Strange Practice

by Vivian Shaw

  Rabiffano turned towards her, grateful for the interruption. “Very well, if you persist in meddling, go meddle.”

  “As if I needed pack sanction.”

  “Convinced of that, are you?” Rabiffano tilted his head eloquently.

  Sometimes it was awfully challenging to be the daughter of an Alpha werewolf.

  Deciding she’d better act before Uncle Rabiffano changed his mind on her father’s behalf, Rue glided away, a purposeful waft of pale pink and black lace. She hadn’t Prim’s elegance, but she could make a good impression if she tried. Her hair was piled high atop her head and was crowned by a wreath of pink roses—Uncle Rabiffano’s work from earlier that evening. He always made her feel pretty and … tall. Well, taller.

  She paused at the refreshment table, collecting four glasses of bubbly and concocting a plan.

  At the card room door, Rue reached for a measure of her dear mother’s personality, sweeping it about herself like a satin capelet. Personalities, like supernatural shapes, came easily to Rue. It was a skill Dama had cultivated. “Were you anyone else’s daughter,” he once said, “I should encourage you to tread the boards, Puggle dearest. As it stands, we’ll have to make shift in less public venues.”

  Thus when Rue nodded at the footman to open the card room door it was with the austere expression of a bossy matron three times her age.

  “But, miss, you can’t!” The man trembled in his knee britches.

  “The door, my good man,” insisted Rue, her voice a little deeper and more commanding.

  The footman was not one to resist so firm an order, even if it came from an unattached young lady. He opened the door.

  Rue was met by a cloud of cigar smoke and the raucous laughter of men without women. The door closed behind her. She looked about the interior, narrowing in on the many snuff boxes scattered around the room. The chamber, decorated without fuss in brown leather, sage, and gold, seemed to house a great many snuff boxes.

  “Lady Prudence, what are you doing in here?”

  Rue was not, as many of her age and station might have been, overset by the presence of a great number of men. She had been raised by a great number of men—some of them the type to confine themselves to card rooms at private balls, some of them the type to be in the thick of the dancing, plying eyelashes and gossip in measures to match the ladies. The men of the card room were, in Rue’s experience, much easier to handle. She dropped her mother’s personality—no help from that here—and reached for someone different. She went for Aunt Ivy mixed with Aunt Evelyn. Slightly silly, but perceptive, flirtatious, unthreatening. Her posture shifted, tail-bone relaxing back and down into the hips, giving her walk more sway, shoulders back, jutting the cleavage forward, eyelids slightly lowered. She gave the collective gentlemen before her an engaging good-humoured grin.

  “Oh dear, I do beg your pardon. You mean this isn’t the ladies’ embroidery circle?”

  “As you see, quite not.”

  “Oh, how foolish of me.” Rue compared each visible snuff box against the sketch she’d been shown, and dismissed each in turn. She wiggled further into the room as though drawn by pure love of masculinity, eyelashes fluttering.

  Then Lord Fenchurch, unsure of how to cope with a young lady lodged in sacred man-space, desperately removed a snuff box from his waistcoat pocket and took a pinch.

  There was her target. She swanned over to the lord in question, champagne sloshing. She tripped slightly and giggled at her own clumsiness, careful not to spill a drop, ending with all four glasses in front of Lord Fenchurch.

  “For our gracious host—I do apologise for disturbing your game.”

  Lord Fenchurch set the snuff box down and picked up one of the glasses of champagne with a smile. “How thoughtful, Lady Prudence.”

  Rue leaned in towards him conspiratorially. “Now, don’t tell my father I was in here, will you? He might take it amiss. Never know who he’d blame.”

  Lord Fenchurch looked alarmed.

  Rue lurched forward as if under the influence of too much bubbly herself, and snaked the snuff box off the table and into a hidden pocket of her fluffy pink ball gown. All her ball gowns had hidden pockets no matter how fluffy—or how pink, for that matter.

  As Rue made her way out of the room, she heard Lord Fenchurch say, worried, to his card partner, “Which father do you think she means?”

  The other gentleman, an elderly sort who knew his way around London politics, answered with, “Bad either way, old man.”

  With which the door behind her closed and Rue was back in the cheer of the ballroom and its frolicking occupants—snuff box successfully poached. She dropped the silly persona as if shedding shape, although with considerably less pain and cost to her apparel. Across the room she met Prim’s gaze and signalled autocratically.

  Primrose bobbed a curtsey to Uncle Rabiffano and made her way over. “Rue dear, your wreath has slipped to a decidedly jaunty angle. Trouble must be afoot.”

  Rue stood patiently while her friend made the necessary adjustments. “I like trouble. What were you and Uncle Rabiffano getting chummy about?” Rue was casual with Prim on the subject; she really didn’t want to encourage her friend. It wasn’t that Rue didn’t adore Uncle Rabiffano—she loved all her werewolf uncles, each in his own special way. But she’d never seen Uncle Rabiffano walk out with a lady. Prim, Rue felt, wasn’t yet ready for that kind of rejection.

  “We were discussing my venerated Queen Mums, if you can believe it.”

  Rue couldn’t believe it. “Goodness, Uncle Rabiffano usually doesn’t have much time for Aunt Ivy. Although he never turns down an invitation to visit her with a select offering of his latest hat designs. He thinks she’s terribly frivolous. As if a man who spends that much time in front of the looking glass of an evening fussing with his hair should have anything to say on the subject of frivolity.”

  “Be fair, Rue my dear. Mr Rabiffano has very fine hair and my mother is frivolous. I take it you got the item?”

  “Of course.”

  The two ladies drifted behind a cluster of potted palms near the conservatory door. Rue reached into her pocket and pulled out the lozenge-shaped snuff box. It was about the size to hold a pair of spectacles, lacquered in black with an inlay of mother-of-pearl flowers on the lid.

  “A tad fuddy-duddy, wouldn’t you think, for your Dama’s taste?” Prim said. She would think in terms of fashion.

  Rue ran her thumb over the inlay. “I’m not entirely convinced he wants the box.”

  “No?”

  “I believe it’s the contents that interest him.”

  “He can’t possibly enjoy snuff.”

  “He’ll tell us why he wants it when we get back.”

  Prim was sceptical. “That vampire never reveals anything if he can possibly help it.”

  “Ah, but I won’t give the box to him until he does.”

  “You’re lucky he loves you.”

  Rue smiled. “Yes, yes I am.” She caught sight of Lord Fenchurch emerging from the card room. He did not look pleased with life, unexpected in a gentlemen whose ball was so well attended.

  Lord Fenchurch was not a large man but he looked intimidating, like a ferocious tea-cup poodle. Small dogs, Rue knew from personal experience, could do a great deal of damage when not mollified. Pacification unfortunately was not her strong point. She had learnt many things from her irregular set of parental models, but calming troubled seas with diplomacy was not one of them.

  “What do we do now, O wise compatriot?” asked Prim.

  Rue considered her options. “Run.”

  Primrose looked her up and down doubtfully. Rue’s pink dress was stylishly tight in the bodice and had a hem replete with such complexities of jet beadwork as to make it impossible to take a full stride without harm.

  Rue disregarded her own fashionable restrictions and Prim’s delicate gesture indicating that her own gown was even tighter, the bodice more elaborate and the skirt more fitted.

&n
bsp; “No, no, not that kind of running. Do you think you could get Uncle Rabiffano to come over? I feel it unwise to leave the safety of the potted plants.”

  Prim narrowed her eyes. “That is a horrid idea. You’ll ruin your dress. It’s new. And it’s a Worth.”

  “I thought you liked Mr Rabiffano? And all my dresses are Worth. Dama would hardly condone anything less.” Rue deliberately misinterpreted her friend’s objection, at the same time handing Prim the snuff box, her gloves, and her reticule. “Oh, and fetch my wrap, please? It’s over on that chair.”

  Prim tisked in annoyance but drifted off with alacrity, making first for Rue’s discarded shawl and then for the boyishly handsome werewolf. Moments later she returned with both in tow.

  Without asking for permission—most of the time she would be flatly denied and it was better to acquire permission after the fact she had learned—Rue touched the side of her uncle’s face with her bare hand.

  Naked flesh to naked flesh had interesting consequences with Rue and werewolves. She wouldn’t say she relished the results, but she had grown accustomed to them.

  It was painful, her bones breaking and re-forming into new shapes. Her wavy brown hair flowed and crept over her body, turning to fur. Smell dominated her senses rather than sight. But unlike most werewolves, Rue kept her wits about her the entire time, never going moon mad or lusting for human flesh.

  Simply put, Rue stole the werewolf’s abilities but not his failings, leaving her victim mortal until sunrise, distance, or a preternatural separated them. In this case, her victim was her unfortunate Uncle Rabiffano.

  Everyone called it stealing, but Rue’s wolf form was her own: smallish and brindled black, chestnut, and gold. No matter who she stole from, her eyes remained the same tawny yellow inherited from her father. Sadly, the consequences to one’s wardrobe were always the same. Her dress ripped as she dropped to all fours, beads scattering. The rose coronet remained in place, looped over one ear, as did her bloomers, although her tail tore open the back seam.

  Uncle Rabiffano was mildly disgruntled to find himself mortal. “Really, young lady, I thought you’d grown out of surprise shape theft. This is most inconvenient.” He checked the fall of his cravat and smoothed down the front of his peacock-blue waistcoat, as though mortality might somehow rumple clothing.

  Rue cocked her head at him, hating the disappointment in his voice. Uncle Rabiffano smelled of wet felt and Bond Street’s best pomade. It was the same kind of hair wax that Dama used. She would have apologised but all she could do was bow her head in supplication and give a little whine. His boots smelled of blacking.

  “You look ridiculous in bloomers.” Prim came to Uncle Rabiffano’s assistance.

  The gentleman gave Rue a critical examination. “I am rather loath to admit it, niece, and if you tell any one of your parents I will deny it utterly, but if you are going to go around changing shape willy-nilly, you really must reject female underpinnings, and not only the stays. They simply aren’t conducive to shape-shifting.”

  Prim gasped. “Really, Mr Rabiffano! We are at a ball, a private one notwithstanding. Please do not say such shocking things out loud.”

  Uncle Rabiffano bowed, colouring slightly. “Forgive me, Miss Tunstell, the stress of finding oneself suddenly human. Too much time with the pack recently, such brash men. I rather forgot myself and the company. I hope you understand.”

  Prim allowed him the gaffe with a small nod, but some measure of her romantic interest was now tainted. That will teach her to think of Uncle Rabiffano as anything but a savage beast, thought Rue with some relief. I should have told her of his expertise in feminine underthings years ago. Uncle Rabiffano’s interest in female fashions, under or over, was purely academic, but Prim didn’t need to know that.

  He’s probably right. I should give up underpinnings. Only that puts me horribly close to becoming a common strumpet.

  Speaking of fashion. Rue shook her back paws out of the dancing slippers and nudged them at Prim with her nose. Leather softened with mutton suet, resin, castor oil, and lanolin, her nose told her.

  Prim scooped them up, adding them to the bundle she’d formed out of Rue’s wrap. “Any jewellery?”

  Rue snorted at her. She’d stopped wearing jewellery several years back–it complicated matters. People accommodated wolves on the streets of London but they got strangely upset upon encountering a wolf dripping in diamonds. Dama found this deeply distressing on Rue’s behalf. “But, Puggle, darling, you are wealthy, you simply must wear something that sparkles!” A compromise had been reached with the occasional tiara or wreath of silk flowers. Rue contemplated shaking the roses off her head, but Uncle Rabiffano might take offence and she’d already insulted him once this evening.

  She barked at Prim.

  Prim made a polite curtsey. “Good evening, Mr Rabiffano. A most enjoyable dance, but Rue and I simply must be off.”

  “I’m telling your parents about this,” threatened Uncle Rabiffano without rancour.

  Rue growled at him.

  He waggled a finger at her. “Oh now, little one, don’t think you can threaten me. We both know you aren’t supposed to change without asking, and in public, and without a cloak. They are all going to be angry with you.”

  Rue sneezed.

  Uncle Rabiffano stuck his nose in the air in pretend affront and drifted away. As she watched her beloved uncle twirl gaily about with a giggling young lady in a buttercup-yellow dress—he looked so carefree and cheerful–she did wonder, and not for the first time, why Uncle Rabiffano didn’t want to be a werewolf. The idea was pure fancy, of course. Most of the rules of polite society existed to keep vampires and werewolves from changing anyone without an extended period of introduction, intimacy, training, and preparation. And her Paw would never metamorphose anyone against his will. And yet …

  Prim climbed onto Rue’s back. Prim’s scent was mostly rose oil with a hint of soap-nuts and poppy seeds about the hair.

  Given that Rue had the same mass in wolf form as she did in human, Primrose riding her was an awkward undertaking. Prim had to drape the train of her ball gown over Rue’s tail to keep it from trailing on the floor. She also had to hook up her feet to keep them from dangling, which she did by leaning forward so that she was sprawled atop Rue with her head on the silk roses.

  She accomplished this with more grace than might be expected given that Prim always wore complete underpinnings. She had been doing it her whole life. Rue could be either a vampire or a werewolf, as long as there was a supernatural nearby to steal from, but when given the option, werewolf was more fun. They’d started very young and never given up on the rides.

  Prim wrapped her hands about Rue’s neck and whispered, “Ready.”

  Rue burst forth from the potted palms, conscious of what an absurd picture they made—Prim draped over her, ivory gown spiked up over Rue’s tail, flying like a banner. Rue’s hind legs were still clothed in her fuchsia silk bloomers, and the wreath draped jauntily over one pointed ear.

  She charged through the throng, revelling in her supernatural strength. As people scattered before her she smelled each and every perfume, profiterole, and privy visit. Yes, peons, flee before me! she commanded mentally in an overly melodramatic dictatorial voice.

  “Ruddy werewolves,” she heard one elderly gentleman grumble. “Why is London so lousy with them these days?”

  “All the best parties have one,” she heard another respond.

  “The Maccons have a lot to answer for,” complained a matron of advanced years.

  Perhaps under the opinion that Prim was being kidnapped, a footman sprang valiantly forward. Mrs. Fenchurch liked her footmen brawny and this one grabbed for Rue’s tail, but when she stopped, turned, and growled at him, baring all her large and sharp teeth, he thought better of it and backed away. Rue put on a burst of speed and they were out the front door and onto the busy street below.

  London whisked by as Rue ran. She moved by scent, arrowing towa
rds the familiar taverns and dustbins, street wares and bakers’ stalls of her home neighbourhood. The fishy underbelly of the ever-present Thames—in potency or retreat—formed a map for her nose. She enjoyed the nimbleness with which she could dodge in and around hansoms and hackneys, steam tricycles and quadricycles, and the occasional articulated coach.

  Of course it didn’t last—several streets away from the party, her tether to Uncle Rabiffano reached its limit and snapped.

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