Competence Page 10

  Primrose, as ship’s purser, went in search of supplies in Moresby, only this time she took Quesnel and Tasherit with her. Rue might very well leave any two of them behind, but she wouldn’t dare abandon all three.

  Primrose found some unfamiliar fresh vegetables that looked tasty - that’s assuming they were, in fact, vegetables. If they were actually fruit, she wasn’t so certain. Either way, they would likely shock Cook into apoplexy. Cook was very good with pastries, which is why Rue valued him so highly, but he was, to be fair, not exactly fantastic with strange vegetative matter. Percy said that Mr Tarabotti called his cooking mush, and Prim half-heartedly agreed with this assessment. It may not be fashionable to prefer her vegetables with a bit of colour and texture to them, but she did. So far as Prim was concerned, the grey need not permeate food as well as atmosphere when they were floating the high currents. That was taking things too far.

  She wondered if she might speak with Mr Tarabotti on the subject of food. Perhaps he had thoughts on techniques she might encourage Cook to try. Especially with those vegetables neither she nor Cook had ever encountered before.

  Emboldened by optimism, Prim purchased several large bunches of very green things, which no doubt would give Cook hysterics but might prove tasty with the application of Italians.

  They made it back to the ship in very good time and without being abandoned.

  Percy was wandering around the main deck looking stuck-up and arrogant - more so than usual, which was a sure sign of worry. They were headed out over the open ocean of the South Pacific next. It was a rarely travelled route. He’d found only two recorded currents, and both would require multiple jumps through the Charybdis. That was assuming no major shifting had occurred since last they were charted. It was going to be a dangerous journey.

  The Spotted Custard was not a long-haul airship. She was designed for world travel, but only in short stints. This particular route would put them almost ten days in the grey, divided into two legs. Primrose herself wasn’t comfortable with that from the supply side of the equation. Ten days of travel without a wheystation pushed their reserves. Fresh water would have to be restricted to drinking and cooking only. If her brother was off at all in any of his calculations, they’d have to ration. And they would be using Swiss milk for tea, which Rue loathed more than anything. Swiss milk would make their captain even more grumpy than usual.

  Prim worried about Tasherit too. Almost a fortnight without food or drink? Even deep in dreamland, would she survive undamaged?

  Back aboard and decoupling from the station for float-off, Primrose touched the lioness’s hand, hesitantly.

  “Ten days asleep, you’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  “You worry, little one?”

  “Of course I do. You’re part of the crew, it’s my job to worry.”

  “Your job. Only that?” The werecat looked wistful.

  “So you won’t starve?”

  “I am an immortal.”

  “You can’t starve?” Prim fiddled with one glove, missing the bump of the engagement ring beneath it. She found the times when the werecat focused solely on her rather unsettling. Tasherit’s brown eyes were painfully direct.

  “I can, yes, but not to death. And ten days is nothing compared to…”

  “Compared to what?”

  Tasherit reached forward, slowly, as though Primrose would leap away, and pressed the frown wrinkle in Prim’s forehead with one soft thumb. “None of that, memories is all. I will be fine. And this is a good thing. I shall sleep through full moon.”

  Prim considered the lunar calendar. “Oh, yes you will. That’s fine then. Replacing your scratching mats is getting a little expensive.”

  “Always so sensible, my little one.”

  The possessive made Primrose uncomfortable, even though she knew it was only a cat’s way. So she tried to change the subject.

  “Before you sleep, before we make the grey again, you should eat a full meal.”

  “A good idea. You’ll join me?”

  Prim said quickly, “I’ll call the others. We’ll make a formal gathering of it.”

  “Of course, the others.” Tasherit’s tone was disappointed.

  Primrose hurried on. “In fifteen minutes or so, let me just tell Rue.”

  Rue was amenable to a slight pause for a formal meal before they took to the aetherosphere. So Prim arranged for an early supper and a quiet gathering without too much pressure on Cook to formally provide.

  “Cold pies and cut fruit and cheese is sufficient,” she assured the red-faced man. He snorted at her and made certain there was pudding, because that’s all Rue would really remember anyway.

  Prim attempted to be relentlessly cheerful as she presided over the meal. Rue, although captain and technically in charge, always let Prim take head of table and lead the discussion. Primrose enjoyed social niceties and the etiquette of address, and she was good at it. She was also good at passing around corner dishes and pouring the tea without trailing her sleeves in either.

  Tasherit sat to her right, as she often did, in defiance of precedence. Well, I suppose we are all friends here. The werecat ate mostly meat and cheese and drank mostly cream or milk. Rue sat to Prim’s left, and then Quesnel. Percy slunk in late and slumped next to Tash, with Anitra on his other side.

  Prim asked everyone how their day had been, and whether they felt their stations and crew were prepared for the longer float. She wished, privately, that Mr Tarabotti were available for meals - he might better balance their numbers and conversation. The higher ranks of the Spotted Custard leaned in favour of women. However, the very notion was ridiculous: one couldn’t simply have an Italian murderer at table, no matter whose cousin he may be.

  Formerly Floote was there, but he disliked actually sitting with them. He preferred to hover off to one side, perhaps in memory of his years as a butler. Or perhaps so he might observe without interruption. It was not as if he could partake.

  Everything seemed to be going as well as might be expected. Until Percy looked up, turned slightly, and said to Anitra, “Miss Anitra, what exactly does aravani mean?”

  Anitra dropped her fork with a clatter and her dark eyes went very big. “Sir! How did you hear such a word?”

  Percy, ignoring (or unaware of) her distress, popped a cherry-like fruit into his mouth and said, “Mr Tarabotti used it to describe you. He called you a lovely aravani. I tried to look the word up, but it seems neither Latin nor Greek nor Italian nor anything else I could find.”

  Anitra flinched and looked down at her hands where they rested near the dropped fork. They were strong and covered with pretty gold rings and bracelets. She had a certain style to her dress that Primrose very much admired. Of course, it was not proper British attire, but Anitra was a Drifter not an Englishwoman. Tonight she wore a long tunic of deep blue over multiple flowing skirts. Her head was draped in a black veil held in place with a blood-red diadem embroidered in gold thread. Her hair showed from under the veil as two long braids - very long, for they fell well past her waist and had red tassels at the ends.

  Anitra said, awkwardly trying to deflect Percy’s probing question, “It is not a word my people would use.”

  “Oh,” said Percy, “then it is not Arabic nor Amharic or…”

  “No, it’s not.” Anitra had stopped examining her hands and was staring down at her food, fiercely. “It is something from India or perhaps one of the nomadic peoples nearby. Drifter cousins, if you would.”

  “Then why should our Italian friend use such a word?” Percy was only getting more curious, and he had no empathy at all. Primrose would have kicked him under the table except that he always sat out of reach of her boot.

  “He is a well-travelled man, Mr Tarabotti. It is likely the only word he knows to use.” Anitra stood at that. “If you will excuse me, I am feeling a little unwell.” And then she rushed from the room.

  Primrose glared at her brother. “Oh, Pe
rcy!”

  Percy looked with great surprise after the departing lady and then turned back to those left around the table. “What? What did I say?”

  Quesnel pointed a small gherkin at him with his knife. “You, my fine young friend, are an absolute imbecile.”

  Percy did not dignify that with an answer, turning his gaze on Primrose. “What have I done now?”

  Prim fell back into her customary role of trying to explain things to her clueless brother. “That word clearly makes her uncomfortable. It’s possible that it means something quite rude.”

  Rue now glared at Percy with mild annoyance. Although she never found him as annoying as Primrose did.

  “Surely not.” Percy returned to his meal.

  “Why not?” Primrose asked him, grinding her teeth.

  “Well,” said Percy, “It’s a very pretty word and Rodrigo said it in such a very nice way.”

  “Rodrigo, is it?” Primrose narrowed her eyes at her twin. “Just how chummy are you getting with that horrid man?”

  “Oh, he’s a decent sort.”

  “Percival Tunstell.” Prim tried to keep her tone under control. They were, after all, still at table. “That man is many things, but decent is not one of them. You go after Anitra and apologise to her this instant!”

  “Oh, but Tiddles, I haven’t finished my—”

  Primrose brought her wineglass (empty, thank heavens) down heavily on the tabletop. “Now!”

  Percy grabbed an apple-looking thing from the centrepiece arrangement and stood, leaving the room as ordered.

  Prim could only hope he caught Anitra before she locked herself in her private quarters. And that he not ask the girl any more personal questions.

  “Well done, Miss Tunstell,” said Formerly Floote’s quiet voice.

  “Thank you, sir. I do apologise for losing my temper. My brother would try the patience of a saint. That poor girl. Aravani probably means something horrible and crass.”

  Formerly Floote did not offer to explain. Which Prim felt was a good thing, or her ears might burn with mortification.

  “Well,” said Quesnel, looking smug, “that was dramatic.”

  Prim sighed and reached for the decanter to refill her wineglass.

  Next to her, Tasherit went suddenly quite still.

  “Miss Primrose,” said the werecat, more formal than usual.

  Pleased with the correct address, Prim turned a radiant smile on her dining companion. “Yes, Miss Sekhmet?”

  The werecat’s eyes, liquid and luminous, were fierce and concentrated on Prim’s bare fingers. “You are not wearing your ring.”

  Prim drew her hand back quickly, nervous and self-conscious. “No. No, I am not.”

  Across the table and down, Rue sat back in her chair, crossed her arms, and looked very interested in whatever was going to happen next.

  Quesnel glanced at the hand in question. “Oh dear, Miss Prim, have you had a falling-out with Lieutenant Plonks? I thought you were quite fond of his—”

  He was abruptly cut off when Rue, obviously and with no attempt to hide the gesture, elbowed him in the side.

  Quesnel pressed on, grinning, his remarkable violet eyes twinkling in delight. “Quite fond of his legs.”

  Primrose narrowed her eyes. At table, no less! Really, the officers aboard this ship were barely civilised. “Yes, indeed I was.”

  Tasherit let out a slight hissing noise, like air escaping a ballast balloon.

  Prim refused to look at her. “But he, as it turns out, was not so very fond of me.”

  Quesnel looked at Rue in shock, then back at Primrose. “He broke it off?”

  Prim inclined her head, haughty. “He did.”

  “He is a fool,” said Tasherit fervently.

  Primrose felt herself go hot. It was humiliating to have her private affairs aired like this, over supper. Without her ring, they were bound to figure it out eventually, but to say something about it, to her face and across the dinner table, was really taking things too far.

  It ate at her. The embarrassment at being discarded. The guilt of having engaged herself to someone on the basis of his legs, although she could not, for the life of her, think of a better reason. After all, she had liked something about him. Prim’s embarrassment had another component. Something sunk at the pit of her stomach, where it curled, making her nauseous. Something that had to do with Tasherit noticing that Prim was found wanting by others.

  Suddenly Primrose felt that she’d sampled a little too much of the excellent wine. Her head ached. She stood up.

  “Well, on that note, I believe I, too, shall retire. I think Percy said we would hit the grey in two hours and then puff up twice to catch the correct current. I recommend we all strap down our breakables and prepare for a bumpy float.”

  Tasherit stood when she did and put out a hand.

  Primrose pretended not to notice and fled the room feeling just this side of humiliated.

  Percy tried to apologise to Anitra, but by the time he caught up to her, she’d already closeted herself inside her room. He was no cad to attempt to follow a lady into her private quarters. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologising for. He’d only asked for a word to be defined, nothing salacious. Purely academic inquiry.

  As long as I live, thought Percy, I shall never understand the nuances of dinnertime conversation. He sighed and turned back down the hallway. Wondering if it was safe to return to supper or if he was better off retreating to his own quarters, waiting out the general discomfort, and begging something more to eat from Virgil later.

  Then he heard voices.

  His sister and Tasherit stood in front of Prim’s door a short way away, engaged in a fiercely combative discussion in low voices.

  He didn’t mean to pry, of course. But they were right there in the hallway and didn’t seem to notice him closing in on them. He froze, unsure of what he should do in these circumstances.

  “You didn’t think it necessary to tell me?” the werecat hissed.

  Prim threw her head back in that maddening way of hers that said she was better than you and that the conversation you were forcing her to have was beneath her. “Why should I single you out for a private confidence of such delicacy?”

  “You were free. You are free. And you said nothing!” Tasherit twitched. Percy fancied he could see her metaphorical tail lashing.

  “It’s embarrassing!” Primrose’s tone was the height of frustrated.

  “It’s important. You are free. You can be mine now.” Tasherit sidled in closer, in a way Percy wouldn’t have dared when his sister was in such a temper.

  “I am not a kipper for you to claim!” Prim’s voice turned high and strident and breathy. Percy had never heard his sister like that before, not even at her most volatile.

  Tasherit leaned forward. “Please be mine now.”

  Percy thought how much it must pain a cat to beg.

  She tapped at Prim’s shoulders, petted, tentative and hopeful, but also a hunter stalking her prey. When his sister did not flinch away, Tasherit tugged her in, pressing against her in an ardent manner.

  Percy felt the blush stain his cheek. He really did not want to be here, and yet he dared not move or breathe for fear of notice.

  It was no kiss, not as Percy had experienced or witnessed before, that’s certain. No, it was more of a hug, except that Tasherit crushed her cheek to Prim’s. Rubbed softly. A melting of bodies and need. Catlike.

  Prim relaxed in the werecat’s embrace for a long moment, as if she were letting herself breathe freely for the first time in her life. She lost, for one precious moment, all that stiff propriety that Percy had watched her don over the years like armour. Armour no doubt she needed to cope with their mother, to cope with Rue, and to cope with the world and its demands on her, and to cope with him.

  Prim’s eyes closed. She rested her temple on Tasherit’s shoulder, her face turned towards Percy. He g
rimaced. There was such serene joy there, it embarrassed him more than anything else ever had. A brother ought not to see his sister so incandescent, it wasn’t decent.

  Then Primrose pulled back and dodged out of reach. Her relaxed posture turned into a slump of misery that Percy would not have thought possible while wearing a corset.

  “It’s no good.”

  Tasherit’s eyes were flashing and fierce. “Little one, it’s not only one direction. I am yours too.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things.” Prim turned to face her door and fumbled with the knob.

  Percy felt his own hand press against his throat, his eyes drawn wide and tight.

  “But why?” The werelioness was clearly in pain. “Is it because I have no pride to help provide for you? I assure you, I am an excellent hunter.”

  Prim looked wholly unhappy. “What? No. Nothing like that. It’s that, well, you are, well, female… as such.”

  Tasherit cast her hands up to the heavens. “Of course, and this signifies how?”

  Prim looked to her hand, still on the doorknob. “It’s not natural. I have to go, there are things for me to do before the grey. Please excuse me.”

  She opened the door to her room and disappeared within, the sound of the bolt on the other side audible even to Percy where he still stood, frozen and ashamed to have witnessed such a profoundly private moment.

  Tasherit leaned forward to thump her head on the wall next to the door.

  She turned to look at Percy. No doubt she had been aware of him all along. She was, after all, a werecreature with a highly developed olfactory sense. “Of course it’s not natural! I’m a supernatural being. How could anything I feel be less than that?”

  Percy only blinked at her.

  The werecat stalked towards him. “Explain your sister!”

  “Umm,” said Percy.

  “Why is she so stubborn? I am not alone in this. I know I am not. I see her watch me. I sense her lean towards my warmth. I can smell… She is braver than this.”

  “Uh,” said Percy, shifting from foot to foot. He had never been more uncomfortable in his life. Not even that time in front of the fourth form class after that ill-advised experiment involving a model hot-air balloon filled with gravy. Well, maybe then, but still!