Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(102)

“You’re too good sometimes, Primrose.”

“I know.”

“What’s the pie tin for?”

Prim went very red. “His, um, tender essentials.”

Rue blinked and then, “Oh.”

Primrose puttered about extracting various additional necessities from the reticule – her embroidery kit, the diminished bottles of cognac and iodine, more bandages, and a jar of calf’s foot jelly.

“And the jelly?”

“I don’t know. But Mother was always sending round calf’s foot jelly to invalids and I knew Cook had some, so I thought I might as well bring it along.”

“I’m impressed you stocked laudanum and bandages. Admirable foresight, my dear.”

Primrose glowed at the compliment. “We have as complete a medical cabinet as I could manage. I used Steel and Gardiner’s recommended list for a family emigrating to India and multiplied the contents tenfold.” She stood back, contemplating her stack. “Now, have I forgotten anything?”

“If you have, send Virgil out for it when he gets here.” Rue stood, stretching. “Don’t be surprised if Quensel wakes up talking of robins.”

Rue stayed, looking down at Quesnel while Prim settled in, organising things in that competent way of hers.

His face, without the twinkle and animation, was different, lost. And, of course, she’d never seen what he looked like sleeping.

“Primrose?”

“Yes, Rue?” Primrose put a comforting arm about Rue’s waist and rested her head on her shoulder.

“Did I do wrong by him?”

“Did he say he loves you?”

“You knew?”

Primrose wore an expression that said, clear as if she spoke the words, that the entire ship knew.

“Oh.” Rue tugged on one hot ear, crestfallen.

“I believe there is a great deal of wagering on the subject. The decklings and sooties have a pool going. Did you say it back? I believe I’ll be in for two crowns if you did.”

“Does it count if he was sleeping?”

Primrose frowned. “Excellent question.”

Rue sighed, letting everything go and bowing to the inevitable. “Why didn’t you tell me he felt that way? I might have been nicer to him. Why didn’t you tell me I felt that way, for that matter?”

“I tried. You didn’t want to hear it.”

Some day, thought Rue, I’m going to be saying those words to you. I hope you don’t bungle it as badly as I did.

Primrose looked smug. “Apparently it takes a bullet wound to bring you to your senses.”

Rue hung her head, ashamed.

“So, it’s done now. You’ll have to accept your fate, Rue.”

“Why must you be so logical all the time?”

“You know my mother and brother.” Primrose’s voice held a wealth of familial responsibility.

“Ah.” Rue nodded her understanding and left the sickroom.

Perhaps there was a little more bounce in her step than there had been before. Why not just let herself be in love with Quesnel? Seemed silly now, to bother to fight it. Of course, he could still go and die on her and cock it all up. Rue chose to believe he would heal nicely. It was only his right side, after all. Rue knew from intimate experience that Quesnel was left-handed.





Quesnel didn’t die.

They set up a rotation of personnel to tend him, with each visitor training the next in keeping his injury clean, changing the dressings, checking for infection, and allowing him the cheat at piquet.

Rue came in one evening to find Aggie, a fireman, a greaser, and two sooties all smoking and dicing with the invalid. The room was full of pipe smoke and laughter. Quesnel had a little colour in his cheeks. Rue had never seen Aggie cheerful before. She might even be called pretty. Although the moment she saw Rue, she scowled.

Rue shook her head and tutted at them for the smoke and the dice because she felt it her role to do so, and then left them to it.

The Spotted Custard was six days following the White Nile southwards ever further into uncharted territory. All the while Quesnel steadily improved. It would take him months to completely mend, and he wasn’t out of danger until his wounds sealed over. Anitra worried he’d never regain full use of his right arm. Although by the fourth day he could squeeze Rue’s fingers softly when she placed them in his right hand. They chose to be optimistic. Tasherit said that there might be a healer of some kind among her lost pride.

“Why would they have need?” Primrose asked.

“Oh, you think we do not have… what do you call them? Clavigers.”

“A pride lives alongside humans?” Primrose was fascinated.

“We call them our Chosen Ones.”

“You make it sound so noble. One step from being a drone.” Primrose had grown up in a vampire hive. She was odd about the whole food-source arrangement. She could recognise that werewolves were different, but it still made her twitchy.

Miss Sekhmet looked down her nose at them both in a regal manner. “It is an honour to be one with the Daughters of Sekhmet, to have the option of becoming a cat. Who would not want such a thing?”

Primrose answered, without pause, “Me! Why is it immortals always think everyone else wants to be immortal?”