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.
“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 loathe 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 towards the familiar taverns and dustbins, street wares and bakers’ stalls of her home neighbourhood. The fishy underbelly of the ever-present Themes – 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.
Rue transformed spontaneously back into a normal young lady – or as normal as is possible with a metanatural. She and Prim ended their run on their posteriors at the side of the road. Prim quickly stood, undid her bundle, and threw the rose shawl about Rue’s naked form.
“Spiffing! What a whiz. Now, hail a hack, would you, please, Prim?” Rue tucked the shawl about her as neatly as possible and reseated the wreath about her head. It was all hopeless – her hair was loose, her feet bare – but with no other options, Rue found it best to make an effort to ensure one’s appearance seemed intentional.
Prim handed over the dancing slippers.
Rue put them on, trying not to feel the aeration of her nether region. Not so long ago, split bloomers had been all the rage – she couldn’t imagine why. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, knowing she looked like a light skirt. Only with no skirt.
Fortunately for them, the hackney cab driver had seen far stranger things around London in his day. “Ladies,” he tipped his hat. He was clearly taking his cues from Prim’s impeccable gown rather than Rue’s ridiculous lack of one. He also seemed taken with Prim’s winning smile and long lashes.
“Oh, how kind of you to stop, good sir,” Prim simpered.
As if it weren’t his job, thought Rue, but let her friend work her magic. Taking her cue from the simpering to act the part of an invalid.
Primrose recited Dama’s address. “Quickly, if you please – we are in some distress.”
The driver was concerned. “Is the young lady well?”
Rue stumbled helpfully, pretending faintness as she climbed into the cab. She didn’t have anyone to imitate in this matter; everyone she knew was in excellent health. Thus the act might be a tad overdramatic, but the driver looked adequately troubled on her behalf.
“Oh, sir!” Prim widened her eyes, pulling his attention back. She wobbled her lower lip. “Tragical accident.”
“I’ll get you there as quickly as possible, miss.” Suddenly converted into a white knight, the driver whipped his horse to a trot.
Rue’s adopted father was a rove vampire of considerable style and vast means. He operated outside hive sanctions and fashionable restrictions – always claiming that the latter was the reason he left. He controlled a gossip network of dozens of fashionable young dandies, several exotic trade concerns, the political position of potentate advisor to Her Majesty Queen Victoria and, perhaps most importantly, had been the dominant influence on male evening dress in London since the death of Beau Brummell half a century earlier.
He received the two young ladies in his drawing room with both arms extended and his new favourite toy, a large multiphase appearance reparation kit, strapped to one arm. “My darlings, my darling girls. My Puggle! My little rosehip! How lovely. How very lovely to see you both.” Dama always behaved as if he hadn’t seen an acquaintance in years. “Time between visits,” he usually said, “is irrelevant to vampires. We are old and often forgotten – people know we will always be there, thus we vampires very much like to be remembered.” He wielded verbal italics as if they were capable of actual bodily harm. Not as unlikely as one might think since, with him, word emphasis sometimes did cause incalculable pain.
Primrose ran into the vampire’s arms with alacrity, hugging him in an excess of emotion for a young lady of quality. She was rather too fond of the rove for her hive-bound mother’s comfort, and thus did not get to visit him as frequently as she liked.
Rue, although equally pleased to see him, was confined to clutching his gloved hands and exchanging air kisses in the French manner, a technique they had adopted to prevent her skin from touching his inadvertently. Tonight, caution was required in spades as she wore nothing more protective over her ruined bloomers than a Chinese silk dressing-gown she’d grabbed on her way in.
Dama would comment on her improper state of dress. “Puggle, lovest, must you appear in such a very Grecian manner?” He winced as if ruminating on an overabundance of chitons with which he had once had personal affiliation. Which he might have. Rumour had it that Dama was very old indeed. Rue never asked; it was considered beyond the pale to ask a vampire his age – literally. But she paid attention to the precise way he executed certain vowels when speaking. If anyone consulted her – which no one ever had – she would have said Greek in origin.
“I’m wearing a very respectable dressing gown,” she protested. Dama’s drones kept a full selection on hand in the front parlour for when Little Miss returned in a state as they called it. The drones always chose beautiful, highly decorated, full coverage dressing-gowns. They were terribly concerned with Lady Prudence’s dignity and reputation. More so than she, much to their distress.
“Yes, dear, but this is my drawing room, not a Turkish bathing house.”
“Your drawing room, Dama dearest, has seen far worse.”
“Too true, too true. There might be something in the idea, come to think on it. Bath houses ought to come back into fashion soon, everything is about steam this century already. I should invest. Here, put this in your hair at least.” He popped open his appearance kit and ejected a ribbon and two long emerald hair pins.
Rue took them with an arched eyebrow. “Silver-tipped? You expecting trouble from the neighbours?”
“One can never be too careful with werewolves around.” The vampire gestured for the two ladies to sit, pausing to remove his gloves and hat. Rue only then registered that he had been about to go out.
Prim took possession of the end of a gold and cream brocade chaise next to an aged calico cat, trying not to disturb the decrepit creature. The cat opened one bleary eye and croaked at her politely. Prim scratched the animal’s head in response.
Dama watched in approval. “You look very nice this evening, Primrose, my petal! I take it your mother did not have a hand in choosing that particular dress?”
Prim flushed at the compliment. “Certainly not! Fortunately for me, her attention is otherwise occupied with hive matters and my wardrobe is mostly my own to command. Although she still doesn’t trust me with hats.”
Rue bounced over to sit next to Dama, pulling out the snuff box.
The vampire leaned away from it, peering through a monocle he didn’t require, as though intellectually intrigued. “Was it difficult, my sugarplum?”
“Not at all. I wasn’t able to be quite as subtle as I hoped, so had to borrow wolf off Uncle Rabiffano to escape.”
“Oh, poor boy.” The briefest of pauses and then Dama flittered his fingers in the air. “Given your birth parents, my pudding, I suspect subtlety will forever be beyond your ken. Perhaps we should work on that?”
Rue wasn’t offended. Why be subtle when a good dose of the supernatural worked perfectly in most situations? “You’re probably right.”
“You know, Rue, someday you will be in a pickle with no vampire or werewolf nearby and then what will you do?” Prim was ever the voice of reason.
Rue considered. “Act like you, of course, dear Dama.”
The vampire was not to be flattered out of his parental concern. “And if that doesn’t work?”
“Probably hurl a heavy object.”
Prim muttered to the cat, “Lacking subtlety is not the only familial similarity.”
“What was that?” Rue looked at her sharply.
“Nothing at all.” Pr
im widened her eyes and continued petting the feline.
Rue said, in an effort to shift matters, “Dama, I do wish you’d give me something more challenging to do.”
“All in good time, my sweet.” The vampire reached for the snuff box but Rue held it away from him protectively in her bare hand, a hand he wouldn’t dare touch.
“What’s this, Puggle?” Dama tossed his blond locks and pouted. Given that he had what one admirer had once described as the face of Ganymede on earth, the pout looked very well on him. Which he knew, of course.
“Nope,” Rue could resist the pout. “First tell me why it’s so important.”
The lower lip wobbled.
Primrose hid a smile at the vampire’s theatrics, so very like her own earlier that evening.
Rue waggled the little box temptingly back and forth out of the vampire’s reach.
They all knew he could not take the box away from her, even with supernatural speed. The moment he touched her skin, Rue would have his vampire abilities and still be in possession of the snuff box. The vampires called her soul-stealer, the werewolves called her flayer, the scientists metanatural, and there hadn’t been one like her for thousands of years. She’d spent her childhood spoiled and studied in turn, combating three overbearing parents. It made for interesting results. Results like the fact that even the most powerful rove in the whole of the British Empire could not extract one snuff box from her if she didn’t want him too.
“Troublesome infant,” grumbled Dama, and stopped the simulated pouting.
“Well?”
“It’s not the snuff box, nor the snuff, my little limpet.”
“Oh?”
Dama crossed his arms. “Did you examine it closely?”
“Of course.”
The vampire arched one perfect blond eyebrow – exactly the correct shade, slightly darker than his hair. Artificially darkened, of course, but then his hair was artificially lightened every evening. Dama left nothing to chance, least of all his own appearance.
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