Ah, then it’s not his real name. “Mother said her father was an unsavoury sort but that he’d died heroically and was burned without headstone.”
“True enough.”
“Dama said he was one for both women and men.”
This seemed to rather shock Mr Panettone. “One does not discuss such things, Lady Prudence.”
Rue grinned. Of course, he was from a different generation. “I assure you, one certainly does. We’re very frank aboard this ship, quite modern. Well, not Primrose. I’d wear bicycle bloomers all the time if shape-shifting weren’t easier in tea-gowns. And you’ve seen Miss Sekhmet marching around in split skirts and a military jacket.”
The gentleman went silent.
“Mr Panettone, have I offended? I beg your pardon.”
He sniffed. “You might as well call me Floote. It seems odd to use any other name with Alexia’s daughter. You may not look like her, but your voice is reminiscent.”
“Mr Floote, then.”
“Just Floote.” That rang another bell in Rue’s memory. Hadn’t she heard him mentioned by the Maccon staff in a reverential manner? The Great Butler who came Before.
“I remember that name. They missed you.”
A tiny smile crept through the wrinkles. “Nice to know I made an impression. They wouldn’t include Lady Maccon, would it?”
“No.”
“I thought not. We parted badly.” He appeared impassive, but there was something stilted in the way he spoke.
“Not uncommon with my mother.” Rue’s voice held a trace of bitterness. On more than one occasion, she had been on the receiving end of her mother’s militant obstreperousness.
“Not her fault.”
“I suppose not.” Rue was dying to know more about this wrong person that Floote had killed. “She apparently objects to untidy death.” She prodded.
“To be fair, so do I.” He did not take the bait.
“Then you disagreed over the individual in question?”
An inclination of the head.
“Not going to tell me more, are you?”
A slight shake.
“And my grandfather?” Rue shifted forward. “What about him?” It was rare Rue got to ask anyone about her grandfather. Lady Maccon had told Rue some things – things relevant to being preternatural. After all, Alexia had inherited her soullessness from Alessandro Tarabotti. Which meant Rue owed half her metanatural powers to this long-dead ancestor. But Mother was more circumspect about her paternal line than she was about anything else. Which must have been difficult for her.
“Very tidy about death was Mr Tarabotti. Not to mention, good at doling it out. A curious man. He had his own morals, although they were not always commensurate with that of society.”
“Which society?”
“British. Italian. Egyptian.” The old man looked thoughtful. “I suppose he never did fit in.”
Rue nodded. “Like Mother. Preternaturals find it hard to fit in. I sympathise.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Rue was surprised to find herself saying, “Imagine being the world’s only metanatural.”
“You have Lord Akeldama as guardian.”
“Not any more. I reached my majority.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you indeed. I am getting old.”
“And Paw lost the pack.”
“Inevitable, of course.”
“So I don’t belong anywhere.” I’m supposed to be getting him talking, yet here I am babbling about my problems.
Floote looked around, taking in the ship, decklings chattering away as they shifted from night to day watch. The deck vibrated slightly as the boilers picked up steam. Soon Primrose would appear and herd them to breakfast.
“I think you’ve found your place.”
Rue smiled. “She’s called The Spotted Custard.”
“You always did like ladybugs.”
“I did?”
“Indeed. Your grandfather was fond of crimson, too. His favourite jacket would have matched your balloon to perfection.” The old valet stopped himself before relaying anything further.
It must be hard, thought Rue, to always curtail one’s speech. The elderly folk she knew liked nothing more than to mutter about the past. With Floote it was like pulling essential gears from an ornithopter, painful and possibly resulting in a crash.
“I wager you know all the stories,” she tried to encourage.
He inclined his head. “Which is why I had my dirigibles painted red with black spots.” He closed his eyes then.
“You don’t really want to talk about Grandfather, do you?” Rue put some of Dama’s training to work reading the man’s tone, even as his face remained impassive.
Floote did not respond or move.
“Would you tell me about my mother when she was little? I am beginning to think there is much I do not know. Or did not think to ask. Or heard and forgot.”
The old man smiled like a proud parent. “What do you want to know?”
“What do I need to know?”
“Once upon a time,” he started, clearly humouring her, “the Templars kidnapped Alexia.”
It turned out to be a most entertaining afternoon.