Quesnel donned his delighted academic smile. Percy had the same smile. “Initially, if we stick him in and Rue here returns to normal, then we can presume the tank is at least preserving his tether.”

“And after that?” Mother was a great deal more careful with Paw’s well-being than she was with her own.

“We’d know when we arrive and he wakes up again.” Quesnel would not sugarcoat the reality of science.

“He is standing right here!” Lord Maccon gave an aggrieved rumble. His voice sounded worn and shaken, as if he’d been recently crying.

“Quite right, your risk, Conall. Do we try?”

“I am at your disposal, Wife. I’ve no other duties now but to attend your whims.”

“God help us all,” said Lady Maccon with real feeling. She turned towards The Spotted Custard. It had floated down for a better view of the Alpha challenge.

Rue stayed behind and watched the pack.

One at a time, each werewolf was approaching Uncle Rabiffano. Each knelt low over his forelegs and then flipped to present the soft underside of throat and stomach. There seemed a prescribed order of rank, or was it age? Rue found herself trying to guess whose turn would be next. Somehow she always got it right. She wondered if she had some latent pack instinct after all.

Her parents and Quesnel were up the gangplank now, chatting almost companionably to one another.

“Infant,” called Lady Maccon, “do come along.”

But while her parents were apparently willing to lose everything, Rue was not.

The last wolf, Rafe, rolled to stand after his abeyance.

Rue approached the new Alpha. She slunk, chest low, neck cocked slightly to show her throat. She bowed over her forelegs. Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh… And went to flip, to expose her belly to her pack.

Her former pack as it turned out.

Uncle Rabiffano’s eyes were sad. But then, they were always a little sad. Yet he left – they left – without acknowledging her.

The London Pack ambled away in a group, heading for the outskirts of town. That group was cohesive and calm. They were off to chase some unsuspecting rabbits. Or perhaps they were going to celebrate at a local pub. Since they were all in wolf form, even Rabiffano, Rue had to assume they were after rabbits and not ale, or the London pubs had relaxed their dress requirements beyond imagining.

And Rue was not welcome among them any more.

SIX

In Which Our Heroine Defeats a Picnic Hamper

Rue didn’t want to go with her parents. She didn’t want to see Quesnel preserve her father in a tank in her boiler room. As if Paw were an enormous gherkin. But she followed up the gangplank because they needed her to keep the tether.

I’ve lost all my family in one night. Except Dama. Will he still want me around with Mother and Paw gone? Rue was wallowing. But there was no one to see, and being a wolf she couldn’t cry.

She made her way down through the airship towards the oil and smoke of the boiler room. Had Quesnel predicted this eventuality and that’s why there was a tank in engineering? Had he known all along what was going wrong with her pack – with her family – and not said anything?

The man in question, wearing a leather blacksmith’s apron over his evening clothes, tinkered with the tank. Her parents watched, Mother with her head on Paw’s shoulder and he with one arm about her waist. Rue had seen her parents intimate before, more’s the pity, but this time they looked so relaxed. Just as the pack had walking away from her.

Rue wondered about their respective jobs. If they emigrated to Egypt, Lady Maccon must give over muhjah and Lord Maccon must pass on his position as head of BUR. Rue so rarely asked them about their professions, it was entirely possible they had already made arrangements.

Mother probably has, at least. If Paw’s been running off the rails for a while now, BUR’s likely already filled in an assumed vacancy. But muhjah has to be filled by a preternatural, and there’s no other soulless in London. Well – an aura of satisfaction coloured Rue’s thoughts – Queen Victoria is in a pickle there.

Quesnel popped the lid of his tank open. It was full of a bubbling orangeish liquid, not boiling but aerated with a colourless gas. Rue sniffed – odourless. too. Oxygen, perhaps? Or aether?

Tasherit appeared, still in lioness shape, and took a spectator’s seat. Rue was relieved Primrose wasn’t present; her father was, after all, still naked. No doubt Prim had skittered below the moment things went bare during the brawl. Primrose was not equipped to handle regular exposure to male nudity. Which would make her marriage bed quite interesting indeed.

Quesnel stepped back and gestured, with a little bow, like a butler.

Lord Maccon bowed in turn and then hoisted himself up into the tank. It was only just big enough for him, and it didn’t look like a comfortable fit. He lowered himself gingerly with a funny look on his face like he was settling into a vat of pudding, squishy but not unpleasant. At the last, he sucked in a breath and sank under. Once completely submerged, he appeared to fall into a deep slumber.

Lady Maccon and Quesnel lurched forward, likely to check that he was asleep and not dead. Rue hadn’t the attention to process, for she was shifting. Reverse shape change was no less painful, but it always felt nice, at the end, to be back in her own skin. Rue supposed this was because she spent less time as a supernatural than the real ones; being mortal felt comfortable. Although most of the time it was less interesting.

There were many things Rue could have done in a more dignified fashion at that juncture, but frankly it had been an upsetting night, so she sat on the floor. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms about them, cloaking herself in her own hair, for modesty’s sake.