Prudence looked up from her careful mutilation of the menu. “No.”
The inventor retrieved her jacket and top hat from a stand by the door and made her way out into the blustery corridor.
“Fooie,” said Prudence.
“I couldn’t agree with you more, infant,” said Lady Maccon to her daughter.
Alexia remained in the dining hall a goodly while. She enjoyed the ambiance, the constant supply of tea and nibbles, the efficiency of the staff, and the fact that it afforded her a general inspection of the other passengers. Everyone, after all, had to eat. Their fellow pilgrims were the expected assortment. She spotted several sets of pale ladies—invalids in search of health. The two emaciated fellows who were all floppy hair and elbows with ill-cut jackets could only be artists. The tweed-clad jovial chaps intent on drinking the steamer’s entire stock of port before they reached port were obviously sportsmen keen upon crocodiles. There was a wastrel in black Alexia first thought might be a statesman, until he whipped out a notebook, which made her think he was that lowest of the low: a travel journalist. There were various unfashionable gentlemen with battered headgear and too much facial hair, either antiquities collectors or men of science.
Of course, her main reason for staying was that Prudence seemed equally content to sit, mutilating the menu pamphlet, and there was no point in messing with a good thing. Which was how it was that her husband found her still at tea even after sunset.
He arrived trailing Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell, the nursemaid, the twins, and two members of the troupe, all looking bleary-eyed but dressed for dinner.
“Dada!” said Prudence, looking very much like she would appreciate some affection from her father. Alexia set her bare hand carefully on the back of her daughter’s neck and then nodded at her husband.
“Poppet.” Conall buzzed his daughter exuberantly on the cheek, making her giggle, and then did the same to his wife. “Wife.” This elicited an austere look, which they both knew was one of affection.
Alexia supposed she ought to retire and dress for dinner herself, but she was terribly afraid of missing something interesting, so she remained, only transferring to a larger table so that the others could join her and Prudence.
“I do believe I might enjoy ocean transport even more than floating,” pronounced Ivy, sitting next to Alexia without regard for proper table arrangement or precedence. Alexia supposed such standards had to be relaxed when traveling. Lord Maccon sat on Ivy’s other side, keeping a good deal of room between him and his daughter.
“Is it the space or the fashion that appeals?”
“Both. Now, Percy, love, the furniture is not for eating.” Baby Percival was busy gumming the back of the dining chair, arching over his father’s arm in order to do so.
“Ahhouaough,” said Primrose from her position on the nursemaid’s lap. She had not yet developed the capacity for consonants.
This behavior, peaceable though it was, appeared to be too much for Mrs. Tunstell. “Oh, take them away, Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk, do. We will have a nice supper sent down to you. This simply isn’t the place for children, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk looked worried, faced with the logistical prospect of having to carry three toddlers. But Prudence, seeming to agree with Ivy that it was high time to leave, jumped down from her chair, removed the serviette from about her neck, handed it carefully to her mother, and stood waiting patiently while the nursemaid loaded herself up with twins. The little girl then preceded the nursemaid from the room, as though she knew exactly where she was going.
Ivy looked after, impressed. “I do look forward with pleasure to the time when mine are walking with greater stability.”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you. She gets into everything.” It was a matter of some discussion in the Maccon–Akeldama household that Prudence seemed to walk sooner and with greater efficiency than was expected in an infant. It was generally thought that this might be because of her alternate forms—her vampire one being far faster and her werewolf one stronger. Together they probably bettered her burgeoning understanding of bipedal motion.
Ivy commenced to chatter about her experiences aboard the ship, for all they had been at sea only half a day, as though steamers were her life’s work and main passion. “The windows in my cabin are actually round. Can you believe it?” The meal proceeded without incident, if the phrase without incident might be used to describe such an ordeal as objections to the type of sauce, the quality of the meat, and the color of the jellies. Lady Maccon began to suspect actors of being far more choosy in their preferences than even Lord Akeldama. She felt that the meal, comprised of giblet soup, fried turbot, beef shoulder, minced veal and poached eggs, corned pork, pigeon pies, croquettes of mutton, jugged hare, ham and tongue, and boiled potatoes was all that one might hope for aboard ship. And the seconds, always her favorite, far excelled such expectations, as they included both black-cap and rice puddings, jam tartlets, and a platter of excellent cheeses.
Lord Maccon declined after-dinner drinks and cards. Lady Maccon declined a stroll about the decks. Together they made their way back to their private quarters instead. Alexia, thinking of her filched book on anatomy, suggested they take advantage of the comparative peace of travel with no muhjah or BUR duties to distract them. Conall wholeheartedly agreed but seemed to believe books had no part in this activity.
They compromised. Alexia took out the book on anatomy and used Conall as a study specimen. She was taken with trying to determine where different organs were situated from the outside, which involved prods and pokes with her fingers. Since Conall was ticklish, this led to a small tussle. Eventually, Alexia lost possession of the book, her clothing, and her heart rate, but the study session was declared, by Conall at least, to be a resounding success.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alexia Makes an Unexpectedly Damp Discovery
The sea voyage was an oddly peaceful affair. This made Lady Maccon nervous. Because they kept to supernatural hours, the Maccons, the Tunstells, the collective progeny, and the acting troupe had nothing to do with the other travelers except at suppertime. During those convocations, when Alexia and her compatriots were commencing their waking hours, and the others their evening’s amusement before bed, all travelers were required to socialize. The steamer was outfitted with only first-class compartments, unlike some of the less dignified Atlantic lines, and Alexia was delighted to find passengers behaving as first-class frequenters ought. Everyone was civil and politics never came up at table. The actors provided much needed entertainment, either through the acceptable avenues of conversation and the occasional musical interlude or through more dramatic means, like engaging in mad, passionate affairs with some dish on the menu and then having the vapors when the cook ran out or stealing the skipper’s hat for a scandalous dance routine. They behaved themselves as much as could be expected and did not stray so far away from the upper crust as to commit any prank not already enacted by the young men of Oxford or Cambridge. Although one memorable evening of bread roll cricket certainly stretched the boundaries of propriety.
Trouble, when it inevitably came, originated in the most likely quarter—her husband and her daughter and her daughter’s favorite toy, a large mechanical ladybug.
Early on in Prudence’s life, Lady Maccon had written to her friend the clockmaker Gustave Trouvé, with an order for one of his mechanical ladybugs, only larger, slower, and less deadly. She’d had this outfitted with a small leather saddle and had, inadvertently, started a new craze in children’s toys that kept that good gentleman busy for the next year. Lucrative, as it turned out, the market for rideable ladybugs.
Prudence showed this particular toy such favor as to make it entirely necessary to pack the thing for any trip—let alone one of several weeks—despite its bulky size. Alexia and Prudence had taken to occupying the first-class lounge and music room every evening after supper, Alexia with a book and a weather eye to her daughter, and Prudence with her ladybug and a gratifying willingness to wear herself out by running after it, or on top of it, or, on several occasions, under it. Sometimes one or two of the actors would join them to play the piano. Either Prudence or her mother might pause in their respective activities to listen, Lady Maccon sometimes driven to glare in disapproval when songs strayed too far toward the “Old Tattooed Lady” and the like.
It was when Lord Maccon joined them on the third night and Prudence, in a fit of excitement, ran her ladybug into his foot and fell against him that things went askew. They had been very careful, but it was so unexpected that even Lord Maccon’s supernatural reflexes were not fast enough. This was compounded by the fact that, being a father, his instinct was to reach out and catch his daughter before she hit the floor, not, as it ought to have been, to leap away.
Prudence fell. Lord Maccon caught. And a werewolf cub dashed about the lounge causing chaos and panic. Prudence had been wearing a pretty pink dress with multiple frills, a nappy, and lace pantalettes. The nappy and the pantalettes did not survive the transition. The dress did. Prudence remained wearing it in wolf form, to Alexia’s unparalleled amusement.
Prudence’s werewolf nature seemed less driven by the need to hunt and feed than it was to run and play. Alexia and Conall had discussed whether this was a product of her youth or her metanatural nature. She also made for a very cute wolf cub, if Alexia did say so herself, so no one in the music lounge was afraid of her, but the unexpectedness of the cub’s appearance did cause surprise.
“Gracious me, where did you come from, you adorable little fuzzball?” exclaimed Mr. Tumtrinkle, the gentleman playing the villain in The Death Rains of Swansea. He made a grab for said fuzzball, missed, and flew forward, crashing into the well-endowed lady soprano sitting at the piano. She shrieked in surprise. He grappled for purchase and ripped the bodice of her raspberry and green striped dress. She pretended a faint from embarrassment, although Alexia noted she kept an eye on a nearby steward to ensure her corseted assets were fully appreciated, which, from the young man’s crimson blush, Alexia assumed they were.
Prudence the wolf cub made a circuit of the room, jumping up on people, trying to squirm under furniture and overturning it, and generally causing the kind of mayhem expected of an extremely energetic puppy wearing a pink frilly dress and confined to a small area. She completed her tour at her father’s feet, at which point, operating on some infant memory, she attempted to try to ride the ladybug that had caused the accident in the first place, all the while avoiding her parents’ grasp.
They probably would have caught her at some point. It was a large lounge, but it wasn’t that large. Unfortunately, a deck steward opened the door, carrying a long package under his arm.
“Lady Maccon? This package just arrived for you by dirigible. And this letter. And here is a missive for you, Lord Maccon, and—Oh my goodness!”
Which was when Prudence made a break for freedom between the unfortunate man’s legs.
“Catch her!” ordered Alexia, but it was too late. Prudence was off down the corridor. Alexia ran to the door, just in time to catch sight of the tip of her daughter’s fluffy tail as it disappeared around a corner.
“Oh, dear.”
“Lady Maccon,” said the lounge steward sternly from behind her, “unregistered animals are not allowed on board this vessel! Even well-dressed ones.”
“Oh, er, yes, of course. I will naturally pay any fine for the inconvenience or damages, and I assure you everything will be rectified the moment I get my hands on her. Now, if you will excuse me. Are you coming, Conall?”
With which Lord and Lady Maccon went dashing after their errant child.
Everyone left behind was very confused, especially when they found a torn child’s nappy next to the forgotten ladybug and no evidence of little Lady Prudence anywhere in the lounge.
“You look tired, Professor. No insult intended, of course. And you make it intentionally difficult to tell, but I am beginning to believe that that little wrinkle about the pocket of your waistcoat indicates exhaustion.”
“How very wise of you, young Biffy, to note my mood from the state of my waistcoat. Have you noticed anything else significant occurring around town of late?”
Biffy wondered if this was some kind of werewolf test to assess his skills of observation. Or perhaps Professor Lyall wanted to know what information Biffy might impart to a fellow pack member, or whether he would keep his own council, or whether he would tell Lord Akeldama, or whether he would tell Lady Maccon. He would, of course, tell all parties. He wouldn’t tell them all everything, or even all the same thing, but he would tell them all something. What other point could there be in gathering the information in the first place? In this, he and his former master disagreed. Lord Akeldama liked to know things for their own sake. Biffy liked to know things for the sake of others.
