“Tea, Puggle?” He came around to pour her a cup. It was a rhetorical question. As far as Rue was concerned, the answer to the great question of life, “Tea?” was always “Yes.” And Dama was perfectly well aware of this character trait.

Rue sipped the tea gratefully, mustering her courage and attempting to frame her worries about the pack in a manner that would offend her mother least. Meanwhile, she withstood Lady Maccon’s opening tactics: a series of sharp, fast questions on her visit with Queen Victoria. If Mother has the wherewithal to be concerned about that, then there can’t possibly be anything seriously wrong with Paw. Can there?

“Oh, Mother, you should be perfectly pleased with everything. Queen Victoria was utterly beastly, took me to task for all the things both you and Dama already reprimanded me for. Said something about rescinding my legal protections and rights.”

Mother and Dama exchanged a look.

“Majority?” queried her mother. “The government and the vampires?”

“Just so.” Dama did not look as surprised.

Rue only just stopped herself from foot stamping. “I hate it when you two do that!”

Lady Maccon ignored her daughter and added, to the vampire, “We have to assume we’ve done enough training. It’s more than I had.”

“Mmmm,” was all the vampire said, and then to Rue, “Go on, precious dove, what else?”

Rue glared at them but said, since they would find out at the Shadow Council meeting later that week anyway, “She also took away my sundowner status, which I call most unfair. I never even got to kill anybody, not really.”

“Sometimes you remind me so much of your father.” Lady Maccon sniffed. “Violent leanings. Can’t have been my doing.” She chose to ignore the fact that she had, in her younger days, a well-deserved reputation for biffing people with her parasol.

Rue chose to ignore this in turn, jumping on the opening her mother had inadvertently given her. “Speaking of Paw, where is he this evening?”

Lady Maccon was taken aback. Rue generally showed little interest in the nightly duties of her parents. All three of them were heavily involved in secret government work, so they preferred it this way.

“With BUR, I suppose. I didn’t ask. Why do you want to know?”

“He’s not with BUR, or I would have seen him.”

“Oh? Was BUR called in to your meeting with the queen?” Lady Maccon’s voice went dangerous.

“No. I was no threat. Do give me some credit. They were called to deal with the pack. There was an incident at Claret’s. You haven’t heard?”

Lady Maccon looked very tired. “What did they do now?”

Lord Akeldama removed his monocle and began to clean it carefully with a silk handkerchief. This was, Rue knew from experience, him trying to hide how interested he was in the conversation.

Fascinating that neither of them had yet heard of the werewolves attacking the drones. Lord Akeldama, at least, had a fast network of informants. Rue had come directly home, but still, she wasn’t accustomed to being the only one who knew what was really going on… except with her own private business.

She took a moment to relish the sensation but then realised that Mother and Dama should know. It was their business to know what went on in London, especially with the supernatural. She became worried, which made her less diplomatic than she ought to be. “They were sloshed. In public. The entire pack. And they were shoving drones. It was most decidedly not on!”

Lady Maccon’s face fell, her large dark eyes troubled. Rue had her father’s eyes, a weird yellow colour, and she’d always envied her mother for the soulfulness her brown eyes could impart. Now, however, Mother looked as if she might cry. It was more sobering than anything else that had happened that evening. Rue instantly regretted her harshness.

Dama gave Rue a reproving look. He bent over Lady Maccon, taking her bare hand in one of his. The action turned him human, as Mother’s preternatural power stole away his soul. It wasn’t like Rue’s abilities: Lady Maccon did not turn into a vampire herself. She simply made Dama mortal while he touched her. It was a mark of concern that he would take the risk; Dama was usually so careful about such things.

Mortal, Dama was less ethereal – less like some woodland sprite and more like a warn attic-bound artist with a taste for laudanum. There were lines on his face and smudges under his eyes. His hair was dulled to an ashy tone, and his movements became weighted.

“Don’t worry, Alexia, my dearest posy. We shall get you both moving soon. You’re right. It’s past time. We must merely find the right chivvy.”

Lady Maccon stood and reached for her trusty parasol. “I should go and find him. He’ll need my touch. Would you—?” She hesitated, unsure.

Another frisson of fear spun up Rue’s spine. Paw is ill; there’s no other explanation.

Lady Maccon closed her eyes and took a short breath. “Would you consider talking to Rabiffano? He might listen to you. Quite frankly, I’ve run out of options.”

Dama let go of her hand. His features and manners snapped back into smooth immortality. “I don’t know that it should come from me.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked. I apologise. I shall send an aetherogram to India. Perhaps it’s not too late.”

Dama smiled without showing fang, a sympathetic smile. “Now there, my dear dandelion, I can help you. I have already alerted them to the situation.”