“I did. I took my first prisoners. It’s very exciting, not that I know correct prisoner acquisition etiquette.” She bent over to scratch Footnote’s head. “What does one do with prisoners?”

“Torture,” said Percy with confidence.

“Yes, but what kind of torture?” Footnote lifted his chin commandingly so she scratched his neck.

Percy, true to his nature, had a ready answer to that. Same answer he always had. “I must have a book here somewhere on the subject. Excruciation, maybe. Would you like me to look?” He seemed to have lost the bulk of his distemper during the course of the attack.

“Oh, no thank you, Percy. What a nice gesture. But I think I can come up with something vile on my own.” Footnote wandered over to Primrose to acquire a new set of scratches.

“Torture?” Primrose’s tone was thoughtful. “Cold tea?”

“German poetry.” Percy reached to a shelf and offered up an unpleasantly fat leather-bound volume.

Rue was arrested. “There’s such a thing as German poetry?”

Primrose nodded seriously. “Yes. Save yourself.”

Percy, in silent agreement, put the volume back.

Rue laughed. “Regardless, it’s safe to come out now, if you care to.”

THREE

In Which German Poetry Is Entirely Irrelevant

They never did get around to the German poetry, or any other form of interrogation that evening. Someone, likely from the All England Croquet, Lawn Tennis, and Airborne Polo Club Annual Fiscal Reserves Ball below, had reported the invasion to the authorities. Shortly before dawn, the constabulary hailed them, along with a member of BUR, which meant supernaturals were involved. These authorities demanded they hand over their prisoners. The Spotted Custard, a law-abiding ship, floated down and allowed the silvers to board.

“It’s not fair really.” Rue crossed her arms and glared, trying to be as fierce as her unfortunately friendly visage would allow. “They’re my prisoners. What business is it of yours?”

The bobby was not intimated one bit. He seemed to be trying not to smile, the chump. He flipped out a long writ of some irrepressibly official-looking variety and explained that these men were wanted on several counts of breaking and entering by various clubs, libraries, hive houses, and ministries of record all over London. Apparently, they were part of some kind of crime necklace, or ring, or what have you, which made Rue even more certain that they were after Quesnel’s fancy tank.

“Besides, miss, even if they did board your ship without permission, you can’t simply keep free citizens imprisoned on a dirigible.”

“I can’t?”

“Not done, miss. Not done at all.”

“Oh, very well.”

Rue reluctantly handed over the two men.

The BUR operative was not one she knew from Paw’s offices. He regarded the scratches all over the one man suspiciously but otherwise performed his duties with admirable aplomb. The Staking Constabulary disappeared once the prisoners were produced, and the crew of the Custard was left none the wiser as to the purpose of the attack.

They floated back up as high as they could while remaining moored to the croquet green, and Rue took to her bed, feeling rather the worse for a confusing night.

Rue awoke – it felt like five minutes after falling asleep, although the sun was high enough for it to have been five hours – to the dulcet sounds of Percy yelling.

Even as pipped as he’d been yesterday, and he was quite pipped, Percy rarely yelled. But somehow Rue knew it was him. She recognised the other voice, too. Both were loud enough to waft down to Rue’s cabin from the poop deck directly overhead. The second voice was cooler, more calculating, lilting in a slightly French manner, as it tended to when overcome with emotion. He always lost some of his cloak of proper Britishness, did Quesnel, in times of stress.

I guess he’s back, then. Rue stared up at the ceiling and tried to decide how she felt about this. It’s nice that he’s safe but I’m still irritated with him. And so is Percy, which is not so different from normal. She attempted to think of the right greeting for her erstwhile lover. It should be an irreverent quip, something casual and unruffled; she wouldn’t want to look like she cared.

The crest of rising and falling tones above her suggested that the argument was likely to continue. It was, she realised, also occurring in public, in front of the decklings and the repair crew. If we are really lucky, we will also have an audience of respectable croquet players witnessing my navigator and chief engineer’s verbal fisticuffs.

Rue bopped out of bed and – knowing it was shameful – spent an inordinate amount of time on her toilette. She even laced on a corset as tight as she was able without a maid, over a silk combination and petticoats, merely because of how small it made her waist look. Quesnel’s presence provoked her into looking her best, anticipating the revenge of showing him a modicum of what he could no longer have.

Not until he adequately explained himself at least.

Rue’s best day dress was white with black dots and black lace trim. It was a simple cut with decidedly old-fashioned sleeves, tight from shoulder to wrist, and a low square neckline over a muslin tuck. The muslin was filmy enough to show hints of her generous cleavage, which was about as much as one could show for daytime without being labelled a strumpet. Rue wasn’t above using her assets for nefarious purposes.

She elected not to turn up her hair. It was one of her best features – thick and wavy like her mother’s but with a few reddish honey tones in the full sun. She felt justified in leaving it down having been recently awoken from repose. This being her airship, and her home, she was in her right to appear in a relaxed state. Although, loose hair was pushing matters.