Primrose looked horrified at the very idea. “No, thank you. Ladies don’t drive bounders.”
“Tell that to my mother. Send Percy up when he’s decent, would you please?”
“By all means.” Primrose whisked off, leaving Rue to the builders.
The builders were absolutely convinced it would be highly dangerous to take The Spotted Custard up without a week’s more repairs. Which, knowing builders, actually meant three weeks.
Rue said, “You have three hours,” hoping Percy and the currents would concur.
The man in charge sputtered, not accustomed to ultimatums from young ladies. Mr Bapp had a face like a squished puffin which had eaten something sour a decade ago and never recovered.
Rue talked over his sputter. “Spoo, please raise as many decklings as we can spare. I want some left fresh and rested for float, but the rest we can loan to Mr Bapp here.”
Spoo nodded and scampered off.
“Willard?”
The head deckhand looked at Rue expectantly. “Yes, Lady Captain?”
“Can engineering spare any muscle?”
He considered. “Two, perhaps. But if the Custard does turn out to be shaky, we’d best keep some in reserve.”
“Agreed. Do what you can.”
Quesnel appeared abovedecks, blinking in the sunlight.
“Three hours, gentlemen.” Rue left the men to grumble about females with unreasonable expectations.
“Chérie?” Quesnel’s face was contorted with concern. “Are you well?” His hand jerked forward and then fell to his side, empty.
Rue didn’t want pity from him; besides, she had purpose now. She concentrated on the impending trip almost desperately. “How soon can we boil up for takeoff?”
Quesnel snapped into engineer mode. “Less than an hour. We only need basic maintenance down below. We’ve been running at full capacity for a week.”
“And my father?”
“Very well preserved.”
Rue winced, but stopped any other reaction. “Excellent. Soon as I’ve conferred with Percy, I’ll call down with a time for float off. No need to stoke up until we know the specifics.”
Quesnel nodded but didn’t go anywhere.
Awkward silence descended.
Rue scanned her craft. The deck was crawling with people, all busy about repairs or preparations.
He shifted close, intimate, as if he wanted to grab her.
Then Primrose reappeared in her cloak and hat, bade them farewell, trotted down the gangplank, and headed in the direction of the hive house and her mother’s carriage. Percy followed her as far as the deck, wearing a dressing gown draped over a shirt and trousers, and no hat. His hair was a wild spiky mess of ginger and his spectacles were askew. Virgil must not yet be awake.
Footnote trailed after. Tasherit having gone to sleep with the sunrise, he was free to roam the whole ship at will.
“Tiddles said you wanted me?” Percy was annoyed enough to employ his sister’s hated pet name.
Rue looked him over. “We’re headed to Egypt on the next available current. You’ll need to plot a course.”
“What? Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“But I haven’t slept yet.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Percy stuck a thumb in Quesnel’s direction. “His.”
Rue was bound and determined to stopper that over before it could get started again. “Don’t you dare. Charts, Percival. Now!”
Percy snorted and looked down at Footnote.
“You see what I put up with?” Footnote licked a paw. “No respect. You realise I am one of the most brilliant minds in all England and she orders me to make charts.”
True Percy was smart, but since he seemed oh so aware of that fact, Rue wasn’t in the mood to humour one of his snits. Of course, he might think he was being funny; difficult to tell with Percy.
Percy continued babbling at the cat. “How trying it is to be constantly catering to lesser intellects. Not you, obviously.”
Footnote stopped washing and stared at his master as if he had never considered the matter and was now moved to deep contemplation.
“Percy,” rumbled Rue in a threatening tone.
“I’d like to see you build, install and maintain a working preservation tank.” Quesnel couldn’t help but defend his own intellect.
“And I’d like to see you write a proper paper on a new species of supernatural examining all the theoretical implications and ramifications of the aetheric imprint on the vital humours. Rather than superficial waffle. Seems we’re both doomed to disappointment.” Percy left off the cat for more aggressive intercourse.
Uh-oh, thought Rue, here we go again. She was exhausted and really had, she felt, put up with a lot. Rue was like her Paw in that her default reaction when unhappy was rage.
She yelled, quite violently, and at the top of her lungs. “Enough!”