Prudence (The Custard Protocol 1)

“Is it indeed, Snugglebutter?” huffed the husband.

“Why yes, don’t you find, ladies?”

Grave nods all around.

Rue suggested, in a mild tone, “This new treaty, we might consider naming it the Featherstonehaugh Accord.”

The brigadier and his wife looked positivity delighted. The brigadier said, “Well, I am needed in Waziristan. If we could finish up here relatively quickly, I might just forget to file a report on this matter until I return from campaign.”

Sensing a favourable shift, Prim called for celebratory muffins and jam.

Muffins and jam seemed to sooth everyone’s temper, particularly the Alpha Vanara’s whose delight in the jam was that of a child discovering blancmange for the first time. Rue could sympathise. She often felt that way about really good jam, not to mention blancmange. And this was, after all, gooseberry.

The sun was soon to rise, at which point the werewolves would lose their wolf forms and the Vanaras – including Rue – their monkey shape. All but the very strongest supernatural creatures would be driven into shade and sleep, and any chance at further discourse would have to wait until the following night. Rue was prepared to land her ship and invite all on board, offering up sleeping quarters if she had to.

Muffins consumed, jam admired, and bellies full, Primrose said in her most motherly tone, “Well, dears, bedtime?”

Rue rose. “Perhaps, gentlemen, if we all slept on it? Percy, I believe it is time to take us to ground. Then, Spoo, I think it is safe to lower the gangplank. We have guests to accommodate.”

The brigadier and the Vanara Alpha were looking almost relaxed. The brigadier could even be called jolly.

Rue thought of Lady Kingair and her Scottish pack. “Do we have any shortbread?” she hissed under her breath.

“Good notion,” said Primrose, crooking her finger at a harried-looking steward. “All the shortbread stores, please.”

The Spotted Custard went down as low as possible to hover above the moss of the clearing. The floatillah sailed off about other business. The brigadier’s signal must have included a set of instructions. The decklings lowered the gangplank and Professor Lyall and Lady Kingair trotted up it. Then, when Rue issued a formal invitation, all the werewolves and all the Vanaras followed. Virgil ran off to find robes. Prim hustled the wolves belowdecks to change shape in seclusion. The Vanaras were enthralled by the ship, and Rue wondered if they had ever been on board a dirigible before. It moved her to a certain affection regardless. After all, a lady likes to have her ship admired.

She had thought that Miss Sekhmet would reappear at that juncture. But perhaps she didn’t want to remind either party of her presence and felt that Rue was well able to settle the treaty situation. Rue was honoured by such trust. Always assuming, of course, that peace had been the werecat’s objective all along. Hard to tell objectives and reasons with a cat.

A short time later found the ship’s stores of shortbread greatly strained, and the cook in near hysterics at having to feed not only a pack of werewolves but also a troop of weremonkeys. A generally gregarious quarter of an hour ensued – except for the cook – while everyone sorted themselves out, slurped tea, and nibbled.

The werewolves, now back to human shape, borrowed whatever dressing-gowns were available, including a few of Prim’s more frilly styles. They carried these off with the aplomb of very large Scotsmen, who, on a regular basis wore skirts anyway. It must be said, however, that large hairy men ill-suited pink ruffles. It was like seeing a mastiff in an ostrich feather boa.

Nothing was left of the muffins but crumbs, and the gooseberry jam jar had actually been licked clean by a Vanara warrior, for which Primrose rapped his knuckles in rebuke. However, it did look as if hostilities had abated.

Rue offered their best spare room to the brigadier and his wife, who accepted with alacrity and made for it with indecent haste.

“We have, after all, been separated for several days,” whispered Mrs Featherstonehaugh so only Rue could hear.

If she had eyebrows, Rue would have raised them high. Given the age and aesthetic differences between the two, not to mention Mrs Featherstonehaugh’s clandestine activities, Rue had thought there was little real affection between the couple – apparently not.

Mrs Featherstonehaugh giggled – actually giggled – as her big bear of a husband helped her down the staircase, following Prim to guest quarters.

After some further jocular exchanges, oddly pantomimed between Vanaras and werewolves – Percy dragged to and fro to interpret – it was agreed that the following night the wolves would be taken on a tour of Tungareshwar by the monkeys. The Vanaras thought that wolf-riding might indeed be their new favourite thing ever. The werewolves requested they remove some of their gold armour for the event, as it tended to dig. Both parties agreed that dozing on board the Custard, with an infantry still unsure of their orders tramping about the forest, was probably the safest option. All twenty or so strapping immortals, which felt like a great deal more, wandered belowdecks to sleep wherever they might find a spot.

Rue requested that they try to stay out from underfoot as she did still need to run her ship. The storeroom, she suggested, was an excellent option. Although she feared greatly for the supplies.

Prim returned and they found themselves in possession of the upper decks, with the exception of all the spheres of tea. Rue, Percy, Prim, and the decklings watched the sun rise over the trees, listening to a great cacophony of birds singing it up and wondering what had happened to the army.

“I suppose the floatillah might be off to track them down and let them know,” said Rue.

“Let them know what exactly?” said Quesnel, coming up to join them. “What did I miss, mon petit chou?”

“We brokered a peace deal, I think.” Rue tried not to be so very pleased to see him. Not to mention pleased with herself.

“You – peace?”

“I know, incomprehensible, isn it.” She grinned.

Quesnel’s huge violet eyes were huger than normal, the wide-eyed look of having been up for twenty-four hours. One cheek was terribly smudged with coal dust. Rue repressed the urge to clean it with her thumb. She also suppressed the urge to push the floppy bit of blond hair back from his forehead.

“Don’t be mean,” defended Primrose staunchly. “I think you did very well, Rue, dear.”

“I had to lie by omission, but I believe the Shadow Council will agree to my terms once I have explained the cultural and historical reasons for an aberration.”