I’ve lost all my family in one night. Except Dama. Will he still want me around with Mother and Paw gone? Rue was wallowing. But there was no one to see, and being a wolf she couldn’t cry.
She made her way down through the airship towards the oil and smoke of the boiler room. Had Quesnel predicted this eventuality and that’s why there was a tank in engineering? Had he known all along what was going wrong with her pack – with her family – and not said anything?
The man in question, wearing a leather blacksmith’s apron over his evening clothes, tinkered with the tank. Her parents watched, Mother with her head on Paw’s shoulder and he with one arm about her waist. Rue had seen her parents intimate before, more’s the pity, but this time they looked so relaxed. Just as the pack had walking away from her.
Rue wondered about their respective jobs. If they emigrated to Egypt, Lady Maccon must give over muhjah and Lord Maccon must pass on his position as head of BUR. Rue so rarely asked them about their professions, it was entirely possible they had already made arrangements.
Mother probably has, at least. If Paw’s been running off the rails for a while now, BUR’s likely already filled in an assumed vacancy. But muhjah has to be filled by a preternatural, and there’s no other soulless in London. Well – an aura of satisfaction coloured Rue’s thoughts – Queen Victoria is in a pickle there.
Quesnel popped the lid of his tank open. It was full of a bubbling orangeish liquid, not boiling but aerated with a colourless gas. Rue sniffed – odourless. too. Oxygen, perhaps? Or aether?
Tasherit appeared, still in lioness shape, and took a spectator’s seat. Rue was relieved Primrose wasn’t present; her father was, after all, still naked. No doubt Prim had skittered below the moment things went bare during the brawl. Primrose was not equipped to handle regular exposure to male nudity. Which would make her marriage bed quite interesting indeed.
Quesnel stepped back and gestured, with a little bow, like a butler.
Lord Maccon bowed in turn and then hoisted himself up into the tank. It was only just big enough for him, and it didn’t look like a comfortable fit. He lowered himself gingerly with a funny look on his face like he was settling into a vat of pudding, squishy but not unpleasant. At the last, he sucked in a breath and sank under. Once completely submerged, he appeared to fall into a deep slumber.
Lady Maccon and Quesnel lurched forward, likely to check that he was asleep and not dead. Rue hadn’t the attention to process, for she was shifting. Reverse shape change was no less painful, but it always felt nice, at the end, to be back in her own skin. Rue supposed this was because she spent less time as a supernatural than the real ones; being mortal felt comfortable. Although most of the time it was less interesting.
There were many things Rue could have done in a more dignified fashion at that juncture, but frankly it had been an upsetting night, so she sat on the floor. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms about them, cloaking herself in her own hair, for modesty’s sake.
Quesnel and her mother ensured Paw’s comfort. Apparently, he was still alive, or as alive as a werewolf got when in a preservation tank.
“This floor is filthy,” said Rue to no one in particular.
The one sootie on duty heard her. The girl tended to her obligations with forced diligence, throwing glances at the corner of the room where naked aristocrats were doing suspicious things with tanks. Rue couldn’t blame her for her curiosity.
“Sorry, Lady Captain, it’s the boilers, see – full of soot.”
The sootie’s response drew Rue out of her funk. What am I doing huddling here? I’m a fully grown, perfectly respectable young lady. So I’ve lost my pack and my parents are moving away, but I’ve the family I’ve built aboard this ship. Primrose won’t abandon me. Primrose would never abandon me. Buck up!
She took a breath and straightened. “Tasherit, would you be so kind as to fetch me a robe?”
The lioness considered this request and then, likely because she knew Rue couldn’t do anything interesting if she had to stay huddled, and because the tank situation was proving dull, she trotted away.
She was soon back, clutching a robe in her mouth. It was one of hers, a voluminous silky thing that was too long for Rue but preserved her dignity.
Rue was standing with it on by the time Quesnel finished with his tank. She felt wan and worn but Quesnel looked at her as if she were the pudding course and he hadn’t had any supper. Her hair was down and wildly tangled, and the silk of the robe was thin enough so that if she were not in the boiler room, she’d be cold.
Lady Maccon pinched him. “Stop looking at my daughter like that.”
Quesnel rubbed him arm. “But…”
“Just because I disagree with my husband’s mollycoddling doesn’t mean I’m permissive.”
Rue wondered if Tasherit might let her keep the robe. “Mother, do you still need me?”