Since he rarely called her by her preferred name, Rue was instantly alert. She left Anitra and Tasherit in charge of their hostage, and the deckhands guarding against further infiltration, to meet the Frenchman amidships before he could blurt out anything secretive. After all, she did not know if their supplier really was ignorant of the English language.

She kept her voice as low as possible but spoke in cockney just in case the tradesmen had a distance listening tube. “Mr Lefoux, please return below. We have us some bad’uns.”

Quesnel was clearly very upset, for he didn’t even rib her on the atrocious accent. “So I heard.”

“So there be somewhat wrong with them coals, then, me laddie?” Rue was perfectly well aware that she sounded like a pirate in a small operatic production in some backwater hamlet. Spoo was staring with a hand over her mouth.

Rue’s question, or performance, dampened Quesnel’s anger. “No, it seems fine. If they’re trying to swindle us, it isn’t through the goods. I even had a sootie test for combustion. It’s quality stuff.”

Rue let out a breath. At least they had fuel. “Then what’s the tick? Did they try for belowdecks?”

“No.”

Rue was beginning to lose patience. “Then what? I’m in the middle of taking the egg.” She gestured back to where Tasherit stood with her mouth around the man’s wrist. “Poor cat, I can’t think that tastes good.”

“You…” Quesnel was scrambling for words.

Rue knew English was not his first language but he had seemed fluent until this moment. Now it was as if vowels were choking him.

“Out with it.” She let impatience colour her words. She couldn’t think of any cockney slang for getting a man to open his saucebox.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Rue crossed her arms, sort of; she was still holding the parasol in one hand.

“It was a stupid risk, Rue, putting yourself forward.” Still angry, he nevertheless softened his tone to a hiss.

Rue flinched when his hand came towards her face. But all he did was touch her neck, fingers shaking. They came away smeared with blood.

The man’s knife must have cut her worse than she thought. “I’ve had worse playing with wolves.”

“You should have had a deckhand act as purser. We knew they were hostile and crooked.”

“It’s just a nick.”

Quesnel took a shaky breath, but his hand was back on her skin. An inquisitive finger smoothed along the uninjured part of her neck, stroking the pulse point, tracing the veins. It was as if he was reassuring himself her blood still moved.

“You aren’t your father. You aren’t immortal.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? You don’t act like it.”

It was nice but this was not the right time for whatever emotion drove him.

“Quesnel, this will have to wait!” she said, almost desperately.

Quesnel backed off but did not return below. He stayed up top to observe the rest of the transaction.

Which is how he was on deck when it happened. Which was how he got shot.

SIXTEEN

In Which Percy’s Cognac Proves Useful

The gun crack was loud and stark and utterly surprising.

Quesnel crumpled.

Rue screamed in a way that was quite melodramatic, but she couldn’t help it.

Tasherit twisted and heaved, throwing the man she’d been mouthing down the gangplank over the heads of the remaining sooties. His arm tore, misting blood over the heads of Rue’s crew. No one seemed to care much, except for the man.

Rue ran to Quesnel, keening and vibrating with fear like some agitated violin. She slid down next to him, heedless of ripped skirts. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the bloom of red near where his right arm connected to his chest.

Anitra was there, too.

Rue scrabbled at Quesnel uselessly, convinced that the best thing would be to get his clothing off. Ironic that.

The Drifter girl pushed her away, gentle but insistent. “Let me see.” She put a hand to his throat. “He’s alive.”

Rue wasn’t sure how long that would last. “We should check for continued bleeding, stop it if possible, right?” Her tone was hesitant. She had no experience with bullet wounds. Mild mauling, scratches, and the occasional neck bite were standard fare in her parents’ households, but bullet damage? And this was Quesnel!

Anitra did not look up from the fallen man. “I know what to do. Please attend to your ship, Captain.”

Rue blinked. The reminder brought her out of the shock. She didn’t want to leave Quesnel, but responsibility forced her to stand, trance-like.

She took in the activity around her. The decklings were panicking without Tasherit in human form to keep discipline. Deckhands were torn between establishing order and their own defensive duties. Rue felt a wave of cold flow over her; it carried with it a surreal calm.

She holstered her parasol into attack position.

Another gunshot rang out.

“Everyone, down! Stay moving at a low level.” It was unnecessary information to impart, as most had already taken cover, but Rue wanted her crew to know she was paying attention to them.

She yelled out more useful orders. “Sooties, close up the feed, last of the coal is not worth our lives. Then get below – we’re going to need you stoking! Percy, puff us up. Whatever speed we can get.”

“Not much.” The redhead’s lips were set firm in either fear or determination or both. Fortunately, the helm was seated in such a way that only his head and shoulders were targets and so far, no one seemed to have aimed for navigation.