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.”
Rue tried to look debonair and calm. She thought about Uncle Rabiffano, and allowed herself the hint of a dandy’s slouch. She thought that she might – at least – be fooling the decklings.
Percy continued protesting at Quesnel’s vanished form. “The current must have moved from its last charted location – there’s no way I could have predicted––”
Rue interrupted him. “Never mind that now, Percy. Virgil, stop squealing and use a handkerchief to clean your shoe. There’s a good lad. Percy, grab the helm and prepare for a hop.”
Percy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not prepared.”
Rue gave a rather ferocious grin. “No time – we’re making this hop now. It’ll be a good test of the Custard’s mettle.”
Percy stared at her. She did look a mite crazed.
“Now, Percival!”
Percy sprang into action. He yanked at levers and cranked dials, getting the ship out of flotsam status.
Rue ordered the mainsail pulled in. It took the decklings longer than she liked. She’d have to run some drills on them to improve speed.
“Propeller at the ready?” she barked.
Percy grabbed and cranked over the appropriate bar. “Ready, captain.”
The Spotted Custard farted.
Rue chose to ascribe it to nerves. “Steady, girl,” she said to the ship, then to Percy, “Which nodule registered? Are we dropping or lifting to catch the Shifter?”
Percy examined the probe. “Lifting, captain.”
Rue picked up the speaking tube that connected her to engineering and pressed the button that would sound a bell there.
“Yes?” Quesnel’s voice was almost snappish.
“Prepare for a puff, chief engineer.”
“I don’t know about this. We’re pushing her.”
“She was made to be pushed or Dama wouldn’t have given her to me.”
“As you say, mon petit chou.” She heard Quesnel turn away from the tube and murmur into the hubbub, “It’s a lift, Aggie – have them stoke all boilers hot.”
There came the sound of Aggie yelling.
Quesnel returned to Rue. “Ready, chérie.”
“Here we go!” Rue hung up the speaker tube and turned to face Percy.
“Do it, Professor Tunstell. Now, please.”
Percy pressed the puffer button to give the balloon its boost.
They bobbed out of the Gibraltar Loop into the loose uncharted swirls of the Charybdis currents. The Spotted Custard’s balloon caved in at several points as the dirigible was buffeted in various directions at once. The gondola section shook. Prim, still seated in a chair on the main deck, gave a little squeak of alarm and dived to secure the tea things.