Prim widened her big brown eyes in distress. “Oh, sister, this is terrible, so terrible! What are we to do? Oh, no, are we going to be detained, or questioned, or searched, or…?” She trailed off, looking as though she might cry. “I feel faint. Where’s my sal volatile? We won’t be locked away, will we? I don’t think I could stand it, not a small bare room. No trim at all.”
Rue put an arm about Prim in a sisterly manner, hushing and comforting her. “I’m certain this nice gentlemen will help us, won’t you, kind Mr Stukely? My sister, you understand, is delicate. Très, très easily overcome by nerves. Poor dear sister.”
The jerquer was himself overcome with remorse and the need to be a hero to such obviously innocent and, more importantly, wealthy young women. “Oh, now, ladies, normally an unregistered craft, well, we would have to at least question––”
Primrose began to sob. One fat tear dripped down her perfect rosy cheek. Rue suppressed the urge to clap.
Quesnel watched this entire exhibition with a well-hidden grin. He was not, Rue noticed, employing his hat, but had merely sunk his chin down into the high points of his collar and cravat in the manner of an undertaker.
Mr Stukely twitched at Prim’s whimpers. “Perhaps, just this once, a small fine? It is a very nice craft, very colourful, obviously not unlawful with such carefree decorations.” He glanced over at The Spotted Custard, deluded by the bright black on red spots into disregarding its smooth deadly lines.
Rue compressed her lips. This was, of course, part of her intent with the Custard’s decoration. If Dama had taught her nothing else, it was that the outrageous was often one’s best disguise. It is a very great thing, my Puggle, not to be taken seriously, he had once said. If two young ladies of high society showed up on one’s tower claiming a pleasure tour, it was more believable if their dirigible looked like an enormous, friendly beetle.
Rue latched on to the little man’s last words. “Remuneration for your troubles, did you say, my dear Mr Stukely? How kind you are. How very kind. How much did you say? Not that a lady should talk such details but, as you see, we are currently without our abigail.”
The little man cleared his throat, flushing red, and then, so he would not have to mention the number out loud, scribbled it down with the stylus on a corner of his ledger and showed it to Rue. Rue took note of the amount, as well as the details and rosters of the other ships in dock, helpfully listed on that very ledger. There were no familiar names.
Without flinching, she reached into her reticule and extracted the sum in question, handing over the coins. Pittance indeed – she did not even need a banknote. Which was a good thing, as it would not have been drawn on Barclay’s.
The jerquer carefully counted, noting that the sum was well over the requested amount, over by enough for it not to be a mistake. He pocketed the excess with alacrity and instantly became their good friend. “Ah, thank you very much, ladies. And a very good afternoon to you, Miss…?” He trailed off.
Without pausing Rue said, “Miss Hisselpenny.”
Prim, who was sniffling after her pretend bought of crying, turned a snort of surprise into a new sob.
Rue thumped her on the back. “There now, sister, buck up. It’s all dandy and daisies now. This nice gentlemen will take care of everything. Won’t you, very kind sir?”
The nice gentlemen in question was looking dazed. “And what ship name should I put on the registry?”
“Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon,” replied Rue.
“Very good, Miss Hisselpenny.”
“Will there be anything else, my good sir?”
“No, ladies. Thank you for your cooperation. Your steward?”
“Is aboard and will handle all the necessities. My purser will pay you any additional monies for supplies and stores. Is that the right way of it?”
“Yes, indeed, Miss Hisselpenny.”
“Thank you again, kind sir.” Rue delicately passed the man another handful of coinage. She also flashed him a brilliant smile.
Mr Stukely, bowled over by both the gratuity and the smile, doffed his hat, and the two ladies continued on their way without further impediment. Although their deft interactions with the official seemed to have made them more of a spectacle rather than less.
Quesnel tilted his hat at the man sympathetically and followed after them. He caught up as they attained the door to the central area of the port. “Why the façade?”
Rue looked at him, surprised. “Did you miss the part where this was a covert mission? One should try to keep one’s identity a secret.”
“Especially when one is the world’s only metanatural, daughter of some very famous aristocrats?” Quesnel nodded at this precaution.
“Don’t discount Prim either – she’s got some infamous parents herself.”
“But the names you chose!” Quesnel looked as if he really would laugh.
Primrose said, affronted, “Hisselpenny is my mother’s maiden name, and Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon is Lord Akeldama’s pleasure dirigible. They are perfectly respectable names.”
Rue explained, “If one must lie, make it memorable. Hisselpenny is a name which, if called out in a crowd we would both respond to, and that ship name is easy for us to remember and exactly the moniker two frivolous ladies of fashion would give to their craft.”
With which Rue determined she owed Quesnel no further explanation, and pushed open the door into the docking centre.
“Oh, my goodness me!” she squeaked.
It looked rather like the Reading Room of the British Museum, only a great deal larger and without any books in it. Instead there were stalls selling wares around the edge, like at a street fair with various interesting-looking sculptures, booths, and gatherings in the middle. The place was humming with humanity, some fashionable, many questionable. Somehow the centre harnessed part of the orange light of the beacon far above, and it spilled down into the interior in umber shafts.
Quesnel said, “Only you didn’t tell your crew, my beautiful witless wonder.”
Rue turned back to her chief engineer. “What was that?”
“About your plan to change the names of everything. You didn’t tell your crew, yet you gave them permission to leave the ship,” explained Quesnel carefully. “Aren’t you worried they’ll spoil the act?”
“Oh dear, good point. I do hope they don’t go blabbing.” Rue frowned, calculating the time. They had only three quarters of an hour left. How much harm could the crew do?