It was a still night, with little wind, so the balloons performed their dance in stately majesty. Slipping about each other like the most dignified of matrons at a church ball, they collected into pods of ten or so family groups and cast out more of those massive nets. Each pod netted to another, until all hundred-plus airships were linked together.
Quesnel, on deck for this occurrence, was impressed despite himself. “I had a friend at university, used to draw schematics of molecules in just such a manner. He theorised that chemical bonds were more net-like than stick-like in the Kekulé model.” He spoke mostly to himself.
“Preposterous.” Percy overheard the mutter.
“Yes, so our professor always said. But if one were to conceive of molecules on a two-dimensional plane and then extrapolate into three dimensions? Perhaps netting bonds is not quite so outlandish.”
At that juncture, a holler and a thrown net saw the Custard bonded to the greater molecule as well.
“Note how the nets allow for each individual ship to sway and bob about where a stiffer material would not? Is it so far-fetched to imagine a molecule might enjoy equal flexibility?”
“Oh, go below, Mr Lefoux, do.” Percy’s tone was only mildly annoyed. “No one is interested in your ridiculous theories on the chemistry of airships.”
With a bow, Quesnel unexpectedly did as instructed.
Percy was disappointed at being denied a theoretical debate.
Rue felt a twinge of pain. It wasn’t like Quesnel to cede an intellectual point, much less take an order from Percy. He must be feeling quite low. She stopped herself from following him.
Around them, the nets became walkways by which matters of business were conducted. Women began paying social calls on other balloons. Children commenced games with one another. After a complex series of greetings and gift exchanges, each group decided upon a representative. These converged upon Rue’s dirigible.
Rue felt a distinct pressure to make her guests welcome and not to commit any outrageous social gaffes, if she could possibly help it. Considering social gaffes were her forte, she was nervous.
Twelve leaders from the various family groups – plus Anitra, Floote, Percy, and Rue – were too many for the Custard’s stateroom, so they held the assembly on the main deck. The Drifters seemed not at all insulted by an al fresco setting. Nor were they disturbed by the delighted shrieks of the decklings, who had discovered that the net walkways were particularly amenable to a modified game of cricket.
“Spoo,” ordered Rue from over the railing, “don’t let anyone fall off!”
Spoo waved at her from the middle of the net where she was bouncing higher and better than anyone else. “Course… not… Lady… Captain,” she yelled at the apex of each bounce.
They hadn’t enough chairs for all their visitors, which turned out to be no bad thing, for the men – and by clothing and prevalence of beards they were men – chose to sit cross-legged directly on the deck.
Primrose, blushing and desperate, fetched cushions from everyone’s beds so the visitors need not sit on the hard wood. This seemed to be both a kindness and a luxury. The cushions were met with murmurs of approval. Prim saw to the distribution of cups of tea, which seemed to be a kindness and a confusion, and then scones with strawberry preserve, which were universally regarded with suspicion and then delight. The niceties having been observed, she made herself scarce with almost improper haste. Rue couldn’t blame her – there were men, in robes, sitting on the floor.
Rue, with a shrug, joined them. Percy, askance, followed suit. He looked uncomfortable and unsure as to why he had to be there. Floote took a seat next to Rue, and Anitra next to Percy.
Floote asked in her ear, “Is that the parasol?”
Rue patted her mother’s hideous accessory where it rested tucked against her side. “It’s one of them. She’s had quite a few over the years.”
Floote raised his eyebrows. “Two while I was with her.”
Rue smiled. “Tough on parasols, my mother. She already has a desert-edition replacement on order.”
“I never doubted.” Floote gave a little seated bow, either to Rue or the parasol it wasn’t clear which.
One of the few men without a beard spoke first. Despite the fact that he wore light-coloured robes and no veil, he had a voice that was – without question – female. This confused Rue. Particularly when Anitra translated, “He is welcoming us all to the circle and thanking you for the generosity of food and drink.”
Rue wasn’t one to question; if the handsome older woman across from her wished to be a he, why gainsay?
Anitra continued her role as interpreter. “Ay asks if the young lord will be speaking for himself or if the fire hair is his voice in matters of barter.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Anitra dimpled a little. “You are the young lord. Mr Tunstell is the fire hair.”