Rue frowned. “You’re concerned about shift-induced miscarriage?”
Arsenic nodded. “Verra. We are negotiating utterly unknown biology here. Your situation is worryingly unique. I would urge caution.”
Arsenic truly wanted her captain to take this seriously. General crew attitude around Rue suggested caution was not her strong suit. If indeed she had even a nodding acquaintance with the practice.
Rue’s expression was difficult to decipher. “I take your point. Do you cherish the same concerns if I were to change to vampire, Rakshasa, or pishtaco?”
“Vampire, or what, or what?” Arsenic was beginning to seriously doubt the adequacy of her education.
“All different kinds of blood- or flesh-consuming supernatural creatures.”
“All human form, no major form-shift?”
“Essentially.”
“That would depend. When you’re a vampire, are you driven by a need to bite necks and suck blood?”
“Not particularly.”
“But your strength and speed are enhanced?”
“Yes.”
“That suggests you change physical characteristics associated with skeleton and musculature. How about your vision and other senses?”
“Improved.”
“That is organ related. So vampire shift could impact your womb.”
Rue’s face blanched. “Oh, but I already have! I was a pishtaco a few months ago, and a lioness shortly before that. Have I messed up the baby?”
She looked like she might cry.
Arsenic was oddly relieved. Clearly Rue did care, she was simply facetious about it. Arsenic wondered if Rue’s forced flippancy with regards to imminent motherhood was a means of deflecting a profound fear of the maternal state.
So she placed a reassuring hand to Rue’s soft upper arm. “Have you felt the bairn moving about since then?”
“Oh. Yes! Yes, I have.”
“Then the baby is likely fine. I would urge caution going forward. It could be that the child develops its abilities later on in the embryonic process. In which case, if your bairn is a preternatural, you’ll soon find yourself unable to shift, should you try. I suggest you na try, though.”
Rue nodded, biting her lip. “I shall take your advice to heart, Doctor.”
Arsenic thought it likely Rue was being honest, but also that she might forget in the heat of the moment. To be able to change shape in battle or to heal on a whim, would necessarily make one rather instinctively reliant on such resources. Arsenic hoped Rue would not forget and reach for Tasherit in time of crisis.
Cautiously she added, “Would you mind if I told Tasherit and Rodrigo my concerns? Perhaps if the lioness knew to avoid contact? And your cousin could keep an eye on proximity as well, as with a simple touch he could stop any unexpected shifts.”
“If you think it best. I don’t want them hovering, though. Can’t abide hovering.”
“Are they the type to hover?”
“Not by nature.”
“Weel then?”
“Honestly, you might as well simply tell Prim and Spoo, between the two of them everyone will know, easier that way. They work faster than the speaking tube. It’s miraculous.”
Arsenic nodded, relieved. She’d expected a battle. But if everyone might be recruited to save the captain from herself, it would be best. Arsenic had done this kind of thing before with generals and brigadiers – recruited soldiers and support staff into helping her manage them indirectly and for everyone’s wellbeing.
Rue glowered. “Quesnel will hover, though. I don’t suppose he could be left out of it?”
“While everyone else knows? Is that wise in a relationship?”
“I suppose you’re right.” Rue looked resigned to having to share vital information with her own husband and presumably went off to do so.
The Spotted Custard puffed away from London on an evening current in good time to hit the grey and float off in a southeastern direction.
Arsenic joined the rest of the crew on deck for the lift. She had no means of helping and felt out of place but it was a joy to watch her new companions work. They were smooth and confident and delightfully jocular.
Spoo and the decklings moved with lithe grace, swinging from riggings and calling out instructions, observations, and insults to one another.
“Watch your head there, Nips!”
“Oui up, Spoo, my head is none of your concern.”
“I wouldn’t bother but you seem incapable of keeping it on your shoulders with any surety.”
“Surety? What are you, a banker?”
“Bank your arse in the clouds, I will, if you don’t pay attention.”
Arsenic did not bother to hide her smile.
Rue was in her element, waddling about the deck barking out orders, and gesticulating wildly. Arsenic didn’t think the waddling detracted from her authority. It was amusing, though, the captain looked something on the order of a dictatorial duck. Percy seemed to have given Virgil instructions on providing captain-wobble maintenance. The valet appeared at Rue’s elbow to brace her whenever she gave a particularly exuberant arm wiggle, or seemed inclined to tip.
Percy himself was the revelation. He was straight-backed and confident, yelling out responses to the captain’s queries, and barking instructions down the speaking tube to engineering with authority. Gone was the awkward conversationalist of the breakfast table. He was, Arsenic realized with a shock, an extremely good navigator. He dialled in the probe, calculated the puffs, and charted current hops with consummate aplomb.
Arsenic didn’t want to admire Percy’s adept handling of the helm, but she did. A capable man was really rather appealing, bright eyes focused, hands confident, cheekbones sharp. Not that cheekbones had anything to do with efficiency, but the man certainly had an attractive skeletal structure.
Primrose popped her head up to ascertain that everything was running smoothly and then retreated belowdecks about some staffing crisis or pastry shortage.
Arsenic spotted Anitra, who seemed equally adrift in the efficient chaos, and sidled up to her to ask politely after Tasherit. The werecat was still absent and Arsenic was worried about aether exposure.
Anitra said that Tash confined herself for the duration of high transit. Apparently, the werecat simply fell into a deep sleep once inside the aetherosphere, from which she could not be awoken.
They stood together at the main deck railing, next to one of the Gatling guns, and watched as London became a splotch of light below them. Arsenic was grateful for the Drifter’s presence. The sweet-faced lady seemed happy to keep her company, help her stay out of the way, and answer any questions.
As they puffed up, The Spotted Custard let out a tremendous fart. Arsenic started. “That noise? ’Tis na a concern?”
Anitra looked embarrassed. “The ship has a digestive complaint. We’ve been assured by engineering that its flatulence is not an indication of anything serious.”
Arsenic chuckled. “It usually isna. I would advise a change of diet but I suppose steam engines run on coal, and that’s about the sum total of it. There’s na blockage?”
“No need to diagnose the airship, Doctor.”
“Aye. I suppose you’ve people for that.”
“Speaking of, what does my dear husband think he’s doing?”
Rodrigo was trying to help the deckhands haul in and strap down for imminent current hop.
“He’s a deckhand?” Arsenic was impressed, as she would have guessed the preternatural too proud for menial labour.
“No, he’s an assassin. Manning an airship takes real skill. He only kills people. Well, he used to. If he’s not careful, he’ll do it again by accident.” Anitra called out. “Darling! Come away from Bork. Poor fellow.”
Rodrigo said something to her in lyrical Italian.
His wife said something sweetly back.
When that didn’t work, Anitra made an obvious move towards the lower decks and cast her man the kind of coy loo
k that suggested he had a choice to make, and better make the right one.
Rodrigo trotted after her.
Arsenic was left alone but amused.
They hit the grey. England winked out of existence and they were surrounded by nothingness.
Arsenic enjoyed the aetherosphere. Some people found it cloying and oppressive but she found it restful.
Percy moved around the navigation pit frantically as they traversed the uncharted Charybdis currents, but several farts later they’d attained their target current, the European Flow. Percy managed the smoothest series of hops Arsenic had ever experienced. She wasn’t sure if that could be attributed to the technological sophistication of The Spotted Custard, which she was beginning to realize was top-notch despite its silly ladybug appearance, or the skill of the navigator, or both. Arsenic didn’t express her admiration to the man. He was working and seemed to find her distracting, so she stayed away.
She did try to pin him down and tell him later, when the sail was safely up, and all was calm and still. But he seemed to be on a mission to avoid her as much as possible.
SIX
When All Else Fails, Try the Library
They were several days travelling through the grey towards Constantinople. This was largely uneventful. Except for the decklings’ particularly exciting bout of combative badminton.
Arsenic managed a medic’s consultation with most of the crew and staff. Anitra had been rather a surprise. Now Arsenic knew to look, Anitra’s hands were a touch large and there was a small Adam’s apple under her veils. Arsenic had met a lady who was a male soldier once, but never the other way around. She understood why her worries about contraception had amused everyone and left it at that.
The only crew Arsenic failed to see were Tasherit Sekhmet, who was asleep, Aggie Phinkerlington, who was impossible, and Percival Tunstell, who was avoiding her.
After double-checking her notes against the ship’s manifest, Arsenic girded her proverbial loins and decided to tackle Aggie first. Armed with her mother’s training, she headed down to the boiler room.
Only an assassin, she felt, could reasonably be expected to catch Aggie Phinkerlington.
Engineering was lousy with smoke and coal dust. Arsenic made a mental note to check the breathing capacity of all those who worked the boiler room. It was hot and noisy from the heat and hiss and clang of two boilers and a great deal of associated machinery. There was also singing, off-key and rather bawdy, as the sooties, firemen, and greasers went about their duties.
Quesnel spotted her first and came wandering over. There wasn’t much excitement at the moment, since the mainsail was up and they were coasting the aether currents with restful impunity. His people were mostly focused on keeping the gas flowing, the kitchen supplied with hot water, and suchlike activities. Real excitement occurred during a puffing. Arsenic intended to stay far away from engineering at such times. She’d never been one for soot, grease, and machinery.
Of course, she was grateful for the luxuries afforded by this new age of technology, but they tended to play hell with one’s clothing upon intimate exposure. Not that Arsenic considered herself a fashion maven. At the moment she was wearing a tweed mountain-climbing outfit with a nursing pinafore pinned to the top. It was an odd combination but functional, which tended to be Arsenic’s preference in life.
Quesnel grinned at her. “Doctor, to what do we owe this honour?”
“I’m looking for Miss Phinkerlington.”
“Aggie? Why?”
“She has missed her appointment with me three times thus far.”
“Ah yes. I see. A moment.” Quesnel threw his head back and yelled, “Aggie, get yourself over here, you harridan. Someone’s come for you at last.”
Arsenic spotted the head greaser saunter oh-so-casually away from them and nip behind the larger of the two boilers. It looked, Arsenic realized, like a massive teakettle. How endearing.
She tilted her head at Quesnel to indicate where the woman had gone.
“Ah,” said the Frenchman with a twinkle in his eye.
Quesnel turned and pointed three fingers in a flicking motion at two burly-looking firemen. Directing them to where Aggie was now hiding. The men understood the unspoken command and went off after their head greaser with delighted expressions.
They returned moments later. Each man had one arm occupied, carrying Aggie between them, upright, while she wiggled and swore. She was shorter than Arsenic had realized. She had thought of the woman as tall, possibly a result of her grumpy attitude. Dour people always seemed like they ought to be tall.
The firemen plunked Aggie down in front of Arsenic.
“Oh yes, well, erm, Doctor?” The ginger female looked all around, desperate for an excuse to escape.
“Good afternoon, Miss Phinkerlington.”
“What you want me for, boffin?” She glared at Quesnel.
“Ah, Aggie, the good doctor here says you’ve missed your appointments.”
“Ah, well, I’m on shift right now. If I could come see you after?” Aggie’s gaze darted about, everywhere but at Arsenic.
“Oh no.” Quesnel was looking rather too pleased. “You’re relieved of duty. Things are quiet. We can spare you for a half an hour. You get this taken care of, Aggie.”
Arsenic decided that this was some previously unheard-of definition of the word quiet. The boiler room was nothing if not noisy. Or perhaps Quesnel was too French to really comprehend the irony of his words.
“But Q!”
“No, doudou, you go with the nice doctor.”
“Oh, but—”
“Or you do not come back to work at all. I have humoured you long enough.” Quesnel could clearly be quite commanding, when he liked.
Arsenic crossed her arms and attempted to look persuasively threatening.
Aggie glared at her, as if Arsenic had killed her best friend. Not that Aggie looked to be the type to have many friends. Fine, Aggie was looking as if Arsenic had lost her favourite wrench.
“It willna take even twenty minutes. I’ll be verra gentle.” Arsenic tried for a soft smile. “Promise.”
Aggie muttered something under her breath but when Arsenic turned to climb the ladder out of engineering, the head greaser dutifully followed.
Once they hit the corridor and were well shot of the noise, Arsenic glanced at Aggie sideways. “Bad experience or simply a general fear of physicians?”
“Leeches and sawbones, the lot of you.”
“Aye? So ’tis prejudice? Bonnie. My favourite.”
“Now see here, Doc. Couldn’t you just mark me off as oil, and we’d go forth ignoring one another? Wouldn’t that be pips?”
“You’d do that with a boiler, would you? Something vital to the safety of this ship? Simply say ’tis working fine without checking it over properly?”
“Well, no, but—”
“This way, please.” Arsenic directed Aggie into the swoon room and closed the door behind them. She thought about locking it but Aggie already looked like a trapped animal of some venomous variety.
Arsenic extracted her favourite examination lens from its new cubby.
“Come, sit.” She gestured to her exam cot.
Aggie, dragging her feet, sat.
“Look up, please.”
Arsenic went through the motions of checking the quality and condition of Aggie’s eyes, nose, ears, throat, tongue, and breath. She palpated various nodes and checked for the usual parasites. The woman seemed in extraordinarily good health for one who so assiduously avoided care.
“You gonna have me strip down?” Aggie looked terrified.
“Something I should know? Unexpected lumps, rashes, anything along those lines?”
“Blimey, no!”
Arsenic stood back and crossed her arms. “Any disease or ailments endemic to your family?”
“No.”
“Bite-survivor ancestry?”
“No.” The greaser looked bitter. “We run practical. There
was one death in the attempt.”
Arsenic made a note in her book. “Vampire or werewolf?”
“Werewolf.”
“’Tis my medical duty to inform you, as a matter of record, that recent data suggests survival rates for metamorphosis appear modestly dependent on familial history as well as presence or absence of excess soul. Thus, your chances are even less than other humans’.”
“Since I’m not at all creative, Doc, I suspected that already. Nice to know I’m gonna die young, though.”
Arsenic looked up at her. “Did you wish to be supernatural?”
“No.”
“So you’re being ornery?”
“It’s my character trait of preference.”
“You’re verra good at it.”
“Thank you, Doc. What about you? Just like cutting people open and hearing them scream?”
“’Tis all I live for.” Arsenic had sisters; witty banter was practically a requirement in the Ruthven household. This ginger harridan wasn’t going to get the better of her with sarcasm.
Surprisingly, Aggie laughed. “You’re not so bad, are you, Doc?”
Arsenic wasn’t sure how she felt about Doc as a moniker. “Oh, go on, call me the Grim Reaper.”
Aggie snorted again.
“The calluses on your fingers here. They from work with boilers?”
“No, Doc.”
“Crossbow?”
“How would you know that?”
“My mother taught me. Do you shoot regular?”
“More often than I thought I would. Spotted Custard isn’t as quiet as one might hope.”
“Want to do some targeting on deck sometime?” Arsenic was thinking she hadn’t shot a crossbow in years, so she could use the practice, but also that it was likely a good way to get Aggie out into sunlight and fresh air.
“You’re an odd kind of doctor if you want to join me on deck to shoot things.”
“So long as ’tis things, na people.”
Reticence Page 11