Primrose had arrived.
Or at least Primrose’s accessories had arrived.
Rue looked over the railing. The lady in question was standing in an open-topped carriage gesticulating wildly with two parasols as a stream of footmen unloaded an entire other carriage full of baggage.
Rue waved. “Cooey!”
Prim looked up. “Oh, Rue, you wouldn’t believe the bother.”
“Why all the hats?”
Prim gave her an exasperated look, easy to see even at a distance and under the shade of a wide bonnet trimmed with silk butterflies. “It’s the only way she would let me come.”
“Who?”
“Gracious me, Rue. Need you ask? Mother, of course.”
“Of course. Was she terribly difficult to persuade?”
“Terribly. And she only gave me permission when I promised to bring a hat for every possible crisis, land or air, rain or shine, England or India, sweet or savoury. It was a nightmare. I was at Château de Poupes for over four hours last night. Four hours!”
“How is Uncle Rabiffano? Still upset about me stealing his form?”
“Not at all. Much better now actually, as I spent a vast amount of Queen Mum’s money at his establishment. As you can probably tell by all the hats he foisted on me. Mother should never have opened that unlimited purchasing account. Your Uncle Rabiffano takes terrible advantage.”
“Shall we stop yelling? Come aboard. I’ll give you tea. You can tell me all about your shopping woes. We’ve got this marvellous kettle tube thing, mounts above the reserve in engineering and runs directly to the galley. Allows for hot water at any time in a veritable instant, as long as the boilers are running.”
“I’m sure that’s quite a spiffing notion but can it wait? After I’ve supervised the unpacking, I really must make some calls. I’m surprised you don’t have to.”
“In that case I’ll come to you.” Rue made her way down the gangplank, almost knocked off it by two footmen carrying between them another massive trunk. “More hats?” Rue asked, not too surprised.
“Parasols, miss,” grunted one.
“Oh, dear,” said Rue.
She attained the ground safely and went to hand Prim down from the carriage, there being no gentlemen around to perform the obligation, and the footmen all occupied with baggage. Prim looked to tumble out soon, she was waving her parasols so vigorously, as if guiding a floatillah of airships into land.
“Goodness, Prim, you’ll do yourself an injury. Come down from there.”
Prim came down, fanning herself with one hand and prodding at a clumsy footman with her parasol with the other. “Careful with that, Fitzwilliam!”
“You know we are only going for two months at the very most? This is not the Taking of the Fortress of the Fashionless.”
Prim sighed. “It was much easier not to argue with Queen Mums on the subject. Besides, the more I packed, the less I’d have to go back for. Speaking of which, do you think I could stay aboard tonight before we leave? Best not to give her the opportunity to change her mind.”
“I’m surprised she let you come at all.”
Prim nodded. “You and me both. I think it helps that she doesn’t know Percy’s joined up. Both her precious eggs in one floating basket —? There will be histrionics the entire time we are away. London is going to be in for it when she finds out.”
“Aunt Ivy doesn’t know I’ve got both of you?” Rue looked uncomfortable. Prim might see her mother as mainly an annoying busybody, but Aunt Ivy was still a vampire hive queen with all the power and authority that that incurred. She could make life very difficult when she was unhappy, which London had reason to know – personally.
“He hasn’t told her. You know Percy. Could be intentional or it might have legitimately slipped his addlepated mind.”
“Oh, yes, speaking of your horrible brother, Dama’s carriage is arriving. I sent it ’round to retrieve him.”
“Really?”
“To be fair, I sent it to retrieve his books. Percy was bound to follow.”
“Safe assumption.”
The carriage in question – a gilt horse-drawn affair, like something from a nursery rhyme, complete with trailing blue ribbons and enamel panels depicting beautiful romantic tableaux of goose girls and Greek heroes – pulled up next to them. Percy, an incongruous occupant for even the most ordinary of carriages, unfolded from within, rumpled and harried. He still wore his favourite smoking jacket, although he had substituted cream linen trousers for the tweed with the result that he looked rather like a cricket player cross-bred with a librarian. He’d forgotten a hat and his red hair was sticking up wildly in all directions in a fair imitation of a werewolf after full moon night.
His little valet followed. Virgil’s eyes were wide and mouth slightly open as he caught sight of the dirigible and the chaos of luggage surrounding it.
The Spotted Custard now boasted a completely finished exterior. Her balloon had indeed been painted bright red with black spots and coated in the necessary lacquers and oils to make her weather-resistant. She shone in the late afternoon light like some large, fat, round seedpod. The trim of the gondola section was picked out in shiny black, a stark contrast to the pale blond wood. Railings and other details shone darkly beautiful in the late afternoon sun. Dama had insisted that black was the perfect choice, being a colour that matched anything. “Now, when you lean picturesquely against the railings, my Puggle, your dress will never clash.”
“Very well reasoned, Dama,” had been Rue’s straight-faced response.
Percy looked about with utter indifference.
“Well, Percy,” said his sister, drawing his attention to her presence. “What do you think?”
“Why name the craft after a comestible and then decorate it like a Coccinellidae?”
Rue knew better than to attempt reasoning with Professor Percival Tunstell. “Because I like it that way.”
Percy wrinkled his nose at her and then, distracted, leapt forward. “Do be careful – those documents are hundreds of years old!”
Rue summoned Percy’s valet with a subtle gesture. “Virgil, be a dear and steer him up that gangplank and down below into the library, would you, please? Spoo here will show you the way.”
Spoo obliging appeared at Rue’s elbow and nodded at the young valet. “Oi up, me duck?” she said, or something equally unintelligible.
Virgil looked askance at the soot-covered girl, near his own age but remarkably scruffy and laddish by comparison. “Good afternoon,” he said, remembering his manners. Then he looked up at Rue, panicked. “Himself won’t like it if this one goes anywhere near those there scrolls.”