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  Her parents and Quesnel were up the gangplank now, chatting almost companionably to one another.

  “Infant,” called Lady Maccon, “do come along.”

  But while her parents were apparently willing to lose everything, Rue was not.

  The last wolf, Rafe, rolled to stand after his abeyance.

  Rue approached the new Alpha. She slunk, chest low, neck cocked slightly to show her throat. She bowed over her forelegs. Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh… And went to flip, to expose her belly to her pack.

  Her former pack as it turned out.

  Uncle Rabiffano’s eyes were sad. But then, they were always a little sad. Yet he left – they left – without acknowledging her.

  The London Pack ambled away in a group, heading for the outskirts of town. That group was cohesive and calm. They were off to chase some unsuspecting rabbits. Or perhaps they were going to celebrate at a local pub. Since they were all in wolf form, even Rabiffano, Rue had to assume they were after rabbits and not ale, or the London pubs had relaxed their dress requirements beyond imagining.

  And Rue was not welcome among them any more.

  SIX

  In Which Our Heroine Defeats a Picnic Hamper

  Rue didn’t want to go with her parents. She didn’t want to see Quesnel preserve her father in a tank in her boiler room. As if Paw were an enormous gherkin. But she followed up the gangplank because they needed her to keep the tether.

  I’ve lost all my family in one night. Except Dama. Will he still want me around with Mother and Paw gone? Rue was wallowing. But there was no one to see, and being a wolf she couldn’t cry.

  She made her way down through the airship towards the oil and smoke of the boiler room. Had Quesnel predicted this eventuality and that’s why there was a tank in engineering? Had he known all along what was going wrong with her pack – with her family – and not said anything?

  The man in question, wearing a leather blacksmith’s apron over his evening clothes, tinkered with the tank. Her parents watched, Mother with her head on Paw’s shoulder and he with one arm about her waist. Rue had seen her parents intimate before, more’s the pity, but this time they looked so relaxed. Just as the pack had walking away from her.

  Rue wondered about their respective jobs. If they emigrated to Egypt, Lady Maccon must give over muhjah and Lord Maccon must pass on his position as head of BUR. Rue so rarely asked them about their professions, it was entirely possible they had already made arrangements.

  Mother probably has, at least. If Paw’s been running off the rails for a while now, BUR’s likely already filled in an assumed vacancy. But muhjah has to be filled by a preternatural, and there’s no other soulless in London. Well – an aura of satisfaction coloured Rue’s thoughts – Queen Victoria is in a pickle there.

  Quesnel popped the lid of his tank open. It was full of a bubbling orangeish liquid, not boiling but aerated with a colourless gas. Rue sniffed – odourless. too. Oxygen, perhaps? Or aether?

  Tasherit appeared, still in lioness shape, and took a spectator’s seat. Rue was relieved Primrose wasn’t present; her father was, after all, still naked. No doubt Prim had skittered below the moment things went bare during the brawl. Primrose was not equipped to handle regular exposure to male nudity. Which would make her marriage bed quite interesting indeed.

  Quesnel stepped back and gestured, with a little bow, like a butler.

  Lord Maccon bowed in turn and then hoisted himself up into the tank. It was only just big enough for him, and it didn’t look like a comfortable fit. He lowered himself gingerly with a funny look on his face like he was settling into a vat of pudding, squishy but not unpleasant. At the last, he sucked in a breath and sank under. Once completely submerged, he appeared to fall into a deep slumber.

  Lady Maccon and Quesnel lurched forward, likely to check that he was asleep and not dead. Rue hadn’t the attention to process, for she was shifting. Reverse shape change was no less painful, but it always felt nice, at the end, to be back in her own skin. Rue supposed this was because she spent less time as a supernatural than the real ones; being mortal felt comfortable. Although most of the time it was less interesting.

  There were many things Rue could have done in a more dignified fashion at that juncture, but frankly it had been an upsetting night, so she sat on the floor. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms about them, cloaking herself in her own hair, for modesty’s sake.

  Quesnel and her mother ensured Paw’s comfort. Apparently, he was still alive, or as alive as a werewolf got when in a preservation tank.

  “This floor is filthy,” said Rue to no one in particular.

  The one sootie on duty heard her. The girl tended to her obligations with forced diligence, throwing glances at the corner of the room where naked aristocrats were doing suspicious things with tanks. Rue couldn’t blame her for her curiosity.

  “Sorry, Lady Captain, it’s the boilers, see – full of soot.”

  The sootie’s response drew Rue out of her funk. What am I doing huddling here? I’m a fully grown, perfectly respectable young lady. So I’ve lost my pack and my parents are moving away, but I’ve the family I’ve built aboard this ship. Primrose won’t abandon me. Primrose would never abandon me. Buck up!

  She took a breath and straightened. “Tasherit, would you be so kind as to fetch me a robe?”

  The lioness considered this request and then, likely because she knew Rue couldn’t do anything interesting if she had to stay huddled, and because the tank situation was proving dull, she trotted away.

  She was soon back, clutching a robe in her mouth. It was one of hers, a voluminous silky thing that was too long for Rue but preserved her dignity.

  Rue was standing with it on by the time Quesnel finished with his tank. She felt wan and worn but Quesnel looked at her as if she were the pudding course and he hadn’t had any supper. Her hair was down and wildly tangled, and the silk of the robe was thin enough so that if she were not in the boiler room, she’d be cold.

  Lady Maccon pinched him. “Stop looking at my daughter like that.”

  Quesnel rubbed him arm. “But…”

  “Just because I disagree with my husband’s mollycoddling doesn’t mean I’m permissive.”

  Rue wondered if Tasherit might let her keep the robe. “Mother, do you still need me?”

  Lady Maccon blinked, remembering Rue’s purpose there. “No, dear, no. Clearly the tank works on tethers.”

  Rue turned to leave. She needed to see Dama. She needed to know he remained unchanged. The sunrise was not far off. She could ill afford to waste time, for she must dress properly for Dama.

  A rustle of skirts heralded her mother’s running to catch up. “Infant, do you require” – she paused as though unsure of the right word – “comfort?”

  It was sweet of her to try.

  Quesnel followed, his expression concerned.

  “Now, Mother, you know you’re horrid at that.”

  Lady Maccon was not offended by truth. Rue rather admired her for that.

  “No, you’re quite right. You’ll be visiting your other father?”

  Rue nodded. “Soon, before I lose the night.”

  Lady Maccon nibbled her lip and then, in a decisive move, folded Rue into a warm motherly embrace. It was a good hug because Mother was lovely and squishy, even corseted. Rue let herself enjoy it, even knowing that her poor old mother couldn’t begin to understand why Rue was upset. Lady Maccon was thinking that everything was perfectly fine. Everyone was alive and mostly uninjured. Her plan to emigrate to Egypt was commencing. The pack had transitioned as smoothly as one could hope.

  That was how Lady Maccon thought the world worked. She bent it to her will regardless of consequences. That was how Rue had come into existence. It was her mother’s nature to be soulless. She couldn’t be faulted for it.

  Rue extracted herself from the hug. “Thank you, Mother. But I think…”

  Lady Maccon waved her off. “Carry on. Your young
man and I are going to engage in some nice civilised discourse.”

  “We are?” Quesnel was positively horrified by this statement.

  “Perhaps I should stay, then,” said Rue. “And he’s not my young man.”

  Lady Maccon only waved at her again. “Oh, I think he might be. Go on, dear, you aren’t necessary.”

  Rue, remembering how Quesnel and Percy and their ridiculous feud had started the whole messy brawl earlier, felt that he deserved some extended exposure to her mother. So she left them to it.

  Dama was waiting for her, bless him.

  “Puggle, darling!” His embrace smelled of lemon hair tonic and sweet lavender and only a little bit of old blood. He was bony where Mother was soft, and certainly too small to envelop her, but he did his parental best. And he understood, so it worked.

  “Sit, my poor dear girl.” Instead of insisting on ceremony, the vampire tugged her to the softest of his sofas, the one facing the fireplace with a little table for reading. He sat next to her, keeping her hand in his, for they both wore thick enough gloves. He was careful not to let any skin touch as he consoled her.

  Rue was grateful. She didn’t want to be a vampire right now.

  “Tell me everything.” His expression was all sympathy.

  “Don’t you already know?”

  “I know the facts, my little pea blossom, but not the rest. Has my B—?” A slight mistake there, he collected himself. “Has the pack transitioned?”

  Rue nodded. “New Alpha. Uncle Rabiffano, if you can believe that.”

  “I am the only one who was never surprised.”

  “No, you’re good like that.” Rue suspected there was something more than Dama’s normal understanding of how the world worked but she didn’t want to pry. The London Pack was no longer her business.

  “He managed to do it without killing Lord Maccon?”

  “Yes.” Rue could see in Dama’s eyes the miracle that this was.

  “We truly live in a brave new world.” The vampire shook his head. There was real awe in his tone, something Rue had never heard before.

  “I suppose if anyone could manage it, it would be Rabiffano. He will be a good Alpha, my Puggle. You can trust me to know this.”

  Rue hadn’t thought if it that way. “I suppose he will. Very cultured, exactly what a London Pack needs.”

  “And all those ties to that horrible Lord Woolsey will finally be purged.”

  “That was before my time, Dama.” Sometimes he forgot how young she was, or maybe it was that he forgot on purpose, knowing how short her life-span would be. It must be horrible for him. How many pack transitions had he watched in his lifetime? How many friends had he seen die because of them?

  He patted her hand. “Of course it was, periwinkle. But this must have come as quite a shock for you. I hope you understand, your father asked us not to say anything to you.”

  “I know. He wanted to be my strong solid mooring point for ever.”

  The vampire’s blue eyes twinkled. “Forgive us immortals our sins of pride, child. We all age like cheese, growing strong and tasty but also covered in the mould of good intentions gone grey.”

  Rue gave a watery chuckle. “I didn’t know I was going to lose him. Now he and Mother will go to Egypt and die.”

  “Ah, I see. You knew all along you would lose Alexia, but you had Conall and I stashed away in your heart, unchanging.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Yes. There’s no vampire rove equivalent of Alpha’s curse that you aren’t telling me about, is there?”

  “My little jumping bean, you are one of the brightest lights I’ve been blessed with in my very long time on this earth.” Dama tugged her in to cuddle against him, careful that no flesh touched. “I never thought to have a daughter, not at my age.”

  Rue snuggled into him. Dama would fix everything.

  “I shall tell you a little secret, shall I?”

  “I don’t know, Dama. I’ve had a lot of revelations in the past few hours.”

  “It’s not shocking, I promise.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “I am two thousand two hundred and fifty-one years old. Did you know?”

  “I calculated about that.”

  She’d managed to surprise him, not a frequent or comfortable sensation for a vampire. “You did?”

  “Your accent slips sometimes. My guess is Ancient Greek, likely Macedonian. Plus you think like a military strategist even when it’s only tea plantations.” She paused and took her best guess. “Alexander, is it? Your given name, I mean.”

  He laughed. “I knew all those expensive tutors would come back to haunt me.”

  “What happened to your eyes?”

  “Ah. Not everything stays the same with metamorphosis. I lost battle scars as well. Flaws are fixed.”

  “It was a flaw?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Could we talk more, sometime, about your history and what’s true and what isn’t?”

  Dama gave a sad smile, no fang, only memories peeking around the corners. “I think it’s best left as it has been written down. Why mess with the past? It can’t be altered.”

  Which explained a little of why he was so accepting of change. Lord Akeldama was the only vampire Rue knew not set in his ways. Even Aunt Ivy, who was very young for a vampire, was already fixed in her preferences and persuasive in her opinions on hats.

  “I hate to send you out there, Puggle, alone. You will be careful?”

  “Pish-tosh. I have my crew. And my new gun. And my metanatural abilities. I came back from India all right, didn’t I? Mucked it up a bit, but survived. This is only Egypt.”

  “My dearest girl, even the Romans were changed by Egypt.”

  “You’ll be here when I get back? Exactly like this, waiting.”

  “Exactly so. And your room will be there and more importantly your closet, but I’ll have ordered you all new dresses for the season.”

  Rue grinned, feeling better about everything.

  Rue returned to The Spotted Custard as the sun rose pink above the grey fog of the city. Primrose met her at the top of the gangplank looking tired and worried. They examined each other’s faces.

  Whatever Primrose saw seemed to make her feel better. “You’re well?”

  Rue nodded. “I’m well. You?”

  “Topping. I put your mother in the best guest quarters. Knowing her, we might want to hire a lady’s maid to dance attendance while she is in residence.”

  “We’re headed to Egypt.”

  “Mr Lefoux said we might be. I assumed she is accompanying us?”

  “Correct assumption.”

  Primrose was resigned. “I’ll nip round to the agency this morning, see if they have a nice stable young French girl who doesn’t understand much English and wants to travel. Best, I think, if your mother isn’t entirely understood by her staff.”

  “Fantastic idea. We should try to keep regular hours while she is aboard, and formal meals. That way she has to dress. That will keep her at least partly occupied.”

  They moved together towards the centre of the quarterdeck where Spoo and the head deckhand stood in consultation with the lead builder.

  Primrose checked the state of the sun. “I’ll send to market as well. Egypt is quicker to get to than India, right?”

  “I believe so, but only Percy knows the particulars.”

  “I’ll have to wake him up.” His sister did not look thrilled with the idea.

  “We need to know the best current to catch anyway, put a departure time into place.” Rue was not above batting her eyelashes so Primrose would awaken the beast.

  “As long as you realise Quesnel is still up.”

  “Blast them, can’t they sort this out like civilised gentlemen?”

  “We are speaking of Percy.”

  “Point taken.”

  Prim deemed the matter settled and moved them efficiently on. “And the market, an
ything I should stock with Lady Maccon in mind?”

  “Oh, Mother eats everything and likes it. I wouldn’t worry about her. Horrible sweet tooth.”

  Primrose nodded. “Tea later? I’d like to know what happened last night.”

  “Later,” agreed Rue. “I should be better able to discuss it then.”

  Primrose kissed her cheek softly. “I’ll just go get my wrap, wake Percy, and be off. I’m sure I can borrow Mother’s carriage.”

  “If you want to drive yourself, you can use the Maccon dogcart. It’s still sitting on the green.”

  Primrose looked horrified at the very idea. “No, thank you. Ladies don’t drive bounders.”

  “Tell that to my mother. Send Percy up when he’s decent, would you please?”

  “By all means.” Primrose whisked off, leaving Rue to the builders.

  The builders were absolutely convinced it would be highly dangerous to take The Spotted Custard up without a week’s more repairs. Which, knowing builders, actually meant three weeks.

  Rue said, “You have three hours,” hoping Percy and the currents would concur.

  The man in charge sputtered, not accustomed to ultimatums from young ladies. Mr Bapp had a face like a squished puffin which had eaten something sour a decade ago and never recovered.

  Rue talked over his sputter. “Spoo, please raise as many decklings as we can spare. I want some left fresh and rested for float, but the rest we can loan to Mr Bapp here.”

  Spoo nodded and scampered off.

  “Willard?”

  The head deckhand looked at Rue expectantly. “Yes, Lady Captain?”

  “Can engineering spare any muscle?”

  He considered. “Two, perhaps. But if the Custard does turn out to be shaky, we’d best keep some in reserve.”

  “Agreed. Do what you can.”

  Quesnel appeared abovedecks, blinking in the sunlight.