croquet green, and Rue took to her bed, feeling rather the worse for a confusing night.
Rue awoke â it felt like five minutes after falling asleep, although the sun was high enough for it to have been five hours â to the dulcet sounds of Percy yelling.
Even as pipped as heâd been yesterday, and he was quite pipped, Percy rarely yelled. But somehow Rue knew it was him. She recognised the other voice, too. Both were loud enough to waft down to Rueâs cabin from the poop deck directly overhead. The second voice was cooler, more calculating, lilting in a slightly French manner, as it tended to when overcome with emotion. He always lost some of his cloak of proper Britishness, did Quesnel, in times of stress.
I guess heâs back, then.
Rue stared up at the ceiling and tried to decide how she felt about this.
Itâs nice that heâs safe but Iâm still irritated with him. And so is Percy, which is not so different from normal.
She attempted to think of the right greeting for her erstwhile lover. It should be an irreverent quip, something casual and unruffled; she wouldnât want to look like she cared.
The crest of rising and falling tones above her suggested that the argument was likely to continue. It was, she realised, also occurring in public, in front of the decklings and the repair crew.
If we are really lucky, we will also have an audience of respectable croquet players witnessing my navigator and chief engineerâs verbal fisticuffs.
Rue bopped out of bed and â knowing it was shameful â spent an inordinate amount of time on her toilette. She even laced on a corset as tight as she was able without a maid, over a silk combination
and
petticoats, merely because of how small it made her waist look. Quesnelâs presence provoked her into looking her best, anticipating the revenge of showing him a modicum of what he could
no longer
have.
Not until he adequately explained himself at least.
Rueâs best day dress was white with black dots and black lace trim. It was a simple cut with decidedly old-fashioned sleeves, tight from shoulder to wrist, and a low square neckline over a muslin tuck. The muslin was filmy enough to show hints of her generous cleavage, which was about as much as one could show for daytime without being labelled a strumpet. Rue wasnât above using her assets for nefarious purposes.
She elected not to turn up her hair. It was one of her best features â thick and wavy like her motherâs but with a few reddish honey tones in the full sun. She felt justified in leaving it down having been recently awoken from repose. This being her airship, and her home, she was in her right to appear in a relaxed state. Although, loose hair was pushing matters.
She might have taken a little too long. For when she paused at the top of the stairs to pinch some colour into her cheeks, the voices on deck had fallen silent.
She pushed open the hatch and climbed out, to find Percy with a tremendous frown on his face slumped over the helm consulting a greaser about repairs.
Quesnel was striding down the gangplank. Quesnel striding made for a lovely sight, but it was hardly fair of him to leave when she had put so much effort into looking good enough for him to regret having left before! It would not do to holler at him; that would ruin the dignity of her position. So Rue clattered down the gangplank after him. She moved as fast as her tightly laced stays would allow, instantly regretting having worn them.
She grabbed his arm just as he jumped to the ground.
Quesnel whirled to face her, hand up as if to strike, and she wondered if he thought her Percy. Had the animosity between them became so bad he would hit the man? Percy was a frightful bother, nobody denied that, but to strike another gentleman invited social retribution. Or was Quesnel on edge because he knew criminals were after his new kit in the boiler room?
Quesnelâs violet eyes widened; then
Rue awoke â it felt like five minutes after falling asleep, although the sun was high enough for it to have been five hours â to the dulcet sounds of Percy yelling.
Even as pipped as heâd been yesterday, and he was quite pipped, Percy rarely yelled. But somehow Rue knew it was him. She recognised the other voice, too. Both were loud enough to waft down to Rueâs cabin from the poop deck directly overhead. The second voice was cooler, more calculating, lilting in a slightly French manner, as it tended to when overcome with emotion. He always lost some of his cloak of proper Britishness, did Quesnel, in times of stress.
I guess heâs back, then.
Rue stared up at the ceiling and tried to decide how she felt about this.
Itâs nice that heâs safe but Iâm still irritated with him. And so is Percy, which is not so different from normal.
She attempted to think of the right greeting for her erstwhile lover. It should be an irreverent quip, something casual and unruffled; she wouldnât want to look like she cared.
The crest of rising and falling tones above her suggested that the argument was likely to continue. It was, she realised, also occurring in public, in front of the decklings and the repair crew.
If we are really lucky, we will also have an audience of respectable croquet players witnessing my navigator and chief engineerâs verbal fisticuffs.
Rue bopped out of bed and â knowing it was shameful â spent an inordinate amount of time on her toilette. She even laced on a corset as tight as she was able without a maid, over a silk combination
and
petticoats, merely because of how small it made her waist look. Quesnelâs presence provoked her into looking her best, anticipating the revenge of showing him a modicum of what he could
no longer
have.
Not until he adequately explained himself at least.
Rueâs best day dress was white with black dots and black lace trim. It was a simple cut with decidedly old-fashioned sleeves, tight from shoulder to wrist, and a low square neckline over a muslin tuck. The muslin was filmy enough to show hints of her generous cleavage, which was about as much as one could show for daytime without being labelled a strumpet. Rue wasnât above using her assets for nefarious purposes.
She elected not to turn up her hair. It was one of her best features â thick and wavy like her motherâs but with a few reddish honey tones in the full sun. She felt justified in leaving it down having been recently awoken from repose. This being her airship, and her home, she was in her right to appear in a relaxed state. Although, loose hair was pushing matters.
She might have taken a little too long. For when she paused at the top of the stairs to pinch some colour into her cheeks, the voices on deck had fallen silent.
She pushed open the hatch and climbed out, to find Percy with a tremendous frown on his face slumped over the helm consulting a greaser about repairs.
Quesnel was striding down the gangplank. Quesnel striding made for a lovely sight, but it was hardly fair of him to leave when she had put so much effort into looking good enough for him to regret having left before! It would not do to holler at him; that would ruin the dignity of her position. So Rue clattered down the gangplank after him. She moved as fast as her tightly laced stays would allow, instantly regretting having worn them.
She grabbed his arm just as he jumped to the ground.
Quesnel whirled to face her, hand up as if to strike, and she wondered if he thought her Percy. Had the animosity between them became so bad he would hit the man? Percy was a frightful bother, nobody denied that, but to strike another gentleman invited social retribution. Or was Quesnel on edge because he knew criminals were after his new kit in the boiler room?
Quesnelâs violet eyes widened; then
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