He carefully didn’t mention the spider lashes. Maybe later.
Arsenic nodded, nudging into his hand, tilting her head back in request. So, he kissed her again, before sucking in a shaky breath and pulling slightly away.
“And,” he added with what he hoped was a charming grin, “rutabaga for special occasions.”
Arsenic snorted out a surprised giggle.
“May I try?” She reached up and drew him close and kissed him, harder than he expected. He gave himself up to her curious questing mouth, letting her have her way. Until it tested him rather much and he backed up, surprised and flattered by her intensity, but knowing they needed to take this slow. It was their way.
“What’s this then?” He touched his tingling lips with curious fingertips.
Arsenic smiled, eyes full of joy. “Affection, possibly even love.”
“How ghastly. Me too. Do it again?” Arsenic wrapped herself around him one more time. Her fingers threaded into his hair, and her lips went from his mouth to his neck. Percy was surprised by the heat in her. The heat in both of them.
Until behind them the baby started to cry.
And below them the boilers shook the ship as they began to run dry.
And a small black-and-white tomcat wound his way about their ankles and meowed imperiously.
Percy realized that perhaps he hadn’t estimated properly and that they might not quite make it to Hong Kong, but he had no doubt at all, that they would make it somewhere.
They would make it happen.
They would make all of it happen, together.
And it would be glorious.
EPILOGUE
With a Neat Little Bow
January 1901
A notebook, slim and leather-bound with a gilt flower pattern on the cover, was found alongside a velvet box.
An inscription at the beginning of the notebook read:
From the personal memoirs of Lord Akeldama, who was once Great and always fabulous.
The box contained within it a small charm made of two interlocking parts. One slightly oval in shape, the other like a sword or a lowercase t. Locked together, the shape resembles the ankh seen carved into Ancient Egyptian tombs, only solid at the top rather than looped. It is not surprising for a vampire to possess such a symbol – eternity, immortality, and the supernatural. The charm is old.
Very old.
Ancient.
The meaning of the filled loop is undoubtedly significant but remains a mystery to scholars. Others have noted that the artefact also breaks into three parts, two crooks and a flail, for those familiar with Ancient Egyptian rulership symbols. Why three? Professor Percival Tunstell claims to have a solid working theory of a metanatural correlation, but for once he refuses to publish on the subject.
A selection from the notebook is presented here, for the good of posterity and the possible enlightenment of a few. Should any feel themselves able to understand the meat of the implications set forth, BUR is very interested in conducting interviews. Please find their offices in Fleet Street, London.
Excerpt …
Rodrigo Tarabotti will be the Mujah to the new king of England. I will see that bit finished. Anitra did well with him and they are happy together. I didn’t anticipate that, not real love, but I know as well as others the lure of the Tarabotti line. Nevertheless, it’s a neat bow there, if I do say so myself. Even if I can’t take credit for all of it.
I was always very fond of bows. They tell me the cravat is out of fashion these days and the tie is all the rage, but I cannot countenance a noose about the neck. Give me a silken fall in a perfect bow to end every outfit – wrapped about a throat like a gift just for me.
I can change a whole look with a neat little bow.
I can change the world with it.
Aggie Phinkerlington has finally left The Spotted Custard. We are all grateful, although I did admire her skill with a crossbow. The crossbow is sadly undervalued in these days of flashy pistols and even flashier rifles. Being a vampire, however, I cannot but admire a weapon that delivers a stake to the heart across long distances.
But, I digress.
The last reported rumour of Miss Phinkerlington has her recruited by certain unsavoury northern elements, of which we are all very well aware. She went and found herself the only woman in existence as grumpy as she. A good match, I suspect. No one is too surprised, least of all me.
Those ladies and I have been in such a dance these many years. A contest of wits the likes of which I’ve not enjoyed since Roman times. Life was so boring here in London before they started meddling. So few have challenged me of late. I am eternally grateful. Literally.
We have all, I think, been enjoying this game of ours. Us with our living players and tentacles that stretch ever outwards touching more and future lives.
To what end?
One might well ask, gentle reader.
Who can say? It’s a matter of fate, I suspect. Who doesn’t want to dabble in the outcome of other people’s stories?
Who has won?
I always ask this of myself, because I once marched an army across the known world and winning remains embarrassingly important to me. A character flaw, I suspect.
Yet I find that in this matter, I do not know.
I have kept my boys safe, and my girls now too, as much as I am able. Safe by human standards, at the very least. And happy. And I have seen another soul-stealer into adulthood and this one will survive. My little puggle will live on to a ripe old age by
mortal standards, surrounded by chosen family. I will make it so. Not for her lack of trying to undo my good work. Are they all born strong and fierce and reckless, these so-called metanaturals?
Two in my lifetime and both my daughters. I got it right the second time around. I’d say thank heavens, but heaven had nothing to do with it. It was all me. With perhaps an assist or two from the wicker chicken and one overly capable butler.
It was a good notion to add the Tunstell twins to the mix. I had no idea we needed them. Never discount humans, they try so very hard. Sometimes, they become something wonderful.
And what of the perfect spy in the shadows, the wolf queen in the north, and the inventor in the caravan? Why did they move their pawns about the board? I suspect it was for love. Or maybe that is simply what I hope it was for.
I am a foolish old vampire. But I am not yet lost.
And me? Why did I do it?
I played my game for love too. A love long lost, a man who made miracles with his touch, and a shifter who adored us both beyond reason. I did it for that first Tarabotti, who had me and a werecat in his bed. And we made a miracle child who became a Queen and a legend. Zenobia, our daughter. The first metanatural. We thought the world was collapsing and there was no reason left to exist at all, yet despair became passion, and the result altered reality.
Perhaps we will all change the world out of love.
Can you think of a better reason?
And there I go, being serious. I’m not at my best when I’m serious. I’ll stop now.
Yours etc …
Goldenrod
Author’s Note on Names
As with previous books in the Custard Protocol series, when not fictitious, I’ve used place names as if I were a Victorian (according to maps of the mid-1890s). Governments were changing a great deal during this time period and I’m well aware that what the British called places was, generally speaking, not what the residents of said places called the places themselves.
It is for this reason that Korea is referred to and spelled Choson, as Victorian travellers would still have relied on Percival Lowell’s Choson, the Land of the Morning Calm, published in 1885. At least, that’s what Percy had in his library.
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