The old woman, who wasn’t an old woman, smiled. “She taught you something, I see.”
“She taught all of us.”
Those sharp eyes narrowed.
Arsenic felt compelled to defend her abilities, and knew she was being manipulated into doing so. “I know eight different ways to kill a man. Becoming a doctor dinna mean I canna do it anymore. It means I now know why each way works.”
“You’re the youngest? Hemlock or Oleander or Castor Bean or something.”
Arsenic joined them at table, sitting down in the one free chair without ceremony. “You dinna like my mother, did you?”
No answer to that.
Arsenic didn’t expect one. “She’s difficult to like. And aye, I’m the youngest – Arsenic.”
Arsenic wracked her brain for her mother’s school stories. The Scotswoman looked younger than the other two, and not by virtue of artifice but by virtue of immortality. Not to mention, those familiar yellow eyes. “You’re Sidheag Maccon, Alpha of the Kingair Pack.” Britain’s famous lady werewolf.
“I am.”
“I grew up verra near your territory.”
“Aye. I was aware of your family’s presence.”
Arsenic surmised they’d never met because of her mother. It was a common occurrence. People either hated Preshea Ruthven or were terrified of her. Not much elsewise.
“Arsenic, of course.” The not-old woman said it as if Arsenic’s existence were in question. “You know all the players, girl?”
Arsenic shook her head, frustrated. “You misconstrue. I’m only a doctor.”
“Oh, you’re very good.”
“She trained me but I never wanted it.”
“Why not?” Genuine curiosity from Madame Lefoux, who was watching the conversation with a faint smile.
“Someone has to make up for what she did. What she was.”
“You intend to repair the damage wrought by an assassin? How poetic.” The Scotswoman looked thoughtful.
Arsenic considered leaving at that. But these women weren’t her mother, so instead she looked each in the eye, one after another, direct and intractable. “I like healing people and I’m good at it. Someone has to be ready, with you lot still mucking about.” She included all three of the matrons at the table – the spy, the werewolf, and the inventor.
“Whoa there now,” said the werewolf.
Silence descended while they all analysed her words for hidden meaning. They were lost because there was none. Simplicity of truth and purpose was rare in their world. Arsenic wanted her mark of existence to be kind. She didn’t think there was anything wrong or less powerful about that choice.
“You canna tell me you havena killed or injured in your time, Lady Kingair. For queen and country, for pack and metamorphosis.”
Madame Lefoux dimpled at Arsenic. Her eyes were green too, but less calculating than the spy’s. “And me, what wrongs have I committed?”
“Your inventions never kill anyone?”
“Touchée.”
“Rectifying the sins of the prior generation. That’s a big task for one small doctor.” That was the intelligencer again, not breaking character, voice shaky with assumed age, for all her words were calculated to cut.
Arsenic didn’t like to have her choices questioned. “’Tis better than meddling in the lives of the next one, puppet mistress.”
The old-not-old lady laughed, dry and crisp. Her skills were extraordinary, Arsenic never would have seen her deception, had she not been raised by an intelligencer and educated as a physician.
“I think that moniker belongs to Lord Akeldama. When everything comes to account, I’m only a simple player and a retired one at that. His is the game only an immortal can play.”
What is her name? Arsenic’s mother had called her something. Sophie, perhaps?
Arsenic reached out and touched the woman’s hair, pulled her hand back, brushing white powder between two fingers. “Oh, verra retired.”
All three of the matrons chuckled.
“Run along now, girl. It’s good to know my boy has a doctor aboard.” Madame Lefoux dismissed her.
“That all you wanted from me?” Had they tricked her to their table just to taunt? Were they revealing themselves apurpose?
“For now,” said Lady Kingair.
“You’ll do, girl.” Approval from the puppet mistress made her shiver.
Arsenic left the tea table of conspiracy. They probably knew the most about everyone assembled, but they wouldn’t tell her anything useful. Besides, Arsenic’s head was already full of Phinkerlingtons and Loontwills. She was, frankly, more interested in her new crew than old grudges. She had no desire to dabble in the machinations of intelligencers.
Another kerfuffle quickly arose. This time between some of Lord Akeldama’s drones, easily identified as they were the best-dressed men in attendance. They were squared off against the Baroness Tunstell’s drones, also easily identified as they were mostly Egyptian by complexion and attire.
The argument seemed to be mostly fashion related and taking place via gesticulation. Since humans were involved and cravat and turban pins were being waved at one another, Arsenic headed in their direction.
There was far too much drama at the wedding for Percy.
To be perfectly fair, that was often the situation at weddings, so he shouldn’t be surprised. Emotions, those messy things, were high floating and puffed full with disastrous results. This being Rue’s wedding, however, everything was swollen to bursting. Including the bride.
Heh, that was mean-spirited of me. Percy amused himself with his own wit, because he was pretty darn certain it would neither amuse, nor appear witty to, anyone else.
He glanced about, hoping that the wedding drama would distract all the resident ladies interested in marrying Percy. Or LIMPs, as he called them. Again, only to himself, because no one else understood his sense of humour. Least of all the LIMPs. That was a part of the problem.
Fortunately, they were, in fact, distracted. First by some feathered matron taking a dip in a fountain, and now by drones arguing over cravat pin placement. Arsenic Ruthven was in the thick of both, handling the drama with aplomb.
It started when Lord Akeldama’s drones and his mother’s drones engaged in a bout of pronounced (but friendly) bickering. But then a couple of the Woolsey drones got involved. And then the vampires themselves fanged their way into the fray in what could only be called a sparkly yet threatening manner.
Percy wasn’t a fan of vampire hives. He’d been raised in one and he found the dynamic fraught with difficulty. There was always a great deal of jockeying for position. It reminded him of academia, equally bloodthirsty, only instead of pursuit of publication every drone was out to set the latest fashion, display the softest neck, or arrange the nicest bouquet. It was intolerable.
Woolsey Hive had gone so far as to send Lord Ambrose to Rue’s wedding, all the way from Barking. He looked pained, as well he might with his tether stretched so far. When the drones began to argue he marched over and had words with Quesnel’s other mother, Miss Imogene. She gave him a dirty look and walked away. Lord Ambrose looked around as if frustrated with life, or in his case afterlife. Percy could only sympathize.
Percy wondered idly if Lord Akeldama would get involved, but he seemed to be occupied with the fountain-diving matron at the entrance.
The band continued to play despite the fact that voices were now raised and jewellery was flashing. Rue and Quesnel continued to dance.
He overheard Quesnel say, “Oh yes, because werewolves are so full of esprit de corps.”
To which Rue replied, “Oh, I see what you did there, how droll.”
Then one of the Kingair werewolves was pulled into the argument, his fellows backing him up. Whatever was said to him clearly caused offence, because the Scotsman looked like he was about to drop kilt and get furry.
Percy figured it was time he brought his sister’s attention to the imminent danger of sudden nudity.
But Primrose was off supervising the puff up as Vauxhall Bob belted out gusts of steam and indicated lift-off.
Percy struggled with himself. He knew what he should do – try to defuse the situation, for the good of all. But he didn’t know how to defuse any situation. Usually when he opened his mouth, he made things worse.
He cast about desperately for Rodrigo.
The preternatural was also dancing, whirling his wife about enthusiastically. Perhaps he was worth disturbing? Rodrigo could at least stop an angry werewolf from transforming.
Percy had noodled too long.
The kilt dropped and the werewolf shifted and roared. The drones produced silver cravat pins. Lord Ambrose began telling any who would listen about proper supernatural etiquette, and declaiming loudly that such things were done differently in London.
Percy decided there was nothing he could do and that he was hungry.
He mooched over to the food and regarded it with studied interest, ignoring the chaos behind him. The spread was an unimaginative array of galantines (popular when a reception venue rotated, for their demonstrative wobble), stewed oysters, mayonnaise of fowl, pyramids of sugared fruit, and various knick-knackeries of confectionery.
It bored him dreadfully.
Voices behind him were raised further. He turned in time to see Rodrigo wade in and with a spectacular dive and flip, put the Scotsman (now naked and no longer a werewolf by virtue of the Italian’s preternatural touch) flat on his back in a small flower patch.
That, too, was boring.
Percy gnawed on a sugared apricot.
“Well,” said a pleased voice to one side and behind him, “’tis na a wedding without a really good fur-up.”
He turned to find Lady Kingair, Madame Lefoux, and one other female seated at tea, eyes avid on the drama before them.
“Lady Kingair, is that one of yours? Can’t you control your pack?”
“Of course I can, Master Percy. But why on earth should I want to? This is so much more fun.”
Percy sighed and moved to join the group of older ladies. He wished he were home, with a good book and a nice cup of tea.
Well, I can at least have the tea.
He plunked himself down and pushed forward an empty teacup hopefully.
Madame Lefoux graciously poured him a cup. “It’s tepid.”
Percy nodded morosely. “Story of my life.”
“Milk?”
“Better not.”
She quirked a brow at him.
“Might need it to pacify the werecat later. If she has to settle a vampire-werewolf dispute her fur will be ruffled.”
Lady Kingair grinned. “You think she’ll get involved? I’ve na seen her fight. That’d be bonnie.”
Percy sipped his tea. “You’re a troublemaker, Lady Kingair.”
“Guilty.”
“Panem et circenses,” quoted Percy. “Or the werewolf equivalent, I suppose.”
“Bread and circuses,” translated the elderly woman. “He’s accusing your pack of attending this wedding in pursuit of nothing more than food and entertainment.”
“’Tis fair,” said Lady Kingair. “Although last time we met, laddie, you threw a snit over chilies, proving that you canna behave in company either.” She sat back to watch as a different member of her pack turned into a large hairy beast and charged one of the drones. He neatly avoided Rodrigo and almost got a chomp in. Then Tasherit arrived on the scene.
Percy defended himself from gastronomic accusations. “It was overly spicy.”
The elderly lady cackled, “No such thing, boy!”
Percy stared at her. She seemed familiar. “Aunt Softy? Is that you? What on earth are you doing here?”
“Recognize me at last, did you?”
“You look older than I recall.” Percy realized, even as he said it, that he probably shouldn’t. One wasn’t supposed to talk to a lady about her age.
Aunt Softy was really his Great Aunt Sophronia, but had come by the name Softy because of his childhood inability to pronounce Sophronia combined with Prim’s inability to grasp the concept of great. Aunt Softy found the moniker hilarious, and insisted they keep it into adulthood. Their mother produced a series of minor fainting fits on the subject over the years, but the twins and Aunt Softy would not be altered from the path of sublime irony.
She didn’t seem at all upset at his remark on her advanced age. Thank heavens for the Aunt Softys of the world. If Percy were to have a favourite relation, she’d be it. She was never ruffled by anything he said and she spoke Latin. A pronounced good egg, his great aunt. Madness that she came from his mother’s side of the family.
Not that he saw her much over the years, maybe half a dozen times. That, too, made her a good egg, scarcity was an undervalued commodity in relations.
“I’m positively ancient, boy.”
“Are you an old friend of Rue’s family?”
“Not exactly, more like an old influencer.”
Lady Kingair gave his great aunt an affectionate look. “She meddles.”
“Does she?” Percy wasn’t particularly interested in his great aunt’s lifestyle choices unless meddling was code for matchmaking. “You won’t be meddling with me, will you, Aunt Softy?”
“No, dear, you do well on your own. Your sister, on the other hand…”
Percy went fierce. “She’s doing very well with Tash, you leave them be!” Who was she to judge his sister? That was for him to do.
“Not that kind of meddling.”
Madame Lefoux dimpled at him. “Tasherit Sekhmet won that bout, did she?”
Aunt Softy added, “A werecat in the family? How intriguing.”
Percy narrowed his eyes.
“You’re a funny old thing, aren’t you, Percival? One would think you didn’t care for anything beyond your books. That’s certainly what my son thinks.” Madame Lefoux still had a touch of French to her accent, despite the fact that she’d lived in England as long as Percy could remember.
“A marked preference for one thing doesn’t necessarily mean I’m unsympathetic to others.”
“How perspicacious of you. Tell me, do you approve of my young auntie’s match?” Lady Kingair was related to Rue in some complicated supernatural manner that made her a many times great niece of Rue’s, all appearances to the contrary. Family trees got quite stunted, bushy, and ingrown when they involved immortals.
Percy tried an arch expression. “Of course, I approve.”
Madame Lefoux laughed. “Even after my boy scooped your publication credit?”
Percy sniffed. “I would have done the same. In fact I did, later. Our mutual dislike is based on professional, not personal grounds.”
“You didn’t want her for yourself?” Aunt Softy asked that surprising question.
“Rue? Me? What a ghastly idea.” Percy shuddered. “She’s basically a rounder, more excitable iteration of my sister. Plus bossier and rather exhausting. Quite apart from the incestuous nature of such a match, why on earth would I want to shackle myself to that?”
“And yet you serve aboard her ship, as her navigator, under her command.”
“Which is better than in her bed.”
Madame Lefoux looked intrigued. “Are you bent towards men, then?”
Percy had wrested with this supposition before – just because he was retiring and liked his library and not steam-biffing and whorehouses.
Fortunately, Aunt Softy interceded before he need answer. “Not now, Vieve, that’s unimportant.”
Madame Lefoux rolled her eyes but sat back, relinquishing the conversation to Aunt Softy.
“You see, Percy dear, you’re just the person I particularly wish to talk to.”
“Et tu, Aunt Softy?”
“What do you mean by continually spouting Latin at us?” Lady Kingair glared.
Percy sighed. “It’s only that everyone seems to want to talk to me at this wedding. It’s not even my wedding.”
“Who else needs talking, grand n
ephew of mine?” asked his aunt.
“Professor Lyall wants words about Rodrigo. And an introduction. I mustn’t forget to do that.” He looked over to where the Italian was still in the thick of things, attempting to keep werewolves in human form and inside kilts. If Percy were a different kind of man, he’d find it diverting. Lord Akeldama certainly seemed to. “Once he’s free of his current anti-supernatural social obligations, of course.”
“Lyall won’t let you forget. He’s not the type. Wants to see Floote, too, I warrant.” Aunt Softy spoke with confidence.
“How’d you know?”
“She gets like that.” Lady Kingair put down her teacup.
“She gets like what?” Percy was losing the thread of the conversation. Really, if only people would be more scientific and precise with their small talk.
“All-knowing.”
Aunt Softy gave a small but vicious smile. “Speaking of which, we would like to ask you a favour.”
“You would? All of you?”
The three women nodded, looking grave.
“We might have approached your sister, or Prudence of course, but they’re otherwise occupied. After careful consideration, I decided it would be best coming from you.”
“It would, why?”
“Because it never does. So it’s more likely to be taken seriously.” Aunt Softy was, occasionally, unnerving. This was one of those times.
“What is?”
“A request.”
“A request for what?”
“Travel.”
Percy was intrigued despite himself. “Oh yes, and where am I to request we go?”
Lady Kingair, Madame Lefoux, and Aunt Softy exchanged glances.
Finally Aunt Softy said, “I think you’ll find Lady Maccon will be discussing this with her daughter when you visit her in Egypt.”
“Oh yes? Predict the future, can you?”
“Sometimes.”
“And where will Lady Maccon want us to go?”
“Japan. Chasing rumours of yet another species of shifter.”
Percy wasn’t surprised by this, it seemed to have become The Spotted Custard’s unofficial mission, tracking down new supernatural creatures. He’d published several well-regarded papers on the subject as a result, so he was game. “And?”
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