Rue sidled over to said mother. “Do you feel that?” She kept her tone low; no need for anyone else to be alarmed.
The crew was busy looking as respectable and efficient as possible. Not because The Spotted Custard was engaged in any nefarious activities – she was registered as a pleasure vessel with all the major regulatory bodies of the empire – but because the moment one entered the sphere of any bureaucratic body, one felt the need to put on a jolly good show. Nervous propriety was the natural consequence of proximity to an overabundance of paperwork. Even Quesnel popped off belowdecks to check with Aggie regarding the condition of the kettles and the general cleanliness of the boiler room.
Lady Maccon looked at her daughter. “The repulsion, you mean? Yes, a little. It’s not as strong as it would be with a preternatural skeleton nearby.”
“Mother, don’t be morbid. No, I’m getting a numbing sensation.”
“I suppose it would be different for you. What exactly does it feel like? I mean, what would you compare the sensation to?”
“You.”
Lady Maccon nodded. “Makes sense. It is me, in a grotesque way. Or, to be precise, a lot of dead mes. It’s not as strong as it used to be. But I suppose they haven’t been renewing or expanding it. One assumes over time, with exposure, even mummies decompose.”
“Really, Mother, must you?”
Lady Maccon patted Rue in a condescending way. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s no longer important.”
Rue fished about in her memories of family lore. “This is the God-Breaker Plague, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, then, I guess we can wake up Paw whenever you like, full moon notwithstanding.”
“Oh, of course!” Lady Maccon slapped her head with her hand. “How silly of me.” She immediately snapped her parasol shut and bustled below.
Rue didn’t stop her. It would be much easier to have an awake Lord Maccon when the customs officials boarded. Bureaucrats were likely to frown upon aristocratic Scotsmen preserved naked in tanks.
The three official representatives of the Ministry of Public Works, War, Customs, and Tariffs were exactly what one might expect. They were stiff and humourless. They sported, in varying degrees of vegetation, decidedly impressive moustaches. They kept a cottage, of sorts, at the top of the black obelisk. It was made of mud brick with slit openings instead of windows so that it looked quite grumpy. From under the cottage extended several articulated walkways. As soon as they were within reach, one of these clamped down to the railing of The Spotted Custard with the ease of frequent repetition. There were eight of these ramps, making the custom-house look like nothing so much as a brown spider waving long metal legs about and latching onto airships.
The wait was long enough for Rue and Primrose to don their frilliest dresses and most supercilious personas. Innocent young ladies with empty heads left officials feeling lost. There was something about the very rich, very young, very fashionable Englishwoman on a pleasure jaunt that defeated even the most hardened bureaucracy.
The man in charge was an agent of Queen Victoria by his dress if not his language, kitted out in something approaching a soldier’s uniform – although not quite the correct colours. The other two wore long white robes and funny little hats that Prim’s travel guide reliably informed her meant they were of Turkish extraction. The guide was very clear on how dress indicated social standing in Egyptian society. Primrose believed it wholeheartedly; Baedeker never led her astray. Rue was suspicious. What, for example, would Baedeker say of Primrose given only a few lines of dialogue and an encounter with her fluffiest hat?
While the customs officers conducted their investigation, Rue and Prim trailed behind, chattering faster than a kettle at full boil about the most inconsequential things in a way that was not exactly distracting but certainly maddening and non-threatening. They tossed scones happily at one another in the galley, cooed over the crochet coverlets in the guest rooms, and giggled over a book in the library.
When Lord Maccon appeared, coming up the spiral staircase from engineering, entirely unclothed and covered in faintly orange slime, the customs officers were so worn down they only stopped and stared, mouths agape.
He examined the two Turkish officials with equal interest. “We’re in Egypt, then?”
Lady Maccon came up behind her husband and dipped under one of his arms, supporting part of his weight with her shoulders. She was unperturbed by slime on her dress. No wonder Uncle Rabiffano despaired of her.
“Wife?”
“Yes, husband?”
“May I wear one of those relaxing-looking men’s dresses now that we’ll be taking up permanent residence here?”
Lady Maccon coughed. “Come away, dear. Let us allow the gentlemen to continue their work. Do pardon my husband, good sirs. He has been enduring a protracted illness and has only just left his” – she paused, grappling – “bath.”