Rue went with a burnt umber Indian silk Worth. Dama was dear friends with Jean-Philippe and had a standing order in for Rue – new gowns every season. Dama referred to the older Worth’s demise earlier that year as the Great Tragedy, and had consoled Jean-Philippe with copious flowers, bolts of silk, and letters of condolence. Jean-Philippe had responded with, among other things, this very dress. It was simpler than Prim’s gown, with a slashed bodice and overskirt. Out from the skirt peeked crêpe of a slightly darker umber, and from the bodice a Madras muslin of cream with brown flowers. The edges of the gown were bordered in more of the crêpe, with collar and cuffs of brown velvet. A patten of cream appliqué over the bodice echoed that of the black on Prim’s lemon gown. Rue’s sleeves were narrow and cut high with a lace trim. Her hat was a great deal more modest – of flat Italian straw with one brown velvet bow and three umber silk roses. Together they looked rather like excited mobile tiger lilies.
Both ladies carried parasols against the Indian sun – Rue rejected her mother’s as too ugly and borrowed a brown lace one from Prim. Prim had, of course, a matching lemon-yellow number with black edging. They looked, as Spoo whispered behind their backs, a treat, and might have strolled through Hyde Park at the height of the season with not a single nasty remark from any patroness of high society, not even the anti-supernatural set.
It was wickedly hot. By the time they crossed the deck and strolled down the gangplank, Rue thought she might be melting. She blessed her own irreverent nature and shape-shifting inclination which allowed her to forego stays and undergarments. To wear anything more than outward modesty required, even for the sake of decency, was patently ridiculous. Poor Prim looked likely to faint after only a few minutes’ walk. She did not sweat of course, not the Honourable Primrose Tunstell, but there was a certain sheen to her face that delicacy might term a damp aura.
Rue expected Bombay to play host to the bustle of an exotic marketplace as her mother had described Alexandria. But the place was remarkably still. They were in the imperial section of the peninsula and not the city itself, but she could see the tops of buildings outside the ramparts and even there Bombay seemed… well… dead.
Prim said, “Perhaps respectable folk stay in during the hottest part of the day.”
A few boys in white shifts, brown limbs exposed, scampered by, tossing a large fruit back and forth. Here and there a stray dog wandered, but that was all.
“Either that or there’s a plague,” replied Rue, making light and then regretting it at Prim’s panicked expression.
They walked along the beach or – properly – mudflats, and then up onto the promenade around the edge of the barracks. This brought them closer to the city proper, looming beyond the walls of what Prim said were the Cotton Godowns and the Victoria Bunder. Beyond the walls were rows of massive trees forming a demarcation between representatives of Her Majesty Abroad and everyone else.
The city was pleasingly unfamiliar in shape and smell. The rooftops were all red or covered in coloured tiles. They boasted tall spires or the occasional onion-shaped protrusion. It had its fair share of empire builders too – sky trains, massive rotary carriers, and evidence of other steam transport was everywhere, from rails to divots to cycle hooks. Unlike London, all these machines were decorated. The local sky rail, likely used for transporting goods from warehouses to shipyards up and down the peninsula, loomed high above the buildings. It too was at rest in the heat of the day, hanging from its one massive cable. It featured all the expected components – steam vents, smoke stacks, guidance arms – but it had been made to look like a large elephant. The elephant had huge ears made of brightly coloured animal skins and chains of fresh flowers and paper lanterns garlanded about its neck. Rue marvelled at how close this sky rail came to breaking the Clandestine Information Act, entering the realm of Forbidden Machines. The elephant component must be purely decorative and have no independent protocols, doing nothing more risky than running up and down its cables like any other delivery steamer – only prettier. Otherwise, surely it would have been destroyed.
Rue grinned. England had brought steam to India, but the locals were clearly insistent that steam be attractive. She liked it very much. It was irrepressibly cheerful, a word Rue doubted anyone had ever used to describe a sky train before.
Primrose, the aestheticist, clearly felt the same, for she revived out of her wilted state long enough to remark in wonder, pointing down near the water with her parasol. “Would you look at that? I think it’s a garment washer, but it looks like a monkey. Charming, quite charming.”
Rue pointed at the sky rail.
Prim gasped. “How lovely!”
A voice behind them said, “You admire our Ganesha, ladies?”
Rue and Prim turned to find themselves face to face with an officer in uniform and two customs officials. The officer looked youthfully good-natured but the customs men were sweating profusely and seemed unhappy at being forced to move around.
Rue and Prim curtseyed prettily.
Rue said, “My dear sirs, we do apologise for calling you out in such heat. Had we not been in need of a restock we should have waited to land until a more respectable hour.”
“No need to apologise,” replied the officer. “It happens regrettably often. The currents carry at their whims – science wills it so. If you ladies would step over to the shade just there? We can dispense with the paperwork as soon as may be.”
The two native gentlemen merely murmured, “Madam Sahib,” and allowed the officer to lead the social interchange.
A small table and few spindly chairs were arranged under the shelter of some glorious flowering tree. Rue and Prim stepped.
Rue contemplated enacting one of her schemes. Miss Sekhmet had warned of danger. Should she reveal her true name? She looked to Prim for assistance in determining tactics.
Primrose was busy fluttering her eyelashes at the officer. She was equally identifiable. The name Tunstell had quite the reputation due to the baroness’s hats. Everyone knew that the Wimbledon Queen had had two children pre-metamorphosis because it had been quite the scandal at the time. Thus they couldn’t register the ship under Primrose or Percy’s names either. They might use Quesnel, but Rue wasn’t entirely certain that if she registered The Spotted Custard under his name, the Frenchman wouldn’t gleefully abscond with it.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the decision seemed to have been taken entirely out of Rue’s hands.
The officer gestured for the ladies to sit and introduced himself: “How do you do? I’m Lieutenant Broadwattle. On behalf of Brigadier Featherstonehaugh, I am charged with welcoming you to Bombay.” He looked back and forth between them before hazarding a guess. “You are Lady Prudence Akeldama? And you are the Honourable Primrose Tunstell?”
Rue swallowed a smile. “Other way around, but not to worry – it happens all the time.”
Prim simpered at the young man. “Fortunately, we are such dear friends we do not mind being mistaken for one another.”
“On some occasions we even encourage it,” added Rue.
“Ah, well, two such delicate ladies must, perforce, accompany one another.”
Rue was not one to be distracted by flattery, even by a dasher in uniform. “You were alerted to our imminent arrival?”
“You are earlier than expected, but we did have an inkling. The brigadier expressed his particular interest once the pack informed him of your connections. You’re aware that Bombay’s regiment is honoured by a werewolf special forces attachment?”
Rue brightened – shapes to steal. “Oh, how nice. Anyone I know?”
“The Kingair Pack?”
Rue winced. “Ah. I see.”
Prim looked at her sharply. “What?”
“Fringe relations. They advised Brigadier Featherstonehaugh of my coming?”
The officer nodded, smiling nervously at her reaction.
“Now I know why Paw didn’t fight harder to keep me home,” said Rue. “Werewolves. Interfering busybodies, the lot of them.”
“Rue, language,” remonstrated Primrose, fidgeting awkwardly in embarrassment.
Like a true gentleman, Lieutenant Broadwattle moved the conversation on. “Unfortunately, pressing business makes the brigadier unable to welcome you himself. Nevertheless I am charged with informing you as to his profound honour at being graced by a visit from the daughters of such collectively esteemed vampires, Tunstell and Akeldama.” Rue could read the truth behind that statement – they were an inconvenience. The officer continued, “I suggest, however, that you keep your ancestry private. We have tried desperately to civilise this country but vampires, I’m afraid, are not at all liked in India. Natives categorise them as Rakshasas, a folkloric daemon. We are told that the cultural practices of vampires are less sanguine in this part of the world. Although I have not had the pleasure myself.”
The two customs officials winced noticeably at the word Rakshasas and made small hand gestures to ward off evil. They were both Indian, heads wrapped in cloth, with dark eyes and impressively full beards.
The young officer moved swiftly on. “Werewolves, on the other hand, are most welcome. Many animals are considered, at least partly, sacred in India. Although they have no native packs – wrong climate – the werewolf curse is thought a blessing… with sufficient full moon controls, of course.”
“How novel,” said Rue.
“Not to mention forward-thinking,” added Primrose, smiling warmly at the two native men. She was trying to show that she had no hard feelings for their vilification of her relations.
One could not blame a people for disliking vampires. Vampires were like Brussels sprouts – not for everyone and impossible to improve upon with sauce. There were even those in London who disapproved of Dama, and he was very saucy indeed.
The young officer managed a weak smile. “If we could get on to the minutia, ladies? Because of your connections, we have tried to make this as simple as possible. Of course, in casual conversation when you are home, perhaps a favourable mention in polite company on the efficient nature of my regiment?”
“I assure you, thus far, we will have nothing but glowing things to say about the Bombay company.”