Quesnel gave him a funny look. “Her ship, sir,” he said, tilting his head at Rue, emphasising the sir as a marker of the lack of proper conversational approach.
The little man’s eyebrows went up but he turned to Prim and Rue. They were quite the pair, parasols closed and masquerading as walking sticks, hats tilted forward although there was no need for shade, arms linked, expressions disapproving. Rue carried her mother’s parasol, which was too ugly to match any of her outfits, but was more sturdy than any of her fashionable ones. This one, felt Rue, could really cause damage to a noggin if applied with enough enthusiasm. Somehow this made her feel more secure about life in general.
The ladies regarded the man with eyes of steely disinterest. Well, to be fair, Prim’s eyes were more a melted cocoa of mock reproach, and Rue’s were the twinkling tawny of barely contained amusement. But it was hard to see this fact through the hats. Rue spared a moment to wonder if Aunt Ivy’s insistence on hats wasn’t a precaution against sub-par acting abilities.
Rue adjusted hers to a steeper angle, the better to hide her twinkle.
The officious man cleared his throat as though expecting them to speak first.
They continued looking at him in silence.
Rue up-tilted her nose in the air, and drew her shoulders back, using physicality to grow more aristocratic. Prim didn’t need any help – such things came naturally to her.
Finally, the man bowed. “Senior Tower Jerquer, Gresham Stukely at your service.”
“Mr Stukely,” said Rue and Prim in chorus, curtseying.
“Your, erm, ship, ladies, it’s not in my registry. That’s illegal docking, add to that non-notification, add to that unauthorised personnel, add to that after-hours fees, add to that––”
“Oh dear me,” said Rue to Prim. “Daddy promised, didn’t he, that she would be on everyone’s books? How terribly upsetting. He promised!” Rue spun her ugly parasol against the metal walkway in agitation. She channelled the most snobbish of Dama’s drones in her voice – enunciating all her vowels as though hampered by particularly large teeth.
Prim instantly fell into the game. “Yes, he most certainly did. Silly Daddy. Oh sister, what are we to do?” Her voice wobbled in distress.
Rue admired this greatly – Prim was very good at being distraught. Rue’s forte was bluster, a native ability inherited from her blood parents, so she went with that. “Did he give us paperwork to that effect? I simply cannot remember. You know I’m terrible with anything of the notation inclination.” She turned to the official, batting her eyelashes, and reached for the part of her that could talk like Dama at his most supercilious. “Just a little world tour, you understand? Of course you do. You have a very understanding brow. Daddy thinks we need culture. Of course, we had to come here first. The Maltese Tower is the last word on culture. Poor Daddy couldn’t come, sadly bedridden. It’s the aetheric particles – they caused him to come over all flopsy. But he did say it was settled. I’m sure he did say that. Or was that Mr Barclay? You know Mr Barclay, don’t you, Mr Stukely? Oh, you must – everyone who is anyone knows Mr Barclay the banker?” When all else failed – overwhelm with inanities.
Prim widened her big brown eyes in distress. “Oh, sister, this is terrible, so terrible! What are we to do? Oh, no, are we going to be detained, or questioned, or searched, or…?” She trailed off, looking as though she might cry. “I feel faint. Where’s my sal volatile? We won’t be locked away, will we? I don’t think I could stand it, not a small bare room. No trim at all.”
Rue put an arm about Prim in a sisterly manner, hushing and comforting her. “I’m certain this nice gentlemen will help us, won’t you, kind Mr Stukely? My sister, you understand, is delicate. Très, très easily overcome by nerves. Poor dear sister.”
The jerquer was himself overcome with remorse and the need to be a hero to such obviously innocent and, more importantly, wealthy young women. “Oh, now, ladies, normally an unregistered craft, well, we would have to at least question––”
Primrose began to sob. One fat tear dripped down her perfect rosy cheek. Rue suppressed the urge to clap.
Quesnel watched this entire exhibition with a well-hidden grin. He was not, Rue noticed, employing his hat, but had merely sunk his chin down into the high points of his collar and cravat in the manner of an undertaker.
Mr Stukely twitched at Prim’s whimpers. “Perhaps, just this once, a small fine? It is a very nice craft, very colourful, obviously not unlawful with such carefree decorations.” He glanced over at The Spotted Custard, deluded by the bright black on red spots into disregarding its smooth deadly lines.
Rue compressed her lips. This was, of course, part of her intent with the Custard’s decoration. If Dama had taught her nothing else, it was that the outrageous was often one’s best disguise. It is a very great thing, my Puggle, not to be taken seriously, he had once said. If two young ladies of high society showed up on one’s tower claiming a pleasure tour, it was more believable if their dirigible looked like an enormous, friendly beetle.
Rue latched on to the little man’s last words. “Remuneration for your troubles, did you say, my dear Mr Stukely? How kind you are. How very kind. How much did you say? Not that a lady should talk such details but, as you see, we are currently without our abigail.”
The little man cleared his throat, flushing red, and then, so he would not have to mention the number out loud, scribbled it down with the stylus on a corner of his ledger and showed it to Rue. Rue took note of the amount, as well as the details and rosters of the other ships in dock, helpfully listed on that very ledger. There were no familiar names.
Without flinching, she reached into her reticule and extracted the sum in question, handing over the coins. Pittance indeed – she did not even need a banknote. Which was a good thing, as it would not have been drawn on Barclay’s.
The jerquer carefully counted, noting that the sum was well over the requested amount, over by enough for it not to be a mistake. He pocketed the excess with alacrity and instantly became their good friend. “Ah, thank you very much, ladies. And a very good afternoon to you, Miss…?” He trailed off.
Without pausing Rue said, “Miss Hisselpenny.”
Prim, who was sniffling after her pretend bought of crying, turned a snort of surprise into a new sob.
Rue thumped her on the back. “There now, sister, buck up. It’s all dandy and daisies now. This nice gentlemen will take care of everything. Won’t you, very kind sir?”
The nice gentlemen in question was looking dazed. “And what ship name should I put on the registry?”
“Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon,” replied Rue.
“Very good, Miss Hisselpenny.”
“Will there be anything else, my good sir?”
“No, ladies. Thank you for your cooperation. Your steward?”
“Is aboard and will handle all the necessities. My purser will pay you any additional monies for supplies and stores. Is that the right way of it?”
“Yes, indeed, Miss Hisselpenny.”
“Thank you again, kind sir.” Rue delicately passed the man another handful of coinage. She also flashed him a brilliant smile.
Mr Stukely, bowled over by both the gratuity and the smile, doffed his hat, and the two ladies continued on their way without further impediment. Although their deft interactions with the official seemed to have made them more of a spectacle rather than less.
Quesnel tilted his hat at the man sympathetically and followed after them. He caught up as they attained the door to the central area of the port. “Why the fa?ade?”
Rue looked at him, surprised. “Did you miss the part where this was a covert mission? One should try to keep one’s identity a secret.”
“Especially when one is the world’s only metanatural, daughter of some very famous aristocrats?” Quesnel nodded at this precaution.
“Don’t discount Prim either – she’s got some infamous parents herself.”