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 th
ink 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.
CHAPTER SIX
A LIONESS IN A TEAHOUSE
O
f course, it was startling. It’s simply not the thing one expects of a teahouse, even when travelling abroad, even miles up in an airship docking tower. Especially not miles up in an airship docking tower. But there was most assuredly a lioness among them. She came in through the front door, setting the bells tinkling like any ordinary patron, and then setting everyone screaming. Rue thought this a little much; after all, if a lioness wanted tea, why not give it to her? The animal in question was a sleek, beautiful creature, all golden fur and rippling muscles, but apparently intent on wreaking carnage and not on ordering tea. Whatever else was going on in that furry head, the cat clearly did not appreciate teahouses.
Do cats, Rue wondered, as a rule object to teahouses? If so, then there is something very much to be said in favour of dogs.
“But there is a sign!” objected Primrose in semi-shock. “A sign indicating pets aren’t permitted. Really, some people.”
While Primrose protested the indelicacy of it all, Rue resorted to some of Dama’s less official training. She shoved their table over and grabbed Prim by the arm, pulling her down to take refuge behind it. Not that the lioness was firing projectiles, but Rue thought that at least if they were out of sight they might enjoy a modicum of safety.
Everyone else ran for the door or the kitchen.
Quesnel, with disturbing calm, stripped off his jacket and rolled up one shirtsleeve to expose an emission device strapped to his wrist. It looked like it might shoot long bullets or possibly darts.
He crouched down behind the table. It was a tight fit for three, two of them in walking gowns, for it was after all only a tea table. Quesnel peeked around one side, wrist up, and aimed.
“No clear shot,” he said, turning to the ladies. “That beast is fast.”
People were yelling, furniture crashed, teapots shattered. The lioness was intent on maximum ruckus, overturning all the tables while servers stumbled out of her way, cakes flew through the air and the bells on the door reverberated as patrons pressed together seeking exit. There was panic everywhere but…
Rue straightened up to look over the edge of their makeshift barricade.
“What are you doing? Stay down!”
Rue batted Quesnel’s restraining hand away. “She’s not hurting anyone.”
“What?”
“The lioness, she’s not actually doing anything to people. It’s only objects. Right now, she is savaging a sweets tray.”
Prim remonstrated: “Rue, she has upset many perfectly decent pots of tea. I call that a serious offence, if nothing else.”
One huge paw appeared on the edge of their table-top, then another, and then a smooth sandy-coloured head peaked over and looked at them. The cat’s whiskers twitched, giving her an aura of a
ccusation. Rue had a horrible moment of swallowing down laughter – it was as if they were playing a game of hide and seek.
She met the cat’s gaze. Oddly enough, the animal had brown eyes. Rue didn’t think cats could have brown eyes. But then, who was she to question anyone else’s eye colour? Given hers were an odd sort of yellow.
Quesnel raised his wrist and took aim.
“Wait, stop.” Rue put a hand on his arm above where the weapon was strapped and pushed down. Quesnel resisted. He was remarkably strong. Rue took a moment to be impressed – he didn’t look physically fit.
Rue and the cat stared at one another.
The lioness blinked.
Rue blinked back. “I don’t think she intends to hurt us. I don’t think she means to hurt anyone.”
The cat tilted her head back and forth, gaze sliding between the three of them. She looked at Primrose for a long moment and then, in an amazingly fluid movement, she leapt over the table, grabbed Rue’s hideous parasol up in her mouth, turned, and charged out of the tea-shop by way of one of the front windows. Which were not open, mind you. The resulting crash resulted in several more screams. Pandemonium reigned outside in the assembly area as the cat skidded through the crowds there, parasol firmly clutched in her teeth.
Rue was not amused. “Come back here, you mangy beast! That’s my mother’s parasol.” Rue hiked up her skirts, regardless of showing ankle to the entire tower, and gave case.
Quesnel and Prim, still crouched behind the table, barely registered her impetuous action. Both tried to rise at once and got caught up in the tea things and each other so that by the time they reached the broken window of the tea-shop, both lioness and Rue had vanished into the milieu of the Maltese Tower.
Rue chased the parasol and the cat through the crowd. The assembled personnel seemed mainly annoyed by the disturbance. A few were quite upset by a rampaging lioness with an ugly accessory in her jaws – but their concern seemed more to do with the risk to the parasol rather than the presence of the lioness. Rue also garnered dirty looks. After all, since she was chasing after the beast, they assumed it was her lioness off-lead. The cat relaxed into an easy loping pace, fast enough so that Rue could not catch her but slow enough for her black tail tip to be ever beyond Rue’s reach, like an extremely frustrating fishing lure. Rue wished one of her father’s pack were nearby – if she could steal wolf form for a while she could certainly catch the blasted creature. Not that any werewolf could withstand being up so high and so close to the aetherosphere.
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