No one objected. There was no love lost between England and her former colony, particularly over the matter of supernaturals, but that made the Stars and Stripes a better cover.
Rue assumed her most captain-like air, attempting to sound cool and calm. “Primrose, you have that dark blue dress with the white dots; that’ll do for the stars. Percy, I’m afraid we need your striped bathing costume. Cobbled together, those two will make for a passable flag. Primrose, Virgil’s a valet; he likely has rudimentary sewing skills. Put him to work with a quick baste. Doesn’t need to be hemmed or anything – only needs to withstand a glance through glassicals. Luckily we don’t fly colours regularly, so there is nothing to take down that might already have been spotted.”
Primrose looked like she wanted to object to the conscription of her blue gown but nodded and left to do as she was bidden.
Percy looked dour but did not object. He had very little love of anything material that wasn’t typed on paper. “Virgil will have to find me something else to swim in. He’s not going to be happy. Made enough fuss about the stripy one.”
Rue didn’t say anything but she was secretly pleased to hear Percy even slightly worried about the opinion of his valet. Every valet should keep his master a touch terrified of his good opinion.
“I want everyone on high alert, but say as little as possible. I don’t think they’ll speak much English or can differentiate accents if they do, but best to stay silent unless communication is vital. That includes you, Spoo.”
Spoo was, naturally, eavesdropping on the conference. Rue hadn’t even bothered to look where. A disembodied voice said, “Yes, Lady Captain.”
Rue turned to Anitra. “Additional suggestions?”
“Speak cockney if you can. To those not fluent in your tongue, it sounds enough like American to pass. Grandfather taught me that.”
“Oh, I say!” said Percy.
“Percy,” said Rue, “you are not to speak at all.”
Percy’s expression said he felt that silence was superior to cockney regardless.
“Will we be boarded? We haven’t United States documents.” Quesnel spoke quietly. “I’ve got French but that’s almost worse than British right now. Politically, I mean.”
Rue winced. “We must assume trade is more important than hostilities to the laymen. I do have gold. It should speak loudly enough to get us coal. As long as we choose the right vendor.”
She looked to Anitra, who nodded but still seemed worried.
“So let’s hope we can bribe officials to look the other way, if they do try to check. Meanwhile, let’s make ourselves look as innocent as possible. Two hours to nightfall. Recommendations?”
“Wait,” said Quesnel promptly. “Better to have an immortal awake than asleep.”
“Do it soon,” countered Percy. “People are less evil in daylight. And we’ve better view to shoot with the Gatling, should it be necessary to get out fast. Also I’ve better close-up manoeuvrability if I can actually see.”
Rue weighed the options. Percy was right, but they could disappear better at night if it came to a chase.
“Night it is. Percy, set us a course desert side, puff up as well, minimal propeller use, drift, save our reserves. Find us a small refuelling station in a bad part of town that might be more interested in money than morals.”
Percy nodded. It was a marker of his growing comfort with her command that he did not object further. She’d listened to his concerns but decided otherwise. He’d learned to accept that this was not a personal affront. Even if it did mean the loss of his striped bathing costume.
Primrose had a tolerably decent, if misshapen, American flag flying from the aft balloon by sunset. Virgil was, it turned out, a dab hand. So were several decklings.
The flag clashed horribly with the ladybug spots.
Miss Sekhmet appeared abovedecks, snorted at it in amusement, and was brought up to speed about the situation. She deemed it prudent to shift to lioness form before they landed. Rue saw no reason to object.
Percy found them a refuelling station attached to one of the southernmost water wheels. It puffed black smoke with enthusiasm, but its owners, a group of robe-shrouded and bearded chappies, did not look favourably upon wayward tourists limping in, desperate for a refuel. American or no.
Rue put on her most supercilious rich young lady airs, her fluffiest dress, a scarf about her head in a mockery of a veil, and a particularly bad cockney accent.
The man who came, cautiously, up the gangplank to meet her didn’t seem to know what to do with her.
Anitra spoke to him in some lyrical tongue.
He seemed to mostly understand her.
She explained to Rue, “He’ll sell us coal but wants proof we aren’t a ship of war.”
Rue responded. “Ey up. Why’re we be?”
Spoo hissed to Virgil. “What does she think she sounds like?”