Rue looked at him in genuine surprise. “Only sometimes?”
Prim bustled off to consult the head steward and cook to determine who might be allowed off-ship and what supplies they required. She returned shortly, having somehow found the time to change into a walking suit of black taffeta with a pattern of embroidered rings in gold and burgundy. She wore a matching black hat perched forward on her head, decorated in gold braid and tufts of burgundy feathers and carried a black parasol.
“Very nice,” Rue said enviously.
“Thank you.” Primrose twirled for full effect. “Queen Mums chose this one as my shore-leave-expedition-and-visiting-over-curry outfit. She has odd notions about Indian foodstuffs, my Mums. I think she was traumatised during her own travels.”
Rue nodded. “Should I change?” Primrose was always wise in the matters of attire.
Primrose gave her a critical once-over. “No, I don’t think it necessary.”
Rue puffed under the praise. She couldn’t help it – Prim was just so elegant, it was nice to garner approval from her. “Shall we, then?”
The ladies linked arms and, without further ado, left the ship. Percy took that as permission to retreat to his library leaving Virgil at the helm. Quesnel, after a moment, strode after Rue and Prim. Rue peeked over her shoulder to see him making hasty repairs to his smudges with a large white handkerchief. She mourned the loss, and then reprimanded herself for it.
The two young ladies made their way along the long spatula handle towards the centre of the docking port. The whole tower was illuminated via a variety of artificial sources, from gas chandeliers and tubes of glowing orange fog to massive brightly coloured paper lanterns. Since they were clearly women of some standing, the dockworkers parted before them by rote. A few snide remarks were muttered as they passed but Rue and Prim stuck their noses in the air and pretended not to hear. Quesnel followed a few steps behind, eyes wary. The workers were mainly intent upon The Spotted Custard, dragging pipes, carts of fuel, and other necessities towards it.
Rue frowned, watching as the supply lines targeted her ship. The Spotted Custard didn’t require all that much. “I haven’t signed off on any of this. Where’s the tower steward?”
Only then did she register the fact that a group of her own staff and crew – including sooties, greasers, firemen, deckhands, decklings, stewards, and scullery maids – trailed in their wake like school children out for a jaunt in the park. It was an odd spectacle and made Prim and Rue, at the head of the procession, feel suddenly conspicuous.
Rue became aware of a new kind of bustling. The workers parted before her to reveal an officious elderly gentlemen wearing full evening attire and a red sash across his breast like a military general. He held a leather ledger and a long double-ended stylus. He was using both, rather indiscriminately and not as designed, on any dockworkers who did not get out of his way quickly. “Bad minion!” he shouted at one boy, snapping the lad’s ear with the stylus.
Behind him stomped two men in uniform guiding between them a steam-powered tea trolley loaded with devices, boxes, aetherographic transmitting slates, and other necessities of bureaucracy. Rue thought it a grave misuse of a perfectly nice tea trolley.
The man with the sash stopped, snapped his heels together, and stood to attention, blocking their path. He looked Rue and Prim up and down and then turned to Quesnel, dismissing the ladies as mere fripperies.
“Your ship, sir?” he asked without introduction. “Travelling gypsy barge? Circus troupe? I don’t have anything in the annals expected for today under entertainment or ladybird.”
Quesnel gave him a funny look. “Her ship, sir,” he said, tilting his head at Rue, emphasising the sir as a marker of the lack of proper conversational approach.
The little man’s eyebrows went up but he turned to Prim and Rue. They were quite the pair, parasols closed and masquerading as walking sticks, hats tilted forward although there was no need for shade, arms linked, expressions disapproving. Rue carried her mother’s parasol, which was too ugly to match any of her outfits, but was more sturdy than any of her fashionable ones. This one, felt Rue, could really cause damage to a noggin if applied with enough enthusiasm. Somehow this made her feel more secure about life in general.
The ladies regarded the man with eyes of steely disinterest. Well, to be fair, Prim’s eyes were more a melted cocoa of mock reproach, and Rue’s were the twinkling tawny of barely contained amusement. But it was hard to see this fact through the hats. Rue spared a moment to wonder if Aunt Ivy’s insistence on hats wasn’t a precaution against sub-par acting abilities.
Rue adjusted hers to a steeper angle, the better to hide her twinkle.
The officious man cleared his throat as though expecting them to speak first.
They continued looking at him in silence.
Rue up-tilted her nose in the air, and drew her shoulders back, using physicality to grow more aristocratic. Prim didn’t need any help – such things came naturally to her.
Finally, the man bowed. “Senior Tower Jerquer, Gresham Stukely at your service.”
“Mr Stukely,” said Rue and Prim in chorus, curtseying.
“Your, erm, ship, ladies, it’s not in my registry. That’s illegal docking, add to that non-notification, add to that unauthorised personnel, add to that after-hours fees, add to that––”
“Oh dear me,” said Rue to Prim. “Daddy promised, didn’t he, that she would be on everyone’s books? How terribly upsetting. He promised!” Rue spun her ugly parasol against the metal walkway in agitation. She channelled the most snobbish of Dama’s drones in her voice – enunciating all her vowels as though hampered by particularly large teeth.
Prim instantly fell into the game. “Yes, he most certainly did. Silly Daddy. Oh sister, what are we to do?” Her voice wobbled in distress.
Rue admired this greatly – Prim was very good at being distraught. Rue’s forte was bluster, a native ability inherited from her blood parents, so she went with that. “Did he give us paperwork to that effect? I simply cannot remember. You know I’m terrible with anything of the notation inclination.” She turned to the official, batting her eyelashes, and reached for the part of her that could talk like Dama at his most supercilious. “Just a little world tour, you understand? Of course you do. You have a very understanding brow. Daddy thinks we need culture. Of course, we had to come here first. The Maltese Tower is the last word on culture. Poor Daddy couldn’t come, sadly bedridden. It’s the aetheric particles – they caused him to come over all flopsy. But he did say it was settled. I’m sure he did say that. Or was that Mr Barclay? You know Mr Barclay, don’t you, Mr Stukely? Oh, you must – everyone who is anyone knows Mr Barclay the banker?” When all else failed – overwhelm with inanities.