As a direct result, Primrose had never got over her fear of pickled grapes and she’d no practical example of what love was like. Aunt Ivy lamented her loss with no less a commitment than Queen Victoria did Albert, although Ivy returned to colour after the appropriate period of mourning. Nothing, not even the death of a beloved spouse, could make Ivy Tunstell eschew colourful hats for very long. But she refused to talk of her husband, enmeshed in the tragedy of his loss.

Rue was as sympathetic as she could be to the fact that Primrose was suckering herself for life to some minor officer because she thought that was the proper thing. This Plonks would have no idea what a prize he’d garnered and would likely squirrel Prim away with utter disregard for her organisational talents and interest in adventure. Besides which, Rue was tolerably certain that Primrose’s real affections lay elsewhere.

She prodded. “And what about Tasherit?”

Prim went still. “What about her?”

“Have you told her of your engagement?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean by ‘ah’?”

“I’m thinking she might not be overly happy about it.”

“Really, Rue, why should a werelioness care what I do with my future?”

If Primrose wanted to remain obtuse, Rue wasn’t going to force reality upon her. Rue had been raised by Lord Akeldama and thus understood deviating taste. Primrose had been raised by Ivy Tunstell and thus understood hats. She would never accept being wholly outside society’s purview.

Tasherit had a rough road ahead of her. If she decides to take it. She was a cat; she might simply settle for a less challenging sunbeam.

Rue demurred. “She holds you in high esteem is all. I should think she, like all of us, would like to meet the gentleman before you marry him.”

Prim blanched. “She would eat him alive.”

Rue pretended not to hear. “Have you told your brother?”

“Yes, silly blighter. He laughed at me and asked not to be in the wedding party.”

Rue swallowed down a smile, surprising herself. Amazing how a few minutes in Primrose’s company makes everything that much better.

By the time the young ladies resurfaced, the workers had gone and The Spotted Custard seemed as close to her original pristine state as possible. Decklings scurried about. Deckhands lumbered in their wake, issuing orders. Percy was in full navigator splendour, holding court over Footnote and Virgil.

Virgil had returned so recently from his errand that they were in time to watch him hand over the fated pamphlet. Percy bent over the manuscript, flipping through it rapidly, searching for a specific article.

“It isn’t here!” He reached the end and discarded the now-insulting document petulantly.

His valet was appropriately sympathetic.

Footnote made a little mur-rup noise of enquiry.

“My point exactly! Where is it?”

Rue and Primrose trundled up.

“Where’s what?” asked Rue.

Percy whirled. “Never you mind. It’s a surprise. Should it ever happen.”

Rue chose to be placating. “Very well, be like that. Everything ready for departure?”

Percy consulted his watch. “In about two hours and twenty-seven minutes.” He looked pleadingly at his sister. “Nosh? I’m starving. Plus it feels as if I haven’t slept in a million years. Oh wait, I haven’t.”

Primrose took pity on him. “I’ll go and rustle up a picnic, shall I? Rue?”

“Yes, please.” Rue perked up. “Hard-boiled eggs and pickled gherkins?”

“Sugarplums, if you’re taking requests,” added Percy.

“I’ll see what Cook has lying about. I don’t want to interfere with his system. You know how he gets just before a float.”

“Of course!” said Rue and Percy in unison. Better never to upset a cook.

Primrose glided away.

Footnote, who knew very well what was what, followed.

They returned shortly. Primrose was in possession of a hamper of comestibles, including a wedge of Stilton, crusty bread, and the requested boiled eggs. Footnote was licking his chops.

After luncheon, Rue reviewed their course while Percy read. The last book before they floated, Rue supposed, wondering what tome could possibly be worthy of such an honour.

She peeked at the cover. “On the Respiratory, Restorative, and Regenerative Applications of Aspic Jelly.”

Well, there you have it.

They should not have been faulted for being unprepared. After all, who would have thought a daytime attack at all likely?

It took Rue a few minutes to realise that The Spotted Custard was, once more, under siege. She had just re-emerged after an afternoon nap belowdecks via the captain’s ladder.

Primrose was supervising the delivery of a cartload of kippers, dried apricots, raspberry jam, and other vital necessities. The gangplank was down as the last of the provisions were wheeled up.

Tea was laid out near navigation. Rue was contemplating whether she could manage a scone, when she suddenly had no options at all. The tea hamper was knocked up into the air and on top of her by a man apparently intent on throttling Percy.

Percy was understandably surprised to find himself under threat of strangulation.

Rue was not surprised at all. She often wanted to throttle Percy. But then, she knew him. Fortunately, he was not as easy a mark as he appeared. Aunt Ivy was quite silly – everyone knew this – and it’s not like one became less silly because one turned into a vampire. However, she was not wilfully ignorant. She insisted both her children – yes, even the girl – be trained to protect themselves. Thus Primrose and Percival Tunstell knew the rudiments of self-defence against vampires specifically, but that translated pretty darn well to everyone else.