“That will depend on you, Lady Captain.” Quesnel’s tone became formal.

“There could be a more convenient time.”

“On The Spotted Custard it’s rarely convenient. I will go down and resume my duties, if you would only talk with them? They’ve come a long way to meet you.”

“Me? Oh dear. Is this a metanatural thing?”

Quesnel tilted his head, giving nothing away.

“If you insist. Come and see me later, once we’re in float? Official business. There’s something we need to discuss. I’m afraid my mother has spilled the beans.” Rue could hardly believe this man had concealed so much from her. Who is going to die? she wanted to ask. Why didn’t you just tell me about the true purpose of the tank? Why don’t you trust me?

“Ominous.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“I’ll just make introductions and be off.”

Quesnel helped the old man and the younger woman down from the net.

“Lady Akeldama, please allow me to introduce Grandfather Panettone and Miss Panettone. Grandfather, Miss Panettone, this is my captain and friend, Lady Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama.”

Quesnel bowed and then left.

Rue, conscious of her duties as hostess, led her strange visitors over to Prim’s shaded sitting area.

“Mr Panettone, Miss Panettone? Do sit. Tea? I’m afraid we stock the English variety.”

The old man nodded, looking as if he would like to smile in pleasure at the idea. But he did not have the kind of face that smiled well.

Rue hailed a footman and sent him for tea, hoping Cook wouldn’t be too mad at the disruption to float off preparations. Apparently not, for the footman reappeared promptly with a fresh pot and a few biscuits.

Miss Panettone was a lively little thing, thin but with a round cheerful face darkened by the sun. She did not wear the full veil as Rue had seen on most women in Cairo and her hair was pulled out to frame her face. Her features were pleasingly symmetrical, with serious liquid black eyes and thick lashes. She wore black robes, fitted at the top, with a velvet belt around her hips from which hung colourful tassels. Her robe’s skirt and sleeves were richly embellished with gold embroidery. Over the top she wore a dark blue velvet vest with yellow embroidery which reminded Rue of a Spanish bull dancer. The embroidery was a repeated motif of a stylised balloon.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Prudence.” Miss Panettone had a strong accent. Her voice was oddly familiar. As were her eyes.

“We have met before.” Rue poured tea, frowning. It was not a question.

“I did not think you would remember.”

“You wore a fuller veil and you called me Puggle. Anitra, I think it was.”

She dimpled. “He trained you well.”

Rue thought of Dama drilling her on names and faces and how to remember them. She’d thought at the time it was merely for society gatherings. “Do you have another message for me?”

Anitra’s smile widened. “Not this time.”

“And this is your grandfather?” Rue wondered if the young lady’s elderly relation knew she was a spy for a British vampire rove.

Anitra inclined her head. Unlike other Egyptian women, she wore no jewellery except tiny glass jars dangling from her ears.

Rue turned to the gentleman. He was very old, perhaps in his nineties. It was hard to tell with a face so wrinkled and leathery from sun and wind. His features were undistinguished, as if they were trying hard to be forgotten. His eyes may have been blue. His expression was mild, almost self-effacing, as if he were accustomed to being overlooked.

Rue inclined her head. “Panettone is not a Drifter name.”

“Indeed it is not. It’s Italian.” His voice was clipped and perfect. He spoke English as if born to it. “And Anitra is not my real granddaughter. In the desert skies, grandfather is a term of respect.” Was he British or Italian or something else? It was difficult to tell under all those wrinkles – robes and skin.

Rue sat back, sipping her tea. “I’m afraid my ship must depart soon. What can I do for two friends of Mr Lefoux’s? And, perhaps, my father’s?”

Anitra dimpled again. “Goldenrod has not called upon my services recently. Although my family will always respect him.”

Her grandfather added, “And Mr Lefoux was merely a means of introduction. I once travelled with his mother.”

“So, why do you visit The Spotted Custard?”

The old man tilted his head, as if lost in thought or in imminent danger of falling asleep.

The young ladies waited.

Finally, Anitra put a hand to his arm. “Grandfather?”

“You are not as much like your mother as I thought you might be.”

“I shall take that as a compliment. You knew my mother?”

“Quite well.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know she has taken up permanent residence here in Cairo. Perhaps it is her you wish to call upon, not me?” Rue did not want to be rude, but she had a ship to see to.

“I think not.” Mr Panettone’s voice held no emotion.

Rue struggled to fill the awkward silence. “I will miss her, despite our differences. More than I realise, I suspect.” She was babbling. Something about these two made her nervous.

“She is easy to miss.” The old man’s voice still held nothing but calm, almost servile, support. Was this some old family retainer? Living among the Drifters of Egypt? Preposterous.