Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(64)

“Ah, but you, my child, can’t steal immortality inside the God-Breaker Plague. It should make me feel better knowing you had a good weapon. When you leave Egypt and can be metanatural again, I thought Miss Primrose here might be interested in the accessory.”

Primrose was shocked at being included in a family concern. “Oh, I shouldn’t want to take on a family heirloom.”

Lady Maccon snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, girl, I’m not sentimental. I’ve had half a dozen or so of the bally things.”

Primrose whispered into Rue’s ear in an excess of shock, “Your mother is gifting us with a second-hand parasol?”

Rue hid a smile. Her mother was, at her best, overbearing. She was also not one to be challenged on points of generosity. Best to accept her dubious gift and have done with it.

“You’ve ordered a replacement from Madame Lefoux already, then?”

Lady Maccon grinned at her daughter. “Naturally. With new features designed specifically for a desert climate. I’m looking forward to the modifications about as much as Genevieve is looking forward to designing them. She does love a challenge.” Her mother’s words were coloured with that peculiar affection reserved exclusively for Quesnel’s mother. “And there will be a nice new one for you, Miss Tunstell, eventually – full of useful and ladylike necessities, like perfume, and handkerchiefs, and piccolos, and very small truncheons, and what have you. You’ll want to consider the practical applications to your own daily activities. I find it is always best to go custom in these matters.”

Primrose looked startled. “Thank you kindly but I’ve plenty of perfectly lovely parasols.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” Lady Maccon was not making a lick of sense.

“Well, then, I cannot wait to return to London to oversee its creation.” Prim’s expression spoke volumes. She was hoping to intercede with Madame Lefoux in order to ensure it was fashion forward, perhaps with a removable shade so she could change the colour.

“I don’t think Genevieve would like that. She doesn’t like to be watched while she works.”

And Primrose didn’t like to be surprised with ugly accessories. There was a battle in the future. But for now, Prim was lady enough to accept her fate, ugly as it was likely to be.

“Well, thank you for my part, Mother. It will be nice to hit people with something more elegant than a mop.”

“A mop!”

“Too long to explain. Now, would you show us how this one works please?”

Lady Maccon did so. “Twist the handle just so and blades come out the tip. See? Very sharp, one silver, one mahogany. Press this button here and the dart emitter is open and activated. You’ve only four darts left, so use them wisely. Normally you get six. They’re a species of numbing poison – works well on humans, not quite so well on immortals.” She reached down to point to a dial at the base of the ferrule, before the fabric started and hidden by a top ruffle. “You have three mists – lapis lunearis in water, lapis solaris in acid, and a lemon basil tincture. The first is for werewolves and it will also discolour human skin. The second is for vampires, and it’s acid, so it will burn almost anything else. The last causes a nasty reaction in supernatural creatures but does no permanent damage. You’re out of the acid, I’m afraid. There are pockets here and here in the ruffle to stash things.”

“Mother, that’s amazing. I had no idea it was so comprehensive.” Rue took the parasol, handling it with more respect than she had ever thought to show an accessory.

Lady Maccon grinned. “It’s most useful.”

Another awkward silence fell.

Rue felt the finality of it engulf her. She cleared a throat choked with sentiment.

“Perhaps we should make our goodbyes?” Rue thought a clean break might be best. She and her mother had never been very good at this kind of thing.

Lady Maccon raised one hand. “There is something I should like to do first. It is a bit silly. Which, to be fair, is all your mother’s fault, Primrose dear. I had to invent something, you see, rather on the spot. And now it is tradition. Ridiculous, but tradition.”

Primrose was serious. “Most traditions are ridiculous, Lady Maccon. Look at Eton.”

“Point taken. If you ladies would please stand?”

Mystified, Rue and Prim stood, skirts rustling.

“And open your parasols?”

When Mother got this way, it was best to play along. Rue opened her second-hand parasol, surprised at how heavy it was – full of deadly fluids and armaments.

Primrose objected. “Lady Maccon, we are indoors!”

“This will only take a moment.”

Prim popped open her own lavender confection, edged in black chiffon ruffles and black velvet bows to match her dress.

Lady Maccon looked like she would blush if her complexion allowed it. “Please spin your parasols three times and repeat after me: I shield in the name of fashion, I accessorize for one and all, pursuit of truth is my passion, this I vow by the great parasol.”

Wide-eyed with suppressed amusement, Rue and Prim did as requested, reciting the strange pledge in unison.

“Here I was worried about Paw going balmy. Now I think it might be you, Mother.”

“Hush, infant. Now, raise your parasols to the ceiling.”