Prudence

by Gail Carriger

  Rue stood and went to retrieve a pair of high powered glassicals from a nearby sideboard. She popped them on, the single magnification lens emphasising her left eye to such an extent as to seem grotesque. Even though, if asked, Rue would have said her eyes were her best feature.

  She checked the snuff box over carefully, running her hands along the sides. Soon she spotted the secondary catch inside the box, buried in snuff. It was tiny and hidden beneath the lid’s silver hinge.

  “Careful!” warned Dama, too late.

  Rue pressed the catch. The top of the inside of the box flipped open to reveal a hidden chamber underneath. Of course, this sprayed snuff everywhere, covering Rue’s head and chest in a fine coating of peppery smelling brown powder. The glassicals protected her eyes and Rue was so taken with her discovery that she didn’t bother to brush the snuff from her hair and décolletage.

  Prim stood – the cat murmured an objection – and marched over, partly to examine the discovery, partly to repair the damage to Rue’s appearance.

  “What is it? More snuff?” she asked, applying her handkerchief with vigour.

  Inside the bottom compartment of the box was more vegetative matter.

  Rue shook her head, snuff puffed out of her hair. “No, the leaf is too big. A new breed of pipe tobacco?” She was already sticking her nose down to sniff. She couldn’t get through the scent of snuff, however. She wasn’t in wolf form, so she hadn’t the nose to distinguish nuances.

  The vampire tut-tutted and used a silk scarf to clean his adopted daughter’s face. “No, darling, no, not tobacco.”

  Rue crowed out the only other possibility. “Tea!”

  Dama nodded. “Indeed. A new kind, Puggle. They tell me it grows better, faster and in a wider range of climates than the Chinese varieties. Can you imagine the possibilities in India if this turns out to be a viable beverage?”

  Rue frowned. “You’d be stomping all over Bloody John’s territory. No wonder you wanted this to be secretive.” The East India Company was referred to as Bloody John as it was mostly backed by vampire hives. If Dama wanted a controlling interest in a tea farm overseas, he was going up against other vampires. Vampires whose interest – as potentate – he was supposed to protect. A delicate matter indeed.

  Dama twinkled at her. “I’m going to check this leaf against the British pallet. If it’s drinkable, I’m investing in eight thousand plants and you, my darling Puggle-girl, are going to India to meet said plants, ascertain the location and acquisition of land, hire supervisors, and commence distribution.”

  Primrose was pleased. “India? Lovely! Weren’t you just saying we should get out of London, Rue?” She looked to her friend for approbation.

  No one, not even Dama, questioned the fact that Primrose would go with Rue. Prim always went with Rue. Besides, Rue couldn’t very well travel as an unmarried young lady alone.

  “Dama. What a delightful scheme. But – and I don’t mean to throw a spanner – what do I know about tea-growing? I’ll need native contacts familiar with the territory and climate.” But Rue was already considering her options, and Dama only nodded. “And, more importantly, who are you going to test the tea on?”

  “Your mother, of course, Puggle,” replied the vampire. “Can you think of a better option?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Rue grimaced, snapped the secret compartment shut and closed the snuff box. She went to hand it over to Dama but then held on to it.

  “India, did you say, Dama?”

  “India, my darling heart. I have specialist tea contacts in that area ready to meet with you and facilitate this endeavour.”

  “Of course you do.” But Rue was smiling.

  “Doesn’t everyone have specialist tea contacts?” Dama smiled back.

  “Mother and Paw approve your plan?”

  “Ah, yes, well, I haven’t exactly talked to your blood parents on the subject yet.”

  “Oh dear,” said Prim. She adored Dama and his drones, and could cope very well with vampires, having been raised in a hive, but she was rather terrified of Rue’s blood parents. The formidable Lord and Lady Maccon were both prone to yelling loudly and bashing the noggins of those whose opinions did not mesh with theirs. Even though they had grown up best friends, Primrose had rarely been exposed to them. Rue had rarely been exposed to them, for that matter.

  Primrose was frowning. “How will we get to India?”

  Dama brightened. He had been waiting for this question. “Aha! Now that, my posy, is an answer I believe Puggle here will very much enjoy.”

  Rue, intrigued, gave him what he wanted – the snuff box.

  Dama took it carefully so as not to disturb the contents or to touch her hand. He slid it inside his waistcoat pocket. The waistcoat was made of gold lace over fine teal silk with jet buttons, and looked to be so tight a pocket would not accommodate a gooseberry, let alone a snuff box. Nevertheless, it disappeared within, as if by magic.

  The vampire was about to tell them more when his head jerked up. He bared his fangs, showing the full length. His nostrils flared as if he scented something in the air.

  Rue was instantly on guard. “What?”

  Dama held up one unnaturally pale hand to quiet her. His perfect face, too beautiful, narrowed and became hunter-like. “Intruder.”

  The door knocker reverberated sharp and loud.

  They all jumped to stand.

  A rustle and a clatter emanated from the hallway and a drone’s pleasant voice said, “What ho?” to whomever was on the other side of the door. There was a soft murmur of exchanged pleasantries. Then the drone said loudly, trained to be at a level that his vampire master could hear from the drawing room, “No, you may not come in. Not invited. But I’ll fetch her for you, if you insist.”

  A moment later a tentative knock came at the drawing room door. “My lord?”

  “Yes, Winkle?”

  Winkle trotted in. Winkle was one of Dama’s current favourites. He was a devilishly exotic-looking chap, with features that hinted at Far Eastern or possibly Pan Pacific ancestry. His hair was as glossy and as black as jet mourning jewellery, his dark eyes tilted becomingly and his face was completely free of any topiary. He smiled easily and often with the merest hint of dimples. He also spoke several languages and played the clarinet beautifully. Good traits to look for in any man, Dama informed her, as it led to a very strong tongue. Rue had made a mental note of the advice and tried not to wonder as to the particulars.

  “Wimbledon hive vampire at the door, my lord, sent to fetch Miss Tunstell.”

  Prim stamped her little foot in annoyance. “Queen Mums. Bother her.”

  Winkle grinned. “You know she doesn’t approve when you visit this house. She’d rather you chose the den next door and kept up the pretence of only associating with werewolves.”

  “I wish it were only a matter of vampire politics,” grumbled Primrose. “Excuse me, my lord, but you must know, Queen Mums simply doesn’t approve of you. I think it’s your fashion choices.”

  Dama did not look offended. “My dear, I cannot think of a better reason to dislike a person! I must say, for my part, I strenuously object to her hats. Positively everywhere these days, massive hats, massive hair. It’s so regrettably poofy.”

  Prim looked frustrated with them both. “Oh really, vampires!”

  Winkle was relatively new to Dama’s household and had not yet determined the intricacies of the relationship between Lord and Lady Maccon, their daughter, Lord Akeldama, Baroness Tunstell, and her daughter. As far as he could gather, politics dictated that Lady Prudence be adopted by a rove vampire to keep her safe from the hive vampires’ fear of metanaturals, hence Lord Akeldama’s bringing her up rather than her blood parents. Lady Maccon and Baroness Tunstell had been friends since childhood, as incomprehensible as such a relationship might seem, hence Miss Primrose’s companionship of Lady Prudence. But why some of them didn’t get along, and others avoided all contact, remained a mystery. So he said tentatively,
“Your mother prefers her child visit werewolves over a rove?”

  Prim shrugged. “Odd vampire to have any children at all, you might say.”

  What Winkle didn’t know was that Ivy Tunstell’s metamorphosis to vampire queen had been unplanned, unexpected, unprecedented, and highly unlikely. The entirety of London had yet to recover from the decades-old shock. The fashion for overly decorated hats was only the latest marker of Baroness Tunstell’s sudden – by vampire standards – presence in supernatural high society. The fact that as a newly made queen she’d arrived with a complete hive of four male vampires – all of them quite old, quite rich, and quite powerful – and six foreign drones was beyond the limits of acceptability. The fact that all were Egyptian was beneath contempt. The consequences of such horrendous behaviour was as expected – Queen Victoria gave Mrs Tunstell a baronetcy. What else could the aristocracy do with such a travesty in its midst but absorb it entirely? The baroness had been declared an original and integrated into the ton. Her family’s connection to trade and her actor husband were quietly forgotten, the skin colour of her hive members was blatantly ignored, and she was invited to dine at all the best houses. Not that she could leave her hive as a tethered queen, but invitations were sent. Her ridiculous hats were accepted by ladies of standing and ill repute with equal alacrity. Even the Parisian designers were producing the occasional platter-shaped monstrosity replete with entire scenes of crocheted sheepdog herding. Within a year of contact with the Wimbledon Egyptians, as the hive was sometimes called, the more daring London dandies had taken to coloured shirts, sashes about the waist, and the odd gold bracelet or two. Dama had needed to be very firm indeed with his more modish drones. Mr Rabiffano, as the world’s only fashionable werewolf, had remained amused and aloof from it all.

  Baroness Tunstell, though a vampire queen, never lost her suspicion of other vampires. Her close friendship with Rue’s soulless mother and werewolf Paw left her pro-werewolf in a way that had not been seen in a vampire for centuries. Thus Baroness Tunstell was considered by the supernatural set to be quite modern. Countess Nadasdy, queen of the nearby Woolsey Hive had been heard to call her, on more than one occasion, both fast and forward. In vampires, that was almost a sign of respect.

  But for Primrose, who’d gone up against the Baroness of Wimbledon’s overprotective nature since she was born, and for Rue, who’d often been included in the smothering, Aunt Ivy was a problem. Being a vampire queen in control of a twitchy transplanted hive full of foreigners only exacerbated a temperament ill-suited to either command or parenting. It was just like Aunt Ivy to send one of her vampires after her daughter when there was no sign of danger. And even more like her not to acknowledge what a tremendous social faux pas this was.

  Primrose was mortified. “Oh, Lord Akeldama, I do apologise! How horribly rude. I am abjectly sorry.”

  The blond vampire relaxed, but only slightly. A hive-bound vampire simply did not visit the house of a rove without sending a card first! Such matters of etiquette existed for very good reasons.

  Rue was annoyed on Dama’s behalf and amused by her friend’s discomfort. Prim was usually so poised. “Really, Prim, doesn’t your mother ever learn?”

  Prim hurried to gather up her wrap and reticule. “Sadly, no. I apologise again, Lord Akeldama. Please excuse me. Rue, I’ll call tomorrow. Just after sunset?” She bobbed a curtsey and blew them both a quick kiss before hurrying to intercept her mother’s vampire before he actually caused an incident by trying to enter Dama’s home, without invitation.

  Rue watched her friend depart. “Why must we be cursed with such troublesome parents?”

  “My dear Puggle,” objected her Dama in mock injury, “what could you possibly be implying?”

  Rue shifted next to him and carefully rested her head on his well-padded shoulder. “Oh, not you, of course, Dama. Never you.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  FOR QUEEN AND CUSTARD

  R

  ue watched her mother’s face for signs of distress.

  The aristocratic features remained inscrutable except for a slight flare of the nostrils. Rue touched her own nose, checking for signs of expansion. It was a characteristic mannerism adopted whenever she was in Mother’s company. She’d developed it as a child, worried that her nose might suddenly, out of envy, begin to grow into a similar beak. It hadn’t yet but it still might.

  Rue’s mother wrinkled said protuberance and swished the tea carefully about her mouth as though she were a French wine expert in imminent danger of expectorating. Except, of course, that Mother never expectorated. Apart from the indecorous idea of an aristocrat spitting, she would abhor the waste of tea.

  Rue had never entirely forgiven her mother for naming her Prudence. Despite a shared and inexplicable love for treacle tart, their relationship was contentious at best and combative the rest of the time.

  Rue’s mother was a veritable battle-axe, boasting a shape not unlike that of a tragic soprano in a Germanic opera, only with less inclination to throw herself off bridges. In fact, she was not overly demonstrative about anything, least of all bridges. Not that Rue felt she suffered from the lack. As muhjah to Queen Victoria herself, Mother had an empire to manage which should take precedent over such inconsequential distractions as fashion, household management and child-rearing. All three of which she left in the capable hands of Dama. With good reason, for if asked, Rue had no doubt that Mother would have stated, in tones of mild disgust, that the vampire was not only better at such mundanities, but actually appeared to enjoy them.

  Her mother took another sip of the tea and then rendered judgement. “Aggressive malt overtones, lots of smoke, a little like licking the inside of a fireplace.”

  Rue added, “In the best possible way, I’m sure she means to say, Dama.”

  Dama, perched on the edge of his seat like some brightly coloured bird, nodded. “Like Lapsang?”

  “Yes. Lapsang, but brighter, more acidic tones. Good for blends, I’d hazard a guess. And Lapsang does very well these days, I am given to understand.” Rue’s mother put the tea-cup down as firmly as if it were a dog she had just instructed to stay.

  Rue added, “Oh yes, it’s served in only the very best drawing rooms.”

  Dama positively gleamed in excitement. “Ah, my dearest, darling, Alexia bonbon, I knew you would have all my answers for me.” He might even have bounced slightly.

  Rue’s mother determined that settled the subject, and turned to her daughter. “And what have you been up to this evening, infant?”

  Rue bridled at the tone of her mother’s voice. She wished she could act like someone else around Mother – pretend to be Uncle Rabiffano, for example. But it was useless to even try: her mother always brought out the worst in Rue. Which is to say, Rue’s actual personality proved impossible to repress and all acting ability deserted her. When Lady Maccon used that tone of voice Rue was irreversibly thirteen again. “I was at the Fenchurches’ ball with Primrose, as I informed you I would be. Would you believe the Stilton on the cheese plate was misplaced? And they had the latest floating dirigible lighting arrangement from Quimble’s – a ridiculous expense. And Mrs Fenchurch was positively vulgar – she must have worn an entire breastplate of diamonds.”

  Dama obligingly switched his delight from tea to gossip. “Were they paste? I’d wager they were paste. His business concerns have taken a tragic downturn recently, did you hear? Very weak indeed.”

  Unlike Dama, Rue’s mother was not to be misdirected. “Ah, then you weren’t running through London in your bloomers? Oh good. I did hear this wild rumour about a werewolf in bloomers. And I thought to myself, here now, none of my dear husband’s pack are that experimental.”

  Dama looked intrigued. “Are you quite certain?”

  Rue snickered, imagining the fuzzy uncles in bloomers. She could see, perhaps, on a lark, some of Dama’s drones bouncing about in lacy pantaloons, but not a werewolf. They were much more dignif
ied.

  “You must be mistaken, Mother.” She stopped smiling and tried to be prim, crossing her hands delicately in her lap in a modest manner.

  Mother tapped her parasol, an impossibly ugly accessory she dragged with her everywhere day or night, dinner party or ball. “Yes, I suppose I must. You couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with, perhaps, the acquisition of this unusual tea?”

  Rue looked affronted. “I’ve no idea to what you are referring, Mother.”

  Accustomed to her daughter’s stubbornness, Lady Maccon turned to the vampire. Her famous Italian glare pierced Dama. “What’s are you two hiding?”

  Dama looked equally innocent. “Us? Nothing, gooseberry pearl. Nothing at all.”

  Lady Maccon leaned forward and grabbed Dama’s hand. At the contact, the vampire turned mortal. Her power wasn’t like Rue’s – she didn’t take on the vampire’s abilities, and the effect wouldn’t last once she let go, but she did turn him human. It was this skill that made her soulless, and made most vampires loathe her upon the very realisation of her preternatural state. Of course, once her personality asserted itself, vampires tended to loathe Rue’s mother for her own sake.

  “Lord Akeldama, I will not have you involving my daughter in some seedy tea extraction mission!”

  Dama sat back, affronted. “My darling girl.”

  Rue leapt to his defence. “When has Dama ever done anything even remotely seedy?”

  “Of course, infant, permit me to rephrase. I will not allow you to involve my daughter in some stylish tea extraction mission, either.”

  “Could we say ‘stylish tea infusion mission’?” Dama suggested meekly.

  Rue was not going to let her mother coerce her Dama. She mounted a secondary defence. “Pish-tosh, Mother. May I kindly remind you that I am all grown up and perfectly capable of making my own tea-related decisions.”