CHAPTER FOUR
A FLOATING CUSTARD
T
he Spotted Custard left London on her maiden voyage with much less fanfare than one might expect from the departure of two of London society’s darlings.
Thinking they were to leave that evening, Rue’s parents, the Wimbledon Hive, and the Woolsey Hive had agreed for once to coordinate the outdoor event of the supernatural season. They planned a moonlit masquerade in Regent’s Park with invitations accepted by many of the best kinds of people. Provisions included unlimited champagne and sanguine fluid, treacle tart and blood sausage. The event would have played host to the season’s most extravagant dresses and fantastic hats. The next day’s papers referred to its cancellation as a scandalous upset, several young debutantes went into serious emotional declines. The precipitous departure of the guests of honour did not, many felt, warrant the event’s demise. Lady Prudence and the Honourable Primrose Tunstell were, in hushed whispers, thought to as have behaved in a very shabby manner indeed. Why should they spoil everyone else’s fun?
Rue and Prim knew none of this.
Rue’s thoughts were of her hapless Dama, who would be frightfully disappointed. He did so enjoy a fuss, and if it couldn’t be over him, his Puggle was the next best thing. He’d have had his outfit planned and all the drones furnished to match. Then again, he might have predicted Rue’s sneaking away early.
Only Quesnel’s mother came to witness their departure, arriving in the steam roly-poly. How she’d found out was anyone’s guess. Drone Lefoux merely hugged her son goodbye and stood quietly to the side while he made ready for float-off. She was statue-like – a bony older woman with short cropped hair and a preference for gentlemen’s garb that the age of American novelists had ensured was no longer as shocking as it once had been. Quesnel checked the rigging, conferred with the ground crew, and re-boarded with a final wave. As the mooring ropes were pulled up, his mother removed her hat and held it to her breast in the attitude of a mourner.
Rue, Prim, and Percy assembled on deck. Percy took the helm behind and above the others, his face drawn in concentration. Primrose had supervised the installation of a large parasol over his poop deck navigation area, a pretty red one to match the balloon, which rather clashed with Percy’s hair but would keep him from acquiring additional freckles during the journey. Prim was overly worried about her brother’s freckles. Quesnel, of course, disappeared below to supervise engineering.
They floated up smoothly, if rather more round and cheerful than elegant. Once clear of the trees, the propeller whirled to life, driving them forwards, preparing to push them into the correct current once they broke into the aetherosphere. Then, quite unexpectedly, the chimney off the stern belched out two great burps of smoke along with a tremendous flatulent noise.
Rue could feel herself blushing, for this was not the dignified float-off she had imagined. Some pigeons, all unnoticed until that moment, squawked and left their roosting spots on The Spotted Custard. Rue gave them a dirty look.
Percy let out a bark of laughter.
“Is that normal?” Prim wondered.
“It’s fine, only somewhat lacking in gravitas,” Rue assured her hopefully. She looked up. “And you’re never going to let Quesnel forget it, are you, Percy?”
“Certainly not.” The redhead grinned at her.
“It is going to do that every time we lift off?” wondered Prim.
“Very probably. Design flaw, I’m afraid,” said Percy, grinning even more broadly.
“Ah well, these things will happen.” Rue looked over the railing. The trees of Regent’s Park began to blur together, then the buildings around it became visible, then they too lost detail, and finally London herself was spread out below in one big dirty blob. The pigeons accompanied them up a short way. Rue shouted at them about the brief nature of their future existence and they lost interest, gliding lazily back down in search of statuary.
Thus unchaperoned, The Spotted Custard farted again and floated sedately upward.
Rue did not see, hidden under the trees on one side of the clearing, a tall couple. The woman wore no gloves and held the man’s massive hand in one of hers – fingers interlaced, skin touching skin. Lord Maccon had once been a strong enough werewolf to stand under direct sun, but he was getting weaker, and his wife’s touch was now vital during daylight.
He still looked as big and as strong as he had when Rue was a child, but he slept each night touching Lady Maccon, mortal, shaved each morning, and had aged ten years to Rue’s twenty as a result. His dark brown hair was salted with grey but it was worth it. His wife’s touch was the only medicine that staved off the Alpha’s curse of age-born madness. As far as Conall Maccon was concerned, ageing slowly was a worthwhile price to pay.
Alexia leaned her dark head on her husband’s shoulder and said, “Good enough now, my love? She’s safely away and on her own.”
“Indeed,” Conall grudgingly agreed, nestling his chin into his wife’s curls. Alexia had forgotten to wear her hat. “But safe?” He whispered the query into that glossy hair, still as thick and dark as when they had first met. He’d sat one evening upon a hedgehog and never forgotten – the hair, the magnificent figure, or the hedgehog.
Alexia squeezed his hand. “She’ll survive and thrive in India. It will be good for her to be away from all of this. All of us.”
“Yes, but will India survive her?” the werewolf wondered legitimately.
Alexia chose to tackle his underlying concern and not his sarcasm. “She has resources and friends. That’s the best one can ask for in life. And I gave her a parasol.”
“Oh, indeed, was it the parasol?”
“No, simply a parasol. She’s not ready for the parasol… yet. I’m taking this journey as a test of worthiness.”
“You think she will be ready when she returns?” Conall drew back to look down into her face.
Alexia’s brown eyes were thoughtful. “I think this will temper her. Travel is very broadening for the mind, don’t you find? Our daughter is a sharp edge but of the kind that could grow dull, stuck here in London.”
“I hate it when you are reasonable, wife.”
“I know, but you really ought to be accustomed to it by now.”
“Never. It’s one of your many charms.” He bent and kissed her deeply, a safe thing to do, hidden from prying eyes by trees and an early hour.
Alexia blushed like a schoolgirl under her tan skin but leaned eagerly into his kiss. “Ridiculous man.” She pulled away. “Now. Don’t you think it’s time we considered your retirement?”
Conall glowered. His amber eyes, so like his daughter’s, went hard. “Are you saying we should send a summons?”
“To Scotland?” His wife was thoughtful. “Perhaps.”
“India. Kingair is billeted in India at the moment.”
Alexia turned all nose, like a hound scenting a fox. “You knew that when you let her go, didn’t you? Of course you did.”
“Why else would I have permitted it?”
Alexia was relieved but unwilling to praise his fatherly interference. She returned to the subject at hand, “Do you think Biffy is ready?”
“Oh, he’s ready. It’s only, I’m not certain that I’m ready to let go.”
Alexia cupped her husband’s cheek with her free hand. “You let go of our daughter today, next to that…” she trailed off.
“A pack is no small thing, my love. Even balanced against a daughter. And I still have a little time left, I think.”
Alexia had confidence in her adored, if frustrating, husband. “Then you must use it to reconcile yourself to our future.”
“I hate it when you’re right.”
Alexia grinned. “Almost as much as when I’m reasonable?”
He growled at her. “Possibly more.”