Prudence
Page 32
“Yes, of course, dear. The pearl of your necklace, the rose of your garden.” Rue rolled her eyes and tried not to be actually flattered.
“Oh, yes, those are good too.”
Rue sighed. “Scoot off, Quesnel, do.”
“You are all sweetness and light, mon petit chou.”
Rue did not rise to the bait. Nor was she going to ask him to stop calling her mon petit chou. He knew it galled her but as long as he confined it to the semi-privacy of the stateroom, she would ignore it.
“Shoo to you too.”
Quesnel strode out and Rue sat back down with a sigh.
“More tea?” Prim’s eyes were dancing.
“Thank you. Prim, was that a foolish thing to discuss?”
Primrose remained silent.
“It can’t only be some silly painted lady, can it? Aren’t you dying to know why they hate each other so?”
“Certainly not.” Prim’s tone indicated she probably already knew and that it had something to do with the twin connection. Often it was difficult to remember that Percy and Primrose were related, let alone twins, but a lifetime of experience had given Rue a sense of when she was intruding on their sibling bond. She was about to attempt a new line of conversation when the most amazing sound emanated throughout the ship. It was a new noise entirely and it seemed dangerous.
Rue and Prim leapt to their feet and made for the poop deck as quickly as their skirts would allow.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MALTESE TOWER
The sound, which was a like a gargle meets a warble, only extremely loud, turned out to be The Spotted Custard’s version of a proximity alarm. It had been activated by a deckling in the crow’s nest. The young lad swung himself down to report that the Maltese Tower beacon was dead ahead in the murk of the aetherosphere. His glassicals – the far focus set handed out to any who manned the nest – amplified his watery eyes into huge blue orbs under the gaslight of the deck lanterns.
“Very good, young sir,” was Rue’s reply. “Now back up with you please, and let us know when we reach docking drop-down juncture.”
“Aye aye, Lady Captain.” The boy gave a floppy salute before pulling himself back up via a series of rope ladders ending with one long swinging run up the side of the balloon.
“Ah, to be young and agile again,” said Primrose.
“We were never that young,” replied Rue.
“More to the point, we were never that agile,” said Prim with a soft smile.
Rue huffed her agreement and turned to Percy, who had put away his book and resumed the helm the moment the alarm sounded. At least he had a sense of responsibility. “Prepare to drop out of aetherosphere as soon as we reach docking juncture point.”
“Yes, captain,” replied Percy, face a little drawn. “I had assumed.”
Rue spared a moment to worry that this job might be too much for even his arrogance. “Percy, have you ever docked a ship of this size?”
“Not exactly,” replied Percy.
“And what exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“Oh dear. Should I call Mr Lefoux up to take over from you?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll do perfectly well.” Percy’s face went from fearful to fiercely determined.
Pleased with herself for manipulating him properly, Rue said, “I’m sure you will.”
The crow’s nest hollered down, docking juncture spotted. Rue squinted into the swirling miasmic grey, not unlike London during the Great Pea Souper of 1887. Just ahead she thought she could make out… a lamp-post.
Or what looked like a lamp-post, except that it was only the top half of one and Rue knew that it only seemed small because they were still far away. In actual fact, the beacon was very large indeed. It was birdcage in shape and lit from within by a miasmic orange gas.
Rue ordered, “Deck hands pull in the mainsail, navigator prepare to drop out of aetherosphere on my mark.” She went to the speaking tube and bonged the boiler room.
“Yes?” barked a female voice.
“Greaser Phinkerlington?”
“You were expecting an opera girl?”
“Please prepare to engage the propeller.”
“We’re always prepared for that.” In an aside Rue was probably meant to hear, Aggie added, “Imbecile.”
Rue gritted her teeth and tried to think of sticky sweet buns. “Very good. Thank you for your efficiency.”
Before Aggie could add anything more snide, Rue replaced the tube.
“I could grow to hate that woman,” she said to Primrose.
Prim patted her back condescendingly. “You handled it well – bad language never won fair maiden.”
“Prim, dear, I don’t think that’s how the saying goes. Nor do I think Phinkerlington would like being called a fair maiden.”
Prim grinned. “Precisely my point.”
The decklings scrambled to bring in the sail. Rue watched, plotting how to run speed drills. Also, they’d benefit from one among them being put in charge of the others for the sake of efficiency – there seemed to be a lot of squabbling. One of the deckhands was supposed to have them under orders, but he seemed at a loss coping with an overabundance of youthful exuberance. An internal hierarchy might work to everyone’s advantage.
By the time the mainsail was down, they were almost upon the beacon.
“Professor Tunstell, three, two, one, mark,” Rue said, trying not to sound panicked.
“Oh, yes, those are good too.”
Rue sighed. “Scoot off, Quesnel, do.”
“You are all sweetness and light, mon petit chou.”
Rue did not rise to the bait. Nor was she going to ask him to stop calling her mon petit chou. He knew it galled her but as long as he confined it to the semi-privacy of the stateroom, she would ignore it.
“Shoo to you too.”
Quesnel strode out and Rue sat back down with a sigh.
“More tea?” Prim’s eyes were dancing.
“Thank you. Prim, was that a foolish thing to discuss?”
Primrose remained silent.
“It can’t only be some silly painted lady, can it? Aren’t you dying to know why they hate each other so?”
“Certainly not.” Prim’s tone indicated she probably already knew and that it had something to do with the twin connection. Often it was difficult to remember that Percy and Primrose were related, let alone twins, but a lifetime of experience had given Rue a sense of when she was intruding on their sibling bond. She was about to attempt a new line of conversation when the most amazing sound emanated throughout the ship. It was a new noise entirely and it seemed dangerous.
Rue and Prim leapt to their feet and made for the poop deck as quickly as their skirts would allow.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MALTESE TOWER
The sound, which was a like a gargle meets a warble, only extremely loud, turned out to be The Spotted Custard’s version of a proximity alarm. It had been activated by a deckling in the crow’s nest. The young lad swung himself down to report that the Maltese Tower beacon was dead ahead in the murk of the aetherosphere. His glassicals – the far focus set handed out to any who manned the nest – amplified his watery eyes into huge blue orbs under the gaslight of the deck lanterns.
“Very good, young sir,” was Rue’s reply. “Now back up with you please, and let us know when we reach docking drop-down juncture.”
“Aye aye, Lady Captain.” The boy gave a floppy salute before pulling himself back up via a series of rope ladders ending with one long swinging run up the side of the balloon.
“Ah, to be young and agile again,” said Primrose.
“We were never that young,” replied Rue.
“More to the point, we were never that agile,” said Prim with a soft smile.
Rue huffed her agreement and turned to Percy, who had put away his book and resumed the helm the moment the alarm sounded. At least he had a sense of responsibility. “Prepare to drop out of aetherosphere as soon as we reach docking juncture point.”
“Yes, captain,” replied Percy, face a little drawn. “I had assumed.”
Rue spared a moment to worry that this job might be too much for even his arrogance. “Percy, have you ever docked a ship of this size?”
“Not exactly,” replied Percy.
“And what exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“Oh dear. Should I call Mr Lefoux up to take over from you?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll do perfectly well.” Percy’s face went from fearful to fiercely determined.
Pleased with herself for manipulating him properly, Rue said, “I’m sure you will.”
The crow’s nest hollered down, docking juncture spotted. Rue squinted into the swirling miasmic grey, not unlike London during the Great Pea Souper of 1887. Just ahead she thought she could make out… a lamp-post.
Or what looked like a lamp-post, except that it was only the top half of one and Rue knew that it only seemed small because they were still far away. In actual fact, the beacon was very large indeed. It was birdcage in shape and lit from within by a miasmic orange gas.
Rue ordered, “Deck hands pull in the mainsail, navigator prepare to drop out of aetherosphere on my mark.” She went to the speaking tube and bonged the boiler room.
“Yes?” barked a female voice.
“Greaser Phinkerlington?”
“You were expecting an opera girl?”
“Please prepare to engage the propeller.”
“We’re always prepared for that.” In an aside Rue was probably meant to hear, Aggie added, “Imbecile.”
Rue gritted her teeth and tried to think of sticky sweet buns. “Very good. Thank you for your efficiency.”
Before Aggie could add anything more snide, Rue replaced the tube.
“I could grow to hate that woman,” she said to Primrose.
Prim patted her back condescendingly. “You handled it well – bad language never won fair maiden.”
“Prim, dear, I don’t think that’s how the saying goes. Nor do I think Phinkerlington would like being called a fair maiden.”
Prim grinned. “Precisely my point.”
The decklings scrambled to bring in the sail. Rue watched, plotting how to run speed drills. Also, they’d benefit from one among them being put in charge of the others for the sake of efficiency – there seemed to be a lot of squabbling. One of the deckhands was supposed to have them under orders, but he seemed at a loss coping with an overabundance of youthful exuberance. An internal hierarchy might work to everyone’s advantage.
By the time the mainsail was down, they were almost upon the beacon.
“Professor Tunstell, three, two, one, mark,” Rue said, trying not to sound panicked.
