Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(53)
Lady Maccon was intrigued. “Fascinating.”
“I’ve a theory that each shifter, as a matter of course, is true to their animal spirit on the full moon. It seems to be part of the curse.”
“She doesn’t think of it that way, does she? As a curse, I mean.”
“No. Miss Sekhmet is proud of her state, for all she keeps it secret. I believe, when she metamorphosed, it was a noble calling. Or it’s simply that cats are intrinsically snobbish.”
Her mother nodded. “What happened to her pride?”
“Sensitive subject. I’ve not enquired closely. Perhaps she is a loner. Cats are like that, too.”
The day crawled on. They drifted sedately towards the southern tip of the delta, where Cairo nested. The sun rose higher and beat down upon them with an unremitting disregard for the fact that it was autumn. Below, the green narrowed, that eerie edge, where the trees abruptly stopped and desert began, crept closer. It gave Rue a sense of impending doom, a sensation so alien to her nature she thought it likely due to a tea deficiency. Or I’m hungry. The world always seems a worse place when I’m hungry.
As if on cue, Primrose summoned them to an alfresco luncheon.
Tasherit declined to join. She was awake, but napping and not enamoured of abovedecks dining during daylight.
All the ladies sported parasols, not just Rue. Lady Maccon carried her brownish greenish one full of pockets and secrets. It was generally considered hideous by all, including Lady Maccon, and never matched anything she wore, possibly by design. Rue had once overheard a drone asking after its presence. Her mother replied, “I’ve made peace with its appearance, rather like my nose. Neither is fashionable, but both work as designed and haven’t, to the best of my knowledge, frightened any children.” Today she had paired it with an afternoon dress of a stiff wine-coloured-silk-embroidered with a paisley pattern and a grey velvet men’s style jacket. The ensemble was the height of fashion and certainly new. The only possible explanation for her mother’s wearing it being that Uncle Rabiffano had been shopping.
Rue wondered if he had known this trip was imminent and ordered a new wardrobe for Mother full of practical travelling gowns suitable to a foreign climate. It made her feel bitter. How long had Uncle Rabiffano been planning to take Alpha? How long had he known Paw’s time was up?
Primrose was standing under a large deck parasol at the head of the table, gesticulating at footmen with her parasol. She was embracing French fashion this afternoon in a fitted dark umber dress free of all decoration except brown velvet appliqué at the neck, cuffs, and hem. The dress covered her from throat to wrist to toe yet managed to be sublimely sexy and ought, by rights, not to appear on an unmarried lady. She was also still in a temper from confronting Tasherit earlier.
Thus Rue said only, “Daring dress, Prim. Is it new?”
“Yes. Now that I’m an old engaged woman, I thought I might cultivate sophistication.”
“Don’t strain anything.”
Lady Maccon, never one to talk fashion when food was on offer, sat without comment and began loading up her plate. They ate informally aboard ship and rarely stood on ceremony. Rue had thought her mother would find this upsetting, but Lady Maccon embraced it readily when she realised it meant she never had to flag a footman down for a refill.
“Is everywhere we go likely to be more sunny than old Blighty?” Rue chose a safe subject as she took her seat.
“Very likely.” Primrose forced a cheerful tone and poured the tea with a liberal hand for all comers. Even Lady Maccon was doled out a cup without comment. Fortunately she was not at all offended by the assumption that she would prefer tea to wine or water.
Percy left the navigation in Virgil’s capable hands and gangled over to thump down across from her ladyship. “I say, it is rather too warm, isn’t it?”
“Buck up, Percy.” Quesnel took a chair next to Rue, looking damp and fresh. He’d splashed his face with water before coming to table.
Percy regarded the company glumly. “I detest nice weather. Everyone feels compelled to do things out of doors.”
Quesnel’s violet eyes twinkled. “Egypt is celebrated for her prevalence of outside activities.”
“Frenchmen.” Percy snorted.
They consumed a light meal of boiled whiting in parsley sauce and roast widgeon in orange gravy, with turnip and cauliflower for the corners, and baked codling pudding for afters. Rue’s sensation of dread over the encroaching desert abated along with the gravy. Rue would drink gravy out of a teacup if it were proper.
They sat back, talking idly over the pudding. Quesnel was disposed to be at his most amicable, which helped lighten everyone’s mood. Except Percy. Even Lady Maccon laughed at one of his off-colour puns and then got annoyed with herself for doing so.
“You’re as bad as your mother,” she told him.
“I shall take that as a compliment.” He mock bowed at her.
“You jolly well should.”
It was easy to linger in the oppressive heat, sipping tea while the crew rotated through their midday meal. They didn’t move until a deckling on lookout gave a cry from the crow’s nest.
Percy – uninterested if it didn’t immediately contain threat of death, literary revelations, or academic standing – resumed his post at the helm.
Rue, Quesnel, Prim, and Lady Maccon took to the forecastle to squint into the haze and see what was causing the ruckus. The trees below them fell away in favour of a massive city, indistinct at this height from the colour of the desert but clearly a city by its angularity. The Nile was also fully exposed for the first time, where she ran along one side.