“My calculations are never off!”
Quesnel was already running for the stairs, removing his hat at the same time. “Well, explain that to me later, O wise one – right now we’ve a hop to make with limited preparation and less time. Lord save us all.”
Rue tried to look debonair and calm. She thought about Uncle Rabiffano, and allowed herself the hint of a dandy’s slouch. She thought that she might – at least – be fooling the decklings.
Percy continued protesting at Quesnel’s vanished form. “The current must have moved from its last charted location – there’s no way I could have predicted––”
Rue interrupted him. “Never mind that now, Percy. Virgil, stop squealing and use a handkerchief to clean your shoe. There’s a good lad. Percy, grab the helm and prepare for a hop.”
Percy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not prepared.”
Rue gave a rather ferocious grin. “No time – we’re making this hop now. It’ll be a good test of the Custard’s mettle.”
Percy stared at her. She did look a mite crazed.
“Now, Percival!”
Percy sprang into action. He yanked at levers and cranked dials, getting the ship out of flotsam status.
Rue ordered the mainsail pulled in. It took the decklings longer than she liked. She’d have to run some drills on them to improve speed.
“Propeller at the ready?” she barked.
Percy grabbed and cranked over the appropriate bar. “Ready, captain.”
The Spotted Custard farted.
Rue chose to ascribe it to nerves. “Steady, girl,” she said to the ship, then to Percy, “Which nodule registered? Are we dropping or lifting to catch the Shifter?”
Percy examined the probe. “Lifting, captain.”
Rue picked up the speaking tube that connected her to engineering and pressed the button that would sound a bell there.
“Yes?” Quesnel’s voice was almost snappish.
“Prepare for a puff, chief engineer.”
“I don’t know about this. We’re pushing her.”
“She was made to be pushed or Dama wouldn’t have given her to me.”
“As you say, mon petit chou.” She heard Quesnel turn away from the tube and murmur into the hubbub, “It’s a lift, Aggie – have them stoke all boilers hot.”
There came the sound of Aggie yelling.
Quesnel returned to Rue. “Ready, chérie.”
“Here we go!” Rue hung up the speaker tube and turned to face Percy.
“Do it, Professor Tunstell. Now, please.”
Percy pressed the puffer button to give the balloon its boost.
They bobbed out of the Gibraltar Loop into the loose uncharted swirls of the Charybdis currents. The Spotted Custard’s balloon caved in at several points as the dirigible was buffeted in various directions at once. The gondola section shook. Prim, still seated in a chair on the main deck, gave a little squeak of alarm and dived to secure the tea things.
“Find that current, professor,” Rue ordered, her heart in her throat.
“Almost there, captain, a little higher,” reassured Percy, looking utterly terrified.
He pressed the puffer button again.
They rose, but the balloon began to collapse inward on the leeward side. The gondola lurched to starboard as the balloon caught one current, while the lower part of the ship caught another. The two halves were being torn apart. If they weren’t quick, the gondola could separate from the balloon entirely and they would spiral down to certain death far below.
“Not enough power,” yelled Percy.
Rue battled the tilt of the deck, reaching for the speaking tube, holding her hat to her head out of instinct. She lifted the tube to her mouth, pressing the alert.
“What now?” came Quesnel’s voice, oddly calm under the circumstances, only that extra French to his accent indicating stress.
“More heat to the boilers, please, Quesnel,” said Rue, forgetting to use formal address in her fear.
“Since you ask so nicely, mon petit chou,” was Quesnel’s pleasant reply.
Rue nodded at Percy. “Again.”
Percy gave The Spotted Custard another puff.
The ship rose up in a quick bob, hooked in and then…
Everything levelled out, the balloon returned to its chubby ladybird state, the gondola hung straight down as if it had never tilted. Everything went calm as a loon floating serenely on placid waters.
Rue set the tube down with a whoosh of breath overset by a terrible temptation to give in to wobbly knees and collapse to the deck. But as captain she had no time for such silliness. She turned to Percy. “Everything as ordered, Professor Tunstell?”
Percy blinked at her. “Erm. Yes, captain. A completely seamless hop, as I predicted.”
“Indeed, seamless.” Rue arched an eyebrow at this outrageous statement. She turned to Virgil who was lurking to one side with a group of panting decklings. They’d only just managed to lower the mainsail in time for the hop.
“Deckhands, decklings, everyone still solid? Virgil?”
“Floating pretty, Lady Captain,” said Virgil with a grin. He’d recovered his aplomb with the remarkable speed of the very young. The other decklings only seemed able to nod, awed by what had just occurred.
Rue picked the speaker tube back up.
“What now, chérie?” came Quesnel’s voice, now devoid of accent.
“How’s everything in engineering?”
“Bit of a bumpy ride but we weathered it well and good. Couple of welts and bruises, the odd small burn, nothing requiring Matron. Got us a coal spill to clean up if you could spare any hands from up top?”
It was certainly a good thing no one needed a surgeon as they didn’t have one on board. Rue pointed at the decklings. “You six, report to engineering. Back up here post haste, mind you. We’ll need that sail up again shortly. You two to the crow’s nest – I want eyes on that current. You two stay on deck at alert.”
They sprang to do her bidding. Virgil wandered over.
“Six coming down to you now, Mr Lefoux,” said Rue into the speaker.
“Ta, mon petit chou.” This time Quesnel hung up on her.
Rue replaced the tube and went to attend to her last concern.
“It’s a good thing you started out bossy before you were given command,” Primrose said from where she sat, slightly swallowed by a partly collapsed deck-chair.
“Are you well, Prim?”
“One tea-cup down. But it was empty, thank goodness, so nothing spilled. And the pot’s still warm. Would you like a refresher?”
Rue, feeling all-conquering and victorious, waved a casual hand about her head in what she felt was a field marshal manner. “Just pour it, darling, just pour it.”
When she returned to her seat, however, it was to learn that all the crumpets had overturned to land buttered-side down on the deck. “Why must that always be the case?”
“Laws of the unnatural humours,” sympathised Prim before sending Virgil to Cook for some more. “And lemon curd please this time, not raspberry jam. Lemon is so much better with crumpets, don’t you feel?”
“Indubitably,” replied Rue, sipping her tea.
They made the Maltese Tower in just under three days. Percy bragged that this was almost – although not quite – a record. “Next time we could do it in two and a half if we kicked in the propeller more frequently.”
“I’m not pushing my sooties and tapping the fuel reserves so you can have a record on the slates with the Royal Society,” replied Quesnel.
They were enjoying a nice supper in the mess hall. Or at least it could have been nice. Cook had managed macaroni soup, roast pork ribs, cabbage, and Napier pudding. Unfortunately, Percy and Quesnel’s constant squabbling could upset even Rue’s iron stomach.
Rue put down her knife and fork to glare at them. “Don’t you two ever stop?”
“Everyone needs some form of entertainment, mon petit chou,” replied Quesnel wit
h a charming smile.
Percy returned to his book, a treatise on the health benefits of sea-bathing versus aetheric emersion. They had unsuccessfully tried to stop him from reading at table. In the end, Rue had insisted he wear a pinafore if he continued to try to eat and read, but if he had already finished his meal, she no longer objected. He seemed perfectly able to participate in the conversation, even when he was to all appearances entirely absorbed by the written word.
When Quesnel would have said something more to aggravate the navigator, Rue shook her head at him. “Leave the poor thing be. For goodness’ sake, what exactly did he steal from you to make you so annoyed with him all the time?” she wondered, knowing the question was both intrusive and daring.
Primrose put a hand to her mouth in shock. “Rue, should we discuss such things at the table?”
“We should if it continues to impinge upon everyone’s enjoyment of social discourse.”
“Fair enough.” Quesnel hit her with twinkling violet eyes. “So discuss.”
Rue tried to arrange herself to look sympathetic. “Was it a woman?”
Quesnel inhaled his cabbage and began to cough.
Rue slapped him on the back, hard, and Prim passed him wine.
When he had swallowed two full glasses and wiped his eyes, Rue said, “Well, was it?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.” Quesnel actually blushed, something he did rather well given his fair skin.
Rue, who had her mother’s swarthy complexion, had always considered it rather a blessing that she didn’t blush easily. It made her, she fancied, seem cool and untouchable. But if she could do it as prettily as Quesnel, she might try in the future.
Primrose jumped to her brother’s defence. “To be fair, Percy is like that.”
Quesnel looked at her. “Like what? A poacher?”
Percy pretended to remain above the whole conversation, although he was obviously listening closely.
“No. He’s deadly attractive to the ladies. Always has been, since Rue and I were little.”
At that, Percy rolled his eyes and Quesnel looked offended.
Rue tried to swallow a smile. “I don’t think you’re helping matters, Prim.”
Prim amended her statement. “Not that you aren’t handsome yourself, Mr Lefoux.”
“Thank you,” said Quesnel immodestly, giving her a seductive glower.
Rue kicked him under the table. He didn’t even flinch.
Prim continued, “Not that I could possibly understand the appeal but females are always flirting shamelessly with Percy. He’s quite the ladykiller, aren’t you, brother dear? I understand our dad was a bit of a dasher as well in his day.”
Percy looked at his sister. “Tiddles, I don’t know what you think you’re doing but it isn’t helping.”
“Not that he tries to be a ladykiller. Of course. He simply can’t stop himself.”
Percy grumbled at his book. “Oh no, it’s my dashing good looks.”
The funny thing was, of course, Primrose was perfectly correct. At any given ball, Percy inevitably found himself surrounded by young ladies angling for a dance. After suffering what amounted to two sisters, Percy was a marvellous dancer and all the society mothers knew it. They also knew that he had powerful relations without being a risky supernatural proposition himself. Untitled, yes, but rich was almost as good, and he ranked high with the sunset crowd by association. One could overlook his parents’ theatrical background and his own curious case of bluestocking fever in favour of such amenities as money, connections, and appearance. As for the young ladies, there was something about his academic snobbery that drew them in like butterflies to a flower – a gawky, uncomfortable flower. They even liked the aloofness. One could never expect to be flattered by Professor Tunstell. Exposure to Percy at a ball, Miss Prospigot had announced recently, hands clasped to her lips, “was positively soul quivering”.
Primrose continued, “He’s always getting himself accidentally engaged. That’s why he withdrew from polite society, isn’t it, Percy? Tired of breaking all those hearts.”
Quesnel sat back, watching the interchange with eyebrows arching so high they almost ate into his hairline. “Very noble of him.”
Rue felt compelled to add, “Sad to say, Mr Lefoux, but she’s perfectly correct. I can’t explain it either.”
“So you haven’t fallen victim to the professor’s unavoidable allure?”
Rue baulked. “I should say not. He’s practically family. Why, I find you far more appealing than old Percy here.”
Prim said, “Hear hear.”
Quesnel looked suddenly pleased with life.
Percy slammed his book closed. “Really, girls! I hardly know the medicine from the ailment.”
Quesnel said, “It’s a strange back-handed compliment, ladies, but I’ll take it.”
Rue sighed, realising that this was all her fault and that she had opened up a topic of far greater intimacy than she should have, being the captain. “I do apologise, gentlemen. And of course, Mr Lefoux, if Professor Tunstell poached your lady-love, whether by accident or design, it is bad form, to say the very least. Professor, did you… poach, as it were?”
Percy snorted. “This conversation is ridiculous. Why should I care for the leavings of a mechanically-minded Frenchman?”
Quesnel stood at that, face flushed. “I say, that’s too far.”
Rue sighed. “Gentlemen, forgive me – this is getting us nowhere. I had hoped to clear the air so things could be more pleasant. That seems unlikely at the moment. Shall we adjourn?”
Percy was already up and away, extra helping of Napier pudding in one hand, book in the other.
Quesnel turned to look at Rue as if he felt he owed her an explanation. “It’s the principle of the thing, chérie. Ungentlemanly behaviour. You know my heart belongs only to you. The sunshine of my life, the moon on my horizon, the––”
“Yes, of course, dear. The pearl of your necklace, the rose of your garden.” Rue rolled her eyes and tried not to be actually flattered.
“Oh, yes, those are good too.”
Rue sighed. “Scoot off, Quesnel, do.”
“You are all sweetness and light, mon petit chou.”
Rue did not rise to the bait. Nor was she going to ask him to stop calling her mon petit chou. He knew it galled her but as long as he confined it to the semi-privacy of the stateroom, she would ignore it.
“Shoo to you too.”
Quesnel strode out and Rue sat back down with a sigh.
“More tea?” Prim’s eyes were dancing.
“Thank you. Prim, was that a foolish thing to discuss?”
Primrose remained silent.
“It can’t only be some silly painted lady, can it? Aren’t you dying to know why they hate each other so?”
“Certainly not.” Prim’s tone indicated she probably already knew and that it had something to do with the twin connection. Often it was difficult to remember that Percy and Primrose were related, let alone twins, but a lifetime of experience had given Rue a sense of when she was intruding on their sibling bond. She was about to attempt a new line of conversation when the most amazing sound emanated throughout the ship. It was a new noise entirely and it seemed dangerous.
Rue and Prim leapt to their feet and made for the poop deck as quickly as their skirts would allow.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MALTESE TOWER
T
he sound, which was a like a gargle meets a warble, only extremely loud, turned out to be The Spotted Custard’s version of a proximity alarm. It had been activated by a deckling in the crow’s nest. The young lad swung himself down to report that the Maltese Tower beacon was dead ahead in the murk of the aetherosphere. His glassicals – the far focus set handed out to any who manned the nest – amplified his watery eyes into huge blue orbs under the gaslight of the deck lanterns.
“Very good, young sir,” was Rue’s reply. “Now back up with you please, and let us know whe
n we reach docking drop-down juncture.”
“Aye aye, Lady Captain.” The boy gave a floppy salute before pulling himself back up via a series of rope ladders ending with one long swinging run up the side of the balloon.
“Ah, to be young and agile again,” said Primrose.
“We were never that young,” replied Rue.
“More to the point, we were never that agile,” said Prim with a soft smile.
Rue huffed her agreement and turned to Percy, who had put away his book and resumed the helm the moment the alarm sounded. At least he had a sense of responsibility. “Prepare to drop out of aetherosphere as soon as we reach docking juncture point.”
“Yes, captain,” replied Percy, face a little drawn. “I had assumed.”
Rue spared a moment to worry that this job might be too much for even his arrogance. “Percy, have you ever docked a ship of this size?”
“Not exactly,” replied Percy.
“And what exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“Oh dear. Should I call Mr Lefoux up to take over from you?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll do perfectly well.” Percy’s face went from fearful to fiercely determined.
Pleased with herself for manipulating him properly, Rue said, “I’m sure you will.”
The crow’s nest hollered down, docking juncture spotted. Rue squinted into the swirling miasmic grey, not unlike London during the Great Pea Souper of 1887. Just ahead she thought she could make out… a lamp-post.
Or what looked like a lamp-post, except that it was only the top half of one and Rue knew that it only seemed small because they were still far away. In actual fact, the beacon was very large indeed. It was birdcage in shape and lit from within by a miasmic orange gas.
Rue ordered, “Deck hands pull in the mainsail, navigator prepare to drop out of aetherosphere on my mark.” She went to the speaking tube and bonged the boiler room.
“Yes?” barked a female voice.
“Greaser Phinkerlington?”
“You were expecting an opera girl?”
“Please prepare to engage the propeller.”
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