Prim had a hand over her mouth. Rue and Quesnel were amused.
Arsenic seemed to believe this was the result of mentioning contraception at breakfast.
Percy was sympathetic. He was often lost among company, not being of a convivial disposition. But at least with these people he’d history enough to follow the undercurrents. Their new doctor had no such advantage.
“Anyone know what the Latin is for mermaid?” he blurted.
Everyone stared at him.
“Syreni, perhaps?” suggested Arsenic.
And… she speaks Latin, I’m doomed.
“Oh, Percy, really, no Latin at breakfast. None of us have had sufficient tea to cope.” Primrose protested on principle.
Percy nodded glumly and ate more sausage.
Quesnel said to his new wife, “Goodness, chérie, you went out and got us a doctor with about as much verbal acumen as our navigator. How will we survive the sheer frank Latin-ness now endemic to our crew?”
“Or more precisely, how will Primrose survive it? I think the rest of us are accustomed to brash talk.”
Prim bristled. “I say, Rue, I’m perfectly accustomed. I did grow up with Percy! It’s only, I don’t think I should have to be accommodating. A little decorum isn’t too much to ask for, is it?”
“Apparently, it is on this ship.” Rue grinned and helped herself to more eggs. She’d been eating lots of eggs lately. Perhaps that was why she’d gotten so egg shaped. A child couldn’t possibly account for all of it, could it?
Percy opened his mouth to ask exactly that, but Prim was glaring down the table at him as if she knew he was about to put his foot in it.
What did I do?
“Percy, we’re paying a call on Mother tonight.”
“Oh, I say, that’s not on!”
“Don’t be crass. I require you to accompany me. I’m not doing this alone. And who knows when we’ll be back home again.”
“Oh, honestly! Must I?”
“Yes, you must.”
“I hate you.” Percy realized that he sounded about eight years of age. Which made him blush and stare at his tomatoes in extreme perturbation.
Arsenic gave him a sympathetic look. “Mine’s awful too.”
Cracking. Now I’m going to start admiring her personality along with everything else. Percy tried to think of something polite to say back. But if there was a familial trait for politeness, he hadn’t inherited it. She’s kind, she speaks Latin, and she has black-currant eyes. Or should I say pansy eyes? That’s the colour, yes? Pansy. Violaceae.
“Speaking of which…” Arsenic hesitated, as if waiting for a response from him. Percy remained mute, too busy thinking about pansies.
Allergic reaction is now affecting my higher brain function.
Arsenic cleared her throat. Normally this wouldn’t have worked, but with a new person, everyone around the table quieted and looked at her expectantly.
“I’m afraid there is somewhat I ought tell, before I get settled. The swoon room is lovely, by the way, Miss Tunstell. Verra well designed.”
“Thank you kindly, Dr Ruthven.” Prim glowed at the praise. She no doubt deserved it, but it never occurred to Percy to compliment his sister. After all, she did what she was supposed to do, only better than average.
Arsenic continued on, a wrinkle marring her forehead. “I understand if you dinna want me after. ’Tis na good and may impact your opinion of me. I willna hold you to our contract, if you give me marching orders.”
The company stared at her, faces grave.
Percy picked at a scone. Hoping that whatever it was, wasn’t too bad. He wanted to keep Arsenic, even if she rendered him hot and uncomfortable and non-verbal. Probably because of it.
“Doubtful,” came a mutter from Professor Tunstell. Who was intently buttering a scone, the only one not staring at Arsenic.
Arsenic took a deep breath and reached for her reserves of gumption. She said in a rush, “My mother was once a skilled and infamous…” She trailed off, losing steam.
“Yes?” Miss Tunstell prompted her.
“Weel, na to put too fine a point on it…” They let her flounder. “An infamous assassin.”
The captain grinned. “Goodness, is that all? Mine was, and still is, a soulless harridan with a propensity for hitting people with a parasol.”
Mr Lefoux gave Arsenic the sweetest smile. Arsenic was tolerably certain chief engineers ought not to smile like that. Or be French, for that matter.
He said, “Mine destroyed half of London with an octopus.”
That sounded euphemistic. Before she could enquire after the particulars, the ginger professor looked up briefly from his scone to add, with a lip curl, “And mine trod the boards before becoming a vampire queen and widely influencing the current fashion for unacceptably huge hats.”
Miss Tunstell added, “And there’s her book, too, but I’d rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, assassin seems tame by comparison.” Arsenic sat back, less tense, more because they didn’t care about her mother’s history than because of their confessions. Which seemed, quite frankly, absurd.
Mr Lefoux let out a bark of surprised laughter. “I like this one, Rue, I think she should stay.”
“Yes, dear, we decided that yesterday while you were busy dressing up all pretty for me. Now, let’s get something sorted quickly, shall we, Arsenic dear? May I call you Arsenic? Not to put too fine a point on it, but that’s the point. We keep to casual naming conventions aboard ship. You may call me Rue, or if you insist, Captain Rue.”
“Rue?”
“Exactly, as in you will come to rue the day you met me. Most do. Quesnel here prefers to be simply Quesnel. And Primrose would rather be Prim, yes? And Tash is, well, Tash or Tasherit. We aren’t formal, you see? Rodrigo and Anitra have never minded that we dropped their last names early on. And Percy will take Percy and like it, since we don’t much care what he thinks.”
Professor Tunstell rolled his eyes at his captain and ate the scone.
“That’s not too casual?” Arsenic wasn’t convinced. Such blatant informality surely undermined discipline?
“We’re a pleasure craft, not a military ship. You’ll become accustomed to our lax ways. Altering how you address us should help with that.”
“If you insist. And you’ll call me Arsenic?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Good. That’s settled. Although I should say Formerly Floote prefers the formality of title and we pander to his quirks.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask about him. What happens in the aetherosphere?”
“The Custard boasts the best Lefoux preservation tank ever built.”
“And he’s trapped inside that during the grey? Interesting.”
Percy muttered, “There’s an excellent article, if you’re interested. Mr Lefoux wrote it, sadly.”
Quesnel waggled insulting fingers and gave a not nice grin. “I did build it, you ponce.”
These two are intellectual rivals, Arsenic realized. That made sense. Percy was clearly a theoretician while Quesnel was an engineer, they’d be at odds due to the nature of their training. It seemed a friendly rivalry. At least she hoped it was friendly. Or tensions aboard ship could go south quickly. No one was more easily offended than a male intellectual whose expertise was challenged.
Arsenic said, hoping to stop any argument before it started, “The afterlife is na my speciality, but this new tank technology sounds impressive. I wouldna mind seeing it in action.”
“You’re very welcome, anytime.” Quesnel was smug.
Arsenic reassessed the dining room, minimally decorated but every feature efficient, small, and lightweight. Now that she knew to look for it, she suspected this man’s expert touch was everywhere on the airship.
The captain – Rue – positively glowed. “He’s quite the noggin, my husband.”
“Thank you, chérie!”
“Newlyweds,” muttered Percy darkly.
Somehow Arsenic didn’t have any issue with thinking of him as Percy. It suited him admirably.
“So, Arsenic, have you thoughts on supplies or other adjustments to the swoon room before we depart?” Primrose seemed always businesslike.
“Aye. I’ve drawn up several lists. I’d love to have a brief discussion with you before they’re finalized. I understand you’ve been serving as medic?”
“Yes, and very ham-handed I was about it too. I’m delighted to pass the job on to you.”
“Nonsense. I hear you’ve a way with a needle and human flesh.”
Everyone around the table blanched. Quesnel touched his shoulder and winced in an unconscious gesture of remembered pain.
Arsenic corrected herself. “Apologies. Slips my mind that others are na so insensitive to bodily repairs.”
“She is like Percy. How extraordinary.” That came from Rue.
“Two of them.” Quesnel pretended at awe.
Arsenic took in the bonnie professor next to her. He was destroying another scone with focus.
“We are?”
“He’s unusually quiet these days. It will wear off soon. Or he’s unwell. Which makes him your problem now, Doctor, how delightful.” Primrose showed no concern at all for her brother’s wellbeing. “So, a quick discussion after breakfast? Then some shopping for everyone, stores and restocking and hats. Then when visiting hours commence, Percy and I shall call on Mother.”
Percy groaned audibly.
“And don’t go hide in your gentlemen’s club or I shall send Quesnel after you.”
Percy snorted.
Quesnel said for Arsenic’s benefit, “Much to his disgust, we belong to the same club, Avogadro’s.”
Arsenic nodded, the den of intellectualism. She’d belonged, until they found out she was female and booted her.
Primrose pressed on. “Look at it this way, Percy. If we get it over with now, we won’t have to do it again until we’re next in London. Could be ages.”
Percy glared. “Well, I, for one, hope we are going to Japan next.”
“Japan, why would we be going there?”
“Never you mind why. It’s about as far away from England as possible, aetherospherically speaking.” Grabbing up another scone, he stormed from the room.
Footnote trailed after him.
The table was left in confused muttering.
“I didn’t say anything about Japan, did you?” Rue looked about, curious.
“No one mentioned it. It’s only Percy being Percy. You know how he gets.”
“What was that about Latin mermaids?”
“Exactly. That. That’s how he gets.”
Arsenic smiled into her breakfast and filched a scone, thinking she might stop by the library later to store her collection. If the laddie liked scones, she was not above a bit of bribery.
FIVE
Mothers and Their Consequences
Baroness Ivy Tunstell, Queen of the Wimbledon Hive, was playing indoor croquet with books for arches and parasols for mallets while explaining to her hive, in dulcet tones, the complicated evolution of British picnic etiquette. Being Egyptian by birth, and indoor by species, the concept of a picnic fascinated her hive. Or it was simply that Ivy was their queen, and making the appearance of adoration and interest was always the better choice for a vampire.
The baroness looked to be about Prim’s age and more her twin than Percy. Ivy’s face was a little rounder and her eyes more vacant. Primrose looked, even at her best, suspicious of the world and prissy about her existence within it. Their mother, in Percy’s unasked-for opinion, looked like a bewildered hedgehog. She had dark eyes and hair (both of which she had passed along to Prim), a turned-up nose (which she had passed along to Percy, curse her), and a general air of fussy distraction that drove Percy absolutely spare (and which she fortunately hadn’t passed along at all).
She looked particularly hedgehog-like this evening, as indoor croquet evidently called for a bonnet made entirely of feathers. The feathers were of varying lengths and spikiness, some black, some white. This resembled hedgehog fur so precisely that Percy, who rarely noticed fashion, was struck momentarily speechless by the shocking similarity between this hat and his mother’s Erinaceinae nature.
Percy himself looked like their father, who, by all reports, had been a dasher. A noted thespian, more noted for his comedic showing and physical appearance than dramatic skill, Ormond Tunstell had gifted Percy with a set of nice cheekbones and a thoughtful brow. If Percy were a vain man he would have been grateful.
But he honestly couldn’t be fussed.
The most pronounced physical difference between the twins and their mother, of course, was the minor fact that Ivy Tunstell boasted large fangs, the supreme pallor of a vampire, and a lingering lisp. She currently also boasted a teacup of warm blood in one hand while she directed her drones and hive members at their game with the other.
When Prim and Percy appeared, the baroness let out a shriek of unparalleled delight.
“Oh, my babies. My precious jewels! Tiddles, Sniffles! Darlings, sweetlings, loveliest children of my heart and loins, how delightful to see you at last! Finally, you remembered I exist, and I am waiting. You depuffed days ago, weeks, ages, eons, and forgot all about me! Come to me now. Come to the bosom of my affection.”
“Oh, good lord,” said Percy.
Their mother had a wispy voice that had likely been a tad lisping even before the addition of fangs and only worsened under ever-present pointy toil. It made her sound as girlish as she looked, frozen in time. Hers was the kind of face that, even had she aged naturally, would have looked young until it suddenly gave up, descending into copious wrinkles without warning.
Primrose pasted a smile on her face and scuttled into their mother’s desperate embrace. “Mother! I had a wedding to plan, as you’re perfectly well aware. We came as soon as may be.”
“Oh yes, I heard all about that. Such a scandal. All manner of shocking dance partner choices, not to mention kiltless Scotsmen!”
“Werewolves, Mother, you understand how they get.”
“Don’t I just. Percy dear, come give your mother a kiss.”
Percy obliged said mother with a peck on the cheek but removed himself hurriedly from her clutching arms. She always squeezed a little too hard. Two decades a vampire and she was still a very young queen, unaware of her strength, or perhaps simply overly enthusiastic about the afterlife.
She barely paused to draw breath. “And I heard that Alexia’s horrible mother showed up—”
“But we got rid of her quickly,” Prim defended.
“And then there were cravat pins being wielded.”
“Barely a scratch, I assure you.”
“And I cannot believe little Prudence invited Lord Ambrose.”
“Woolsey Hive honoured us with an actual vampire, Mother, they might have only sent drones. No one would’ve blamed them.”
Percy lurked behind his sister, who fielded the rapidly fired insults (disguised as commentary) with consummate skill and aplomb. Really it was quite amazing to see them do battle, although also rather cringe-worthy.
“Oh, I say! I sent along three whole vampires and several drones. I was barely protected here myself last night. Although no one should be thinking of my safety on such an illuminati evening. I am nothing if not altruistic in all my endeavours.”
“Illustrious, do you mean, Mother?”
“Oh, but Primrose, sweetheart, could you not have done something about the kilts? You’re so good with Scotsmen. Weren’t you engaged to one at some point? Although of course you’re good with everyone, aren’t you, darling?”
“No, Mother, I was engaged to an Irish—”
“Oh yes, let’s not talk about that, best forgotten. Now…”
Percy let the two female voices fade into the background and allowed his thoughts to wander. His sister’s general attitude of hic manebimus optime when it came to their mother was admirable. But Percy wasn’t a fig
hter, more an avoider. He’d moved out of Wimbledon Hive as soon as possible and left the majority of the battles up to Prim evermore. He might have felt guilty, except his sister seemed to thrive on controversy and drama. One had only to consider her choices of friends and lovers.
The drones and vampires had stopped playing croquet so Percy began picking up the abused books. Poor things, it was hell on the spines and pages to be propped up like that.
“Percival Ormond Tunstell, what are you doing? We’re in the middle of a game.”
“Books. Mother. Really. No.” Percy continued in his sacred duty to the written word.
The drones watched him with equal parts amusement and shock. The vampires had seen him grow from child to adult, they knew the familial dynamic. Most of the drones, however, were relatively new. Drones rarely lasted over a decade. No doubt they’d never seen their vampire queen so easily overruled as she was by Percy on a mission of intellectual mercy.
“Percival, really, must you!” decried his mother, but she didn’t order him stopped.
“Honestly, can’t you use something else for arches?”
“I could, I suppose, what would you recommend?”
“Arches.”
“And how would they stay up? Can’t very well sink them into the carpet now, can we?”
Percy regarded the plush, no doubt hugely expensive, Persian rug. “Get little pots, or teacups, or what have you, fill them with sand, two per arch. It’d look nicer, too. Save the books.”
“But then the teacups would be in danger!” Mother pressed a hand to her chest in an excess of discomfort.
“But the books would be safe.” Really, his mother quite lacked the proper priorities in life. Or more properly, afterlife.
“Of course, you and your books.”
“In this case, Mother, they are your books.”
She turned away from him, falling into the general pattern of those who wouldn’t argue with Percy because, well, he was right.
She refocused on Prim. “Now, Tiddles darling, I understand you broke off your engagement with that nice soldier fellow, Captain Whatnot? Such pretty legs. Why would you do such an outlandish thing? And by correspondence no less. I thought I raised you better!”
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