“How’s she floating, chief engineer?” Rue asked.
Quesnel acted as if he hadn’t noticed her until she spoke. Although there was no doubt he had been aware of her presence the moment she entered the room. “Perfectly, captain. As if I should design anything less than sublimely efficient.”
Rue decided to play along and not prod him in the ribs with a tong. “Compliments from ship’s navigator – the Custard hopped the aether beautifully. We are right on course.”
“Compliments from old Percy? Stoats might float.”
“Mr Lefoux.” Rue pretended shock. “Language.”
Aggie said, “Our captain’s a real lady, boffin. Respect her as such.” The look on her face suggested this was meant to be an insult.
Rue only bobbed a regal curtsey, acting like Primrose at her most haughty. “Thank you kindly for the support, Greaser Phinkerlington.” She continued to Quesnel, “However, I was wondering about the noise.”
“What noise?” Quesnel was all innocence.
“You know, the noise the propeller makes when she cranks up, out of the smoke-stack.”
“No, I don’t know. Can you make it for me?”
“No, I most certainly cannot! It was slightly, well…” Rue lowered her voice. “Flatulent. Percy suggested it was the result of a design flaw.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Rue couldn’t tell if Quesnel was pretending to be offended or genuinely upset.
“Is it going to make that sound every time we crank up?”
Aggie snorted out a laugh. “Troubles your delicate sensibilities, does it, Lady Captain?”
Rue openly acknowledged this fact – she didn’t think it a character flaw. “Well, yes, it does rather. Not to mention Miss Tunstell, whose sensibilities are far more delicate than mine. And there are appearances to consider.”
“Pox to appearances,” said Aggie rather aptly.
“Now, now, Greaser Phinkerlington,” remonstrated Rue. “Some of us have to think of every possible angle. What if we need to be stealthy or sneak away from a situation?”
“In a ship painted like a ladybird?”
Rue was beginning to suspect Aggie of disliking her decorative choices.
“Paint,” said Rue quite primly, “can be covered over. Farts cannot.”
Aggie bristled. “Don’t you argue semantics with me, you prissy––”
Quesnel, trying hard not to laugh, interrupted what looked to be quite the argument. “Very well, captain, I’ll look into correcting the noise, or at least stoppering it over when we’re in grave need.”
Rue nodded. “That’s all I ask. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She glared at Aggie. Prissy. I’ll give you prissy. She pretended to be Mother at her most autocratic – stuck her nose in the air, put her shoulders back, and narrowed her eyes at the horrible female. This seemed to give Aggie some kind of minor apoplectic fit.
“So soon, mon petit chou?” said Quesnel, swooping in to grab Rue’s hand, bending over it gallantly.
“Gladly,” said Aggie at the same time.
Rue returned above deck feeling she had mainly lost that particular conversational battle. But disposed to be pleased that she had at least got what she wanted out of Quesnel.
The second hop didn’t go quite as smoothly as the first. For one thing, it took Percy by surprise. Fortunately, he’d stuck the Mandenall Pudding Probe up and set it to register correctly, but it squirted out the current cross-point a good quarter-hour before he’d calculated it should. Since the crew was relaxing over sustenance at the time, this was rather an upset to everyone.
They were taking tea on the main deck. Primrose had requisitioned deck chairs and small side tables, and Cook had provided them with a large pot of a most excellent Darjeeling blend and some buttery little crumpets with clotted cream and jam.
Prim was playing hostess, outfitted in a black velvet travelling suit with purple swirl detailing – not unlike one of Percy’s aether current maps – and a large purple hat lavishly decorated with silk roses.
Rue had opted to only pack and wear her most military-inspired gowns – she felt this better suited her role as captain. She wore a travelling dress of navy blue with black cord stripes, the jacket featuring prominent gold buttons and a crossover front. It was almost plain and would have given Dama heart palpitations with its severity. Her hat was an oval of navy straw with an up-tilted front and a very large feather spilling over one side which looked pleasingly piratical. The ensemble suited her beautifully, emphasising by contrast her womanly figure and mercurial expressions.
Percy was slurping his tea while reading a book on the micro-fauna of the aetherosphere and the threat inherent in such creatures to the vital humours of chronic aetheric travellers. Percy was a bit of a hypochondriac. His outfit of tweed and mismatched jacket combined with floating goggles and tool strappings was hardly worth mentioning. Although he had stuck a sunflower in his button hole for medicinal purposes.
Quesnel, slightly smudged but presentable, chatted amiably with Primrose. He wore a day suit of steel grey with a green waistcoat, which perfectly corresponded to both his occupation and standing. He refused, it must be admitted, to wear his top hat while in engineering, although he had religiously donned it whenever above deck.
Even with Percy and Quesnel at odds, the teatime conversation was civil. Prim was adept at inane chatter and applied it with such dexterity that even her brother had to bow to her consummate skill. With Rue gamely holding up her end of the gossip, the gentlemen didn’t stand a chance.
Until the probe squirted.
Virgil, who was manning the helm in his master’s stead, gave a squawk of surprise not unlike that of the pigeons earlier. The sticky stuff plopped onto his shoe. Having been told to alert Percy should anything out of the ordinary occur, the valet sent up a wail of distress. Everyone but Prim jumped up, scattering crumpets, and dashed to the poop deck to ascertain the nature of the catastrophe.
“What? What is it?” Rue demanded.
Virgil pointed an accusatory finger at the probe and then his shoe. “That thing excreted at me.”
Percy paled beneath his freckles. “Already? But it’s far too soon. We shouldn’t be hitting the Mediterranean Shifter for another fifteen minutes.”
Quesnel said, “Your calculations must be off.”
“My calculations are never off!”
Quesnel was already running for the stairs, removing his hat at the same time. “Well, explain that to me later, O wise one – right now we’ve a hop to make with limited preparation and less time. Lord save us all.”