The lioness dodged between two food booths – one which dealt in fish and chips, the other smelling of curry. Behind the stands was a shanty town of dockworkers’ hovels made of old scrap metal and stretched fabric. Laundry dangled between and above the makeshift structures. Rue charged through, blissfully unaware of the impracticality of a lady of means running with skirts hiked up – and no bloomers – into what amounted to a sky-high slum.
The cat flicked inside one of the not-quite-buildings and Rue paused, suddenly aware of her surroundings. There were only a few people visible but she had the distinct impression of many eyes upon her. This was someone’s home she was about to enter, without invitation. Dama’s face appeared before her, finger shaking madly. Vampires were very taken with proper invitations. Then again, there was a lioness inside with her parasol! If anyone could think of a better excuse for barging in uninvited, she’d like to hear it.
So Rue barged.
There was no door, only a weight of bright material hanging long and heavy in the entranceway. Rue parted it and cleared her throat. “Um, pardon me, is anyone home?”
No answer.
“Yoo-hoo. May I come in, please? It seems your lioness has possession of my accessory.”
When still no one answered, Rue pushed through the fabric.
It was dim inside after the brightness of the station with all its gas lighting and colourful activity. It took Rue’s all-too-human eyes a moment to adjust. She simply stood still and waited.
The room was tiny, pleasantly furnished with a mismatch of crates draped in bright swathes of cloth and pretty cushions of varying shapes and sizes – so many pillows, in fact, that they fell about littering the carpeted floor. Glass baubles, strings of shells, golden fringe, and large tassels dangled from hooks and protuberances. It reminded Rue of a fortune-teller’s caravan or possibly a peddler’s covered wagon. Not that she’d had occasion to see many, but she could imagine what they might look like.
It was empty. No cat. No parasol.
Then out of the shadows and through a curtain of wooden beads walked the most unbelievably beautiful woman Rue had ever seen.
Rue’s perspective on beauty was not confined to those of British high society, although she could certainly see Prim’s loveliness, a classic English rose with milky complexion and dark chestnut curls. She could also see the Nordic beauty in her troublesome Uncle Channing for all his objectionable arrogance and uncertain temper, a chilly combination of ice and ivory. But she could also see beauty in the Fisk Jubilee Singers, all ebony and lace and sweet melodies, and in the copper-coloured drones Aunt Ivy had inherited with her Egyptian vampire hive.
This woman’s skin was a dark tea colour, her eyes huge and almond-shaped. Her cheekbones were high enough to etch glass and her neck was long and impossibly graceful. Her nose might be a tad assertive by British standards, straight and dominant, and her lips, though full and well-shaped, were set firm.
Rue’s breath actually whooshed out of her.
Finally she breathed in and coughed. All she could think to say was, “Are you on the stage? You should be.”
The women looked nonplussed and then, in a subtle shift of posture, she changed, becoming less showy and more dangerous about her beauty. Rue watched this, flabbergasted. How had she done it? Here was an acting skill Rue did not possess. Primrose, for most of their adult life, had used her appearance as if it were some delectable dessert. For the first time Rue realised that beauty might also be applied with power, like a particularly stinky but highly desirable cheese. Rue knew that she herself could never pass for anything more than cute. What does that make me in the after-dinner beauty metaphor? she wondered. The digestif? A sweet, alcoholic afterthought with possible vicious consequences.
By that time the shock had worn off, and Rue could feel every hackle she had inherited from her werewolf father rise. If she had been in wolf form, her tail and ears would be down and her canines exposed. As it was, she smoothed out her skirts, straightened her spine and prepared to do battle with every tool from her other father’s repertoire. Unless she had missed her guess, the best approach was to be very polite and outwardly ridiculous. She reached for her vampire father’s personality and donned it as is if were some sparkly diamond make.
“How do you do?” she said. “Amazing!” She waved a hand about, taking in the colourful surroundings. “Charming fabric and cushions and things you have here.” Perhaps not her best opening sally, but true.
The woman was taken aback, but she clearly spoke English and knew some etiquette, for her response was a musically accented, “How do you do, Lady Prudence?”
“Ah, you know my name – we are already acquainted?” Rue was certain she would have remembered.
“No, but I have been eager to meet you since I learnt of your existence.”
Rue winced. Was this stunning female one of those fanatics? The ones crazy to encounter a real live metanatural? How disappointing. Rue tried to change the subject. “Was that your lioness I met recently?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Rue followed this line of thought, familiar as she was with Footnote and Dama’s Madam Pudgemuffin. “Ah yes, cats – difficult to speak of in terms of ownership as a rule. I’m afraid she rather, um, borrowed something from me.”
“Indeed?” The woman glided forward slightly. She wore a long robe of white silk. “Is this the object in question?” She produced Rue’s parasol from some fold of her attire. It looked, if possible, more ugly by contrast to such impossible loveliness.
The flowing swathes of fabric seemed to be all the strange woman wore. They wrapped up once about her head like the veil of a mourner, around her body, and then draped back over her shoulder in a cascade. Her dark hair was long and loose and aggressively straight, and she wore no jewellery or cosmetics of any kind. Rue suspected this woman of being bare-footed as well – her steps were absolutely silent. Rue sniffed but could detect no prominent smell – perhaps a hint of amber but nothing more. She wished, once again, for wolf form.
The woman handed the parasol to Rue. It seemed none the worse for fangs and a bit of cat slobber.
“Thank you very much, miss…?” Rue trailed off, hoping for an indication of identity.
“You may call me Sekhmet.”
Without doubt that was not the woman’s real name.
“Very well, then. Thank you, Miss Sekhmet.”
Rue turned to leave, oddly frightened to present her back. If they were not hundreds of storeys up in the air, she would have said that this woman was supernatural. But no vampire queen would go unprotected or live in a slum, quite apart from the fact that a vampire tethered to the Maltese Tower would be known throughout the empire. And no werewolf Rue had ever heard of could withstand heights. Wolves could handle travel by sea but not by air.
Rue was almost at the door when that smooth voice lilted at her: “A moment more of your time, if you would be so kind, skin-stalker?” Her English really was good.
This encounter had rapidly taken a turn from extremely odd to entirely surreal. Rue turned back and the woman approached. Rue realised that she had been wrong. She did wear jewellery – a single chain about her neck from which dangled two small charms – one looked like a sword and the other a shield.
“Trust me, Miss Sekhmet, you have my attention.” As I am certain you are accustomed.
A tiny smile tilted the lady’s full lips. “I am one of those who respects what you are and does not fear it. There are few – very few, I am sad to say – like me left to fight for your rights, skin-stalker. None of them is in India. I would not go there, if I were you.”
Rue frowned. “How did you know I was going to India?”
No answer.
“Well, while I appreciate the warning, you must understand that I can’t change my plans on the whim of some stranger in robes.”
“Plans? Then you are being sent to India on purpose? So you know? And your parents – they know too?” A pause. “Th
is is not good.”
No, thought Rue, this isn’t good. Obviously this Sekhmet represents a counter-tea interest, after the new plants. And foolishly I’ve revealed too much. Rue plucked at her parasol, brushing away cat saliva. Yech. She stumbled on, awkwardly, intent upon giving away nothing further. “Nice as you seem, Miss Sekhmet, and grateful as I am for the return of my…”
She trailed off. She was speaking to an empty room. The beautiful woman had vanished. Rue poked about, searching the small space, three rooms all similarly covered in colourful cloth and pillows, and no evidence of the woman, the lioness, or even a regular occupant.
Rue made her way back through the station. The tea-shop was closed and men in black uniforms with a white cross insignia were picking their way through the wreckage. Not wishing to attract unwelcome official attention, Rue decided it was best not to present herself.
Quesnel and Primrose were nowhere to be found. Rue was not particularly concerned. Nor did she feel abandoned. If Quesnel was a gentlemen, which Rue suspected he was – deep down, duck ponds notwithstanding – he would take pains to see Prim back to The Spotted Custard safely before returning with reinforcements to find Rue. A smart man would bring Aggie Phinkerlington – that woman could scare the willies out of anyone. Even a lioness.
Disorientated, Rue set out to walk around the circle, figuring she’d eventually recognise something. The station was no less crowded, but Rue felt less of a spectacle alone and accompanied only by her parasol. Still, she was well aware of the danger of being without a chaperone in a strange station. She cocked an ear. No one was even speaking English! Shockingly, the common language seemed to be some form of Italian.
As a result, Rue was on her guard when a whisper of a presence sidled up next to her.
She was profoundly relieved to find it was only a smallish, thinnish female. She was uncomfortably close, touching Rue and keeping pace. The woman was shrouded in cloth, including her head. Unlike Miss Sekhmet, her robes were colourful. Rue might have thought she was merely pressed close by the crowd except that she said, quite distinctly, “Puggle?”
At first Rue thought she misheard – it was such an out-of-place word to come from that figure in this location. Like seeing a kingfisher with a diploma.
“Are you… Puggle?” The woman’s accent was strong but not so strong that Rue could misinterpret.
The only thing visible, her dark eyes, were intent and serious.
Only Dama called Rue Puggle. She got excited, realising what this meant. “Oh, is this…? Oh my goodness! Are you trying to have a clandestine encounter with me? Espionage and codes and such?” She almost clapped her hands. “Oh, please tell me you have a secret message?”
“Ah, I see you are much as family lore described.”
Rue was taken aback. “Have we met before?”
“Not so much as either of us might remember. My name is Anitra.”
“Oh, ah, I see,” said Rue, not seeing at all. Clearly the name should mean something, but it didn’t. Although it was very pretty.
At Rue’s obvious confusion Anitra added, “My people,” she paused, soft and delicate, “float.”
Rue shook her head.
“Ah well, we do like to be forgotten.” Anitra shrugged under the swathes of fabric. “I have something for you from Goldenrod.”
This confused Rue further. “Pardon?” Was Goldenrod one of the fated specialist tea contacts?
“You left precipitously – he was not best pleased.” Anitra tutted in disgust and then reached into the folds of her robes and produced a slim literary volume. “I am to give you this, should he need to communicate with you.”
It was an innocuous book, cheaply made with a pink canvas cover, without a doubt some ill-informed travel guide from a London publisher. It was so utterly unexpected and out of character that Rue took it automatically, stopping right there in the tower street to glance it over.
Rue opened it to the title page and read out, her voice rising with incredulity, “Sand and Shadows on a Sapphire Sea: My Adventures Abroad by Honeysuckle Isinglass? A young lady’s travel journal. But these are two a penny in the bookshops back home. Why on earth would I need…?”
But for the second time in as many minutes, Rue found herself abandoned by a female in the middle of conversation. “Goodness, hasn’t anyone any manners on this station?” she asked the disinterested crowd.
Then, looking up, she noticed to her relief that she had found her way to The Spotted Custard. Or at least found her way back to the doorway leading to its dock. Her ship bobbed softly outside the glass some distance away. She did not consider the fact that as they walked together, Anitra had been guiding her back.
Clutching her rescued parasol in one hand and Sand and Shadows on a Sapphire Sea in the other, Rue headed home. She felt that she had had enough cryptic encounters with mysterious females to last a lifetime. After all, that was three in less than a half-hour – if one counted the lioness.
As it turned out, Rue was the last aboard. The deckhands were already pulling in the mooring ropes as she trotted down the spatula handle towards The Spotted Custard. Prim and Percy were on the poop deck in deep discussion.
As Rue made her way up the gangplank, Spoo saw her and gave a wave.
“Lady Captain, where you been?” the scamp wanted to know.
“Nowhere special.”
“Had us worried, you did.” Spoo was sporting a spectacular black eye. Rue didn’t feel they were on intimate enough terms to ask why.
“Apologies, Spoo.” As Rue put her foot on the main deck a large blond bullet hit her from the side and twirled her around so that her back was pressed flush against the railing.
Quesnel grabbed her by the shoulders and actually began to shake her. “Don’t do that!”
“Mr Lefoux, unhand me!” objected Rue, whacking at him with Sand and Shadows on a Sapphire Sea and greatly tempted to use the parasol. Such impudence.
The gentleman in question seemed to have temporarily lost hold of his senses.
He pulled her in and wrapped his arms about her in a rather nice hug which Rue tried to imagine was like that of one of her many uncles but which was neither scruffy nor fruity-smelling, and gave her heart a little boost in a way the uncles never had. For one breathless moment she thought he might actually kiss her, right there at the end of the gangplank in full view of her crew, with blatant disregard for all propriety. He drew back and looked at her lips, his violet eyes very focused, but then he merely hugged her again. His hands pressed hard against her back. She fancied she could feel the roughness through the many layers of her dress. They must be rough, all that handling of sprockets and spigots and such.
Eventually, Rue managed to extract herself. “Mr Lefoux!” she said severely, because she ought.
“How could you?” said the engineer, looking more harried than it suited his customary persona of urbane intellectual meets boyishly charming flirt.
“How could I what?” Rue replied, attempting to make reparations to her hair, which had survived a mad dash across the Maltese Tower but not the enthusiastic regard of her chief engineer.
“Just disappear like that, running off after a raging lioness? I thought we had lost you. I thought you’d end up disembowelled in the nearest warehouse. I was just about to mount a rescue. Spoo was going to come, weren’t you, Spoo?”
“Of course I was,” said Spoo, looking forthright.
“Well, as you can see, you thought wrong. I found the parasol but not the cat.” It was pretty close to the truth of the matter.
Quesnel took a deep breath, rediscovering his devil-may-care self. “Of course you did, mon petit chou, so silly of me to doubt you.” He backed away. Rue wondered which was really the act – his previous concern or his standard behaviour.
“Exactly. Now, is everyone else back on board?” Rue looked over at Prim who was smiling at Rue’s discomfort and Quesnel’s display of concern, and Percy who was frowning down at his book.
&nbs
p; Percy ignored her question but Prim glanced at a roster. She had scripted it neatly, like a party invitation, on pale yellow paper.
“Looks like,” said she, running one glove-covered finger down the list and whispering out a count. “Yes, everyone back except you. Shall we get on?”
“By all means,” replied Rue, skirting around Quesnel at a wary distance. The Frenchman ran his hands through his hair distractedly. He then realised he’d knocked off his hat when he’d grabbed Rue and went looking for it. By the time it had been recovered, Spoo having chased it down the gangplank, he was calmness itself, and Rue had made her way up to navigation.
“Professor Tunstell?”
Percy put down his book and took up position without looking at her, the sourpuss.
Rue turned back to Quesnel. “Chief engineer?”
Rue fancied she sensed a certain reluctance to go below, which was ridiculous, of course. Quesnel was simply an emotional Frenchman who had thought her dead and reacted as he would a missing sister.
He gave her a cheery smile. “Delighted you retrieved your parasol, captain.”
Rue looked down at the item in question. “Oh, yes, me too. Gift from my mother. Hideous, of course, but it has sentimental value.”
“Of course it does.” Quesnel looked at the parasol as though it hid some secret and then he disappeared below.
Rue turned to her topside crew, giving Percy the nod. “Prepare for float-off, Professor Tunstell.”
Prudence Page 13
