“Good notion,” said Primrose, crooking her finger at a harried-looking steward. “All the shortbread stores, please.”
The Spotted Custard went down as low as possible to hover above the moss of the clearing. The floatillah sailed off about other business. The brigadier’s signal must have included a set of instructions. The decklings lowered the gangplank and Professor Lyall and Lady Kingair trotted up it. Then, when Rue issued a formal invitation, all the werewolves and all the Vanaras followed. Virgil ran off to find robes. Prim hustled the wolves belowdecks to change shape in seclusion. The Vanaras were enthralled by the ship, and Rue wondered if they had ever been on board a dirigible before. It moved her to a certain affection regardless. After all, a lady likes to have her ship admired.
She had thought that Miss Sekhmet would reappear at that juncture. But perhaps she didn’t want to remind either party of her presence and felt that Rue was well able to settle the treaty situation. Rue was honoured by such trust. Always assuming, of course, that peace had been the werecat’s objective all along. Hard to tell objectives and reasons with a cat.
A short time later found the ship’s stores of shortbread greatly strained, and the cook in near hysterics at having to feed not only a pack of werewolves but also a troop of weremonkeys. A generally gregarious quarter of an hour ensued – except for the cook – while everyone sorted themselves out, slurped tea, and nibbled.
The werewolves, now back to human shape, borrowed whatever dressing-gowns were available, including a few of Prim’s more frilly styles. They carried these off with the aplomb of very large Scotsmen, who, on a regular basis wore skirts anyway. It must be said, however, that large hairy men ill-suited pink ruffles. It was like seeing a mastiff in an ostrich feather boa.
Nothing was left of the muffins but crumbs, and the gooseberry jam jar had actually been licked clean by a Vanara warrior, for which Primrose rapped his knuckles in rebuke. However, it did look as if hostilities had abated.
Rue offered their best spare room to the brigadier and his wife, who accepted with alacrity and made for it with indecent haste.
“We have, after all, been separated for several days,” whispered Mrs Featherstonehaugh so only Rue could hear.
If she had eyebrows, Rue would have raised them high. Given the age and aesthetic differences between the two, not to mention Mrs Featherstonehaugh’s clandestine activities, Rue had thought there was little real affection between the couple – apparently not.
Mrs Featherstonehaugh giggled – actually giggled – as her big bear of a husband helped her down the staircase, following Prim to guest quarters.
After some further jocular exchanges, oddly pantomimed between Vanaras and werewolves – Percy dragged to and fro to interpret – it was agreed that the following night the wolves would be taken on a tour of Tungareshwar by the monkeys. The Vanaras thought that wolf-riding might indeed be their new favourite thing ever. The werewolves requested they remove some of their gold armour for the event, as it tended to dig. Both parties agreed that dozing on board the Custard, with an infantry still unsure of their orders tramping about the forest, was probably the safest option. All twenty or so strapping immortals, which felt like a great deal more, wandered belowdecks to sleep wherever they might find a spot.
Rue requested that they try to stay out from underfoot as she did still need to run her ship. The storeroom, she suggested, was an excellent option. Although she feared greatly for the supplies.
Prim returned and they found themselves in possession of the upper decks, with the exception of all the spheres of tea. Rue, Percy, Prim, and the decklings watched the sun rise over the trees, listening to a great cacophony of birds singing it up and wondering what had happened to the army.
“I suppose the floatillah might be off to track them down and let them know,” said Rue.
“Let them know what exactly?” said Quesnel, coming up to join them. “What did I miss, mon petit chou?”
“We brokered a peace deal, I think.” Rue tried not to be so very pleased to see him. Not to mention pleased with herself.
“You – peace?”
“I know, incomprehensible, isn it.” She grinned.
Quesnel’s huge violet eyes were huger than normal, the wide-eyed look of having been up for twenty-four hours. One cheek was terribly smudged with coal dust. Rue repressed the urge to clean it with her thumb. She also suppressed the urge to push the floppy bit of blond hair back from his forehead.
“Don’t be mean,” defended Primrose staunchly. “I think you did very well, Rue, dear.”
“I had to lie by omission, but I believe the Shadow Council will agree to my terms once I have explained the cultural and historical reasons for an aberration.”
Quesnel frowned, still not understanding, “You negotiated a peace treaty between the Shadow Council and the Vanaras? Without asking?”
“I didn’t name them, of course, but I think it’ll work. Aside from the dewan – whose likely to be the most on my side anyway – I do have the ability to persuade the other two members.”
“One being your mother; the other your adopted father?”
“Exactly.”
“And what about Queen Victoria?” said the Frenchman, looking more shocked than proud.
Rue, who had expected praise, was put out. “What about her?”
“You aren’t related to her, are you? How will she take being ousted from the agreement? Circumventing the power of the crown to negotiate a deal between supernatural creatures and their foreign counterparts? What kind of precedent does that set?” Quesnel’s tone was almost harsh. So far Rue had seen him angry and now coldly calculating. She wanted her old irreverent flirtatious Quesnel back. These other versions of him weren’t nearly as nice.