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he was riveted by her. As if she were some new unexplainable natural phenomenon, like the aetheric bubbles he’d recently written about in a widely discussed and well-received new pamphlet. Or those bright green sand fleas he’d collected in Lima. Being female, she probably wouldn’t like the comparison to bubbles or fleas, but both had been absolutely fascinating.
“She isn’t wearing a hat,” objected Virgil. “Not everyone takes them as seriously as you, dear. It’ll be all right in the end, civilisation will remain standing.” Virgil frowned. “Civilisations have fallen for less.”
she’d enjoyed socializing with the werewolves when given a chance. They reminded her a great deal of her da, who was entirely human but a soldier and with werewolfish inclinations towards being a big gruff softy.
only Arsenic was offered the plate of scones. Arsenic, too nervous to eat, waved it away. The captain seemed to find this the first thing about Arsenic not to her liking. “You don’t want a scone? But everyone wants scones.” Arsenic didn’t know what to say. She didn’t like scones – nasty dry things – and she hadn’t a large appetite, regardless. She’d already consumed a perfectly sufficient breakfast. She wouldn’t need to eat again for ages. “I’m na… That is… I’m na a verra good eater.”
Prim will show you to your quarters, get you settled and spruced up. Unless you don’t want to come along and see the pomp and circus? For which, of course, I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t attend myself, except that’s rather the point.”
“Prim, do stop nuzzling. You’re being unduly romantic. There’s a wedding about to happen, romance has no place here!
Percy gave him a hard stare. “I beg you to remember who my mother is.” Professor Lyall sobered instantly. “Of course. You would know ridiculous, wouldn’t you?”
“Lady Kingair, is that one of yours? Can’t you control your pack?” “Of course I can, Master Percy. But why on earth should I want to? This is so much more fun.”
Percy might have stepped on Lord Akeldama’s feet a time or two, which distressed the vampire via shoe smudges (as opposed to actually causing him any physical harm). Percy could dance rather well, of course, it was simply that he didn’t want to and he had a reputation to maintain. Besides, one must seize upon any excuse to step on a vampire’s toes, for the sake of humanity. Percy was, in the end, a man of principle.
Breakfast in half an hour in the stateroom if you’d like to join us?” “Breakfast?” “First meal after sleeping, we call breakfast. Rue prefers breakfast foods over all others, except pastry, and so insists that when we wake up, even if it’s sunset, we eat breakfast. You’ll find it’s easier not to argue with her.” “I find it difficult to take a stance against breakfast, as a rule.”
No one was in awe of Rue, but everyone adored her. She ruled with the marshmallow fist of justice – fluffy, delightful, and probably slightly too sweet and sticky, but fair.
The baroness looked to be about Prim’s age and more her twin than Percy. Ivy’s face was a little rounder and her eyes more vacant. Primrose looked, even at her best, suspicious of the world and prissy about her existence within it. Their mother, in Percy’s unasked-for opinion, looked like a bewildered hedgehog.
His sister’s general attitude of hic manebimus optime when it came to their mother was admirable.
No idea what word Mother really meant. Most of the time a conversation with Baroness Tunstell was an exercise in interpretation by association. Ivy Tunstell had a loose relationship with vocabulary. So far as Percy could tell, it involved groping about for a word and having about as much success as one would locating a bar of soap in the bathtub. Whatever came out of her mouth as a result was squeezed forth and landed with a splash, surprising everyone around, except her.
“She is my meal after years of starvation. She is flavours I have never tasted before but always craved. I resisted her precisely because I wanted children, wanted family.” “Well yes, Tiddles. Exactly. You want a family. So you must give over this foolishness and marry a nice understanding young man and have your werecat on the side, like a corner dish, or the occasional overindulgent pudding. No one would fault such an arrangement.”
Baroness Ivy Tunstell, Queen of the Wimbledon Hive, fainted again. “That went well.” Percy finished his tea. Primrose stood. “I believe we’d better leave now. Before she recovers her senses.” “I think any recovering of senses is highly unlikely with our mother.” “Percy, don’t be droll. It doesn’t suit.”
One ought to write a lady sonnets, send her flowers, and purchase the odd trinket or two. But the only flowers aboard the Custard were the potted sunflowers to help cleanse the aether of malignant humours. They ought not to be cut and presented to doctors. Besides, Percy had never understood the notion of gifting the dead sexual organs of a plant to females. It seemed oddly threatening.
Lady Maccon looked between her daughter and Quesnel, who had a hand to Rue’s lower back in a manner that ought to look supportive but actually looked libidinous. “I don’t know, Conall. This may not be our only grandchild. Our son-in-law is French.”
Rue looked at Quesnel and then Primrose. “Are they flirting?” “It’s like watching dirigibles crash midair, filled with hot air, slow and horrible yet inevitable,” said Quesnel.
Now introduce me to His Lordship so I can beat him over the head with diplomacy and delicacy.”
Suffice to say I should like to have embraced you under less dangerous circumstances.” “Would you?” “Absolutely.”
He let Rue boss him around as navigator, and Primrose boss him around about his personal affairs, and Virgil boss him around about his wardrobe. Percy was the kind of man who identified an expert and then ceded control, complaining all the while. He’d apparently decided that she was the expert on his safety. That, she’d been trained for, his heart was another matter. The safeguarding of another’s emotions was a serious undertaking. Arsenic could only hope she was up to the task. Although she realized she wanted to try.
You are English, yes? All Europeans look alike.” “English,” said Percy. “Technically Scottish,” replied Arsenic. Lady Manami tilted her head. “It is not the same?” “Na if you ask a Scot.” Arsenic was intractable on this subject.
“A potato.” Percy did not open his eyes, but tugged her back against him in a proprietary way that Arsenic found she didn’t mind. She leaned on his chest with her forearms and looked down at him. “Why a potato?” “I feel as if I’d been boiled to within an inch of my life, then mashed, then whipped with butter.” “Sounds tasty.” “Painful was what I was alluding to.”
“We British learned the wrong things from our supernaturals. We went out into the world with no idea but them. We built our armies around werewolf packs. We built our government around vampire hives. We failed to realize that it could be different. We failed even to understand there might be others. Supernaturals are not the same the world over. Any more than countries, governments, or people are the same. Our failure as a nation is in thinking not only that our method is best, but that it is the only option.”
“Your generation is very dramatic.” “I dinna ken what you’re grumbling about,” replied Arsenic. “From what I’ve garnered, all our drama might be construed as your generation’s fault.”
Arsenic found Percy’s awkward attempts at modesty endearing, if mainly useless. She was doctor enough to evaluate his frame medically, and woman enough to appreciate it. He had nothing to be embarrassed of, so far as she could tell both professionally and aesthetically.
Poor unborn mite had been through enough what with the mother becoming a gigantic fox… twice.
Sometime later, difficult to tell exactly how long, Arsenic held a wriggling baby girl in her arms. The child had some lungs on her, rather like her mother. The bairn passed a quick inspection, after which Arsenic cleaned her best she could, swaddled her in a pillowcase, and passed her off to smudged and exhausted parents.
Why do we need Anitra? No, nothing to do with translating for the baby. Anitra doesn’t speak baby, besides the baby hasn’t said much, only drooled a bit. She’s adorable. What do you mean, that doesn’t matter? Of course it matters!
I did it for that first Tarabotti, who had me and a werecat in his bed. And we made a miracle child who became a Queen and a legend. Zenobia, our daughter.
