Floote considered. “Yes, to check. Lady Primrose, you’ll be the brace. Decklings, man his legs. On my mark, slow but steady and gentle. We need to know if he is bleeding out.”

They rolled.

The entrance wound oozed out from Quesnel’s jacket.

“Cut away the cloth,” advised Floote. “Anyone have a sharp knife?”

A rustle and then Percy, of all people, appeared and passed over a gleaming blade, from the look of it, silver, kept as sharp as one could keep silver. A vampire’s son was raised to take werewolf precautions. He remained looking on, strange given his contentious relationship with Quesnel.

Floote doused the knife with the cognac and then shook his head. “My hand’s too shaky. Miss Sekhmet, if you would?”

“It’s silver!” the werecat hissed.

“You aren’t immortal at the moment.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot.” She still looked uncomfortable.

Primrose tsked and handed Tasherit the bandages. “You hold these. I’ll do it.”

Face pale but determined, Primrose took hold of the knife and began to smoothly cut away the layers of fabric around Quesnel’s wound. The decklings steadied the Frenchman, who remained blessedly, but scarily, insensate.

Primrose pulled the layers of clothing off. Anitra returned her free hand to the wound in between layers, applying pressure with the alcohol-dampened rag.

Willard came to help her, applying corresponding pressure to the exit wound on Quesnel’s front so she might have one hand free.

Once Quesnel’s back was clear of fabric, Primrose grimly doused it with more of the cognac.

Rue expected to hear Percy at any moment, objecting to the misuse of his perfectly good bottle of alcohol. But he remained quiet, face set into an odd expression that might have been concern for another human being.

Everyone huddled in, silent as they focused on their ministrations.

One small part of Rue’s brain took a moment to be worried about how many were crowded around. Who is manning our defences?

She was about to panic when she noticed that Spoo and Virgil were not in the crowd. Nor was Willard’s second, Bork. That meant Spoo was still at the Gatling, Bork was seeing to the remaining crew, and Virgil was in the navigation pit – Percy had been training him, by default, as backup navigator.

Rue wanted desperately to have her human form back. But instead she stayed with Quesnel, providing as much warmth as she could. It was all she was good for at the moment. She cursed herself for not thinking to hire a shipboard surgeon. As soon as they returned to London, she’d take out an advertisement. And for a proper bonesetter, one with real wartime experience, not one of those academically minded physicians.

Rue growled at Tasherit. She need not sit there holding bandages like a wet blanket! She should get back to captaining the ship. Rue gestured with her head, tail lashing.

Tasherit shook herself. “Yes, of course. We aren’t clear yet. We don’t know what kind of backup those ornithopters had. Stay on the offensive. You too, Rue. You’re no more good here. Blankets have arrived.”

Indeed they had. Someone smart had thought to raid Rue’s closet and brought up a ridiculous fur cape Dama insisted she pack, despite Rue’s protestations that she was “travelling to a desert country, for goodness’ sake.”

Quesnel would be plenty warm.

Reluctantly, Rue joined Tasherit in trotting about the ship, making sure decklings were in place. Occasionally, she reared up on her hind legs to glare out over the railing into the hostile night.

Everything looked under control and they’d no followers. Rue nosed Tasherit towards the poop deck and the helm.

“You want me to take over? That’s silly. Virgil’s better at it than I.”

Rue jumped down into the navigation pit. Virgil didn’t even flinch at the sudden presence of a lioness. Rue lifted the speaking tube with her teeth and hissed around it at Tasherit.

“Oh, yes, of course, tell engineering what is happening.”

Rue would have liked to give her advice on talking to Aggie. She suspected that even a werecat with hundreds of years of experience would be just as awful at it as everyone else.

So it proved to be the case. Although, even with supernatural ears, Rue could only hear one side of the conversation – tubes were like that.

“Miss Phinkerlington. Yes. Yes, he’s up here. No, I can’t send him down. He’s been shot. Yes, it is serious. No, you must stay there. We’re still in danger. I don’t know. Let me ask.” Tasherit looked up and shouted over to the medics, “Mr Floote, sir, engineering wants to know if you’d like a hot poker to cauterise the wound?” She returned to the tube. “He says no, and don’t be barbaric. Yes, well, I thought it was a good idea, too. But I’m no surgeon. Yes, we should. I imagine the captain will rectify that soon. I don’t think you should say such things about the captain!” She held the tube away from her ear briefly and closed her eyes. “That’s enough, young lady. No, you get stuffed!” Miss Sekhmet slammed down the speaking tube. “What an unpleasant creature. Surely she realises that talk of stuffing to a werelioness brings up taxidermic nightmares?”

Rue rumbled an agreeing cat noise – half purr, half meow.

“Now, how do I get my immortality back? You look healed yourself, and you speaking at this juncture would be a good thing.

“Meroooow!” agreed Rue.

Percy came over and took the helm away from Virgil.