“Find that current, professor,” Rue ordered, her heart in her throat.
“Almost there, captain, a little higher,” reassured Percy, looking utterly terrified.
He pressed the puffer button again.
They rose, but the balloon began to collapse inward on the leeward side. The gondola lurched to starboard as the balloon caught one current, while the lower part of the ship caught another. The two halves were being torn apart. If they weren’t quick, the gondola could separate from the balloon entirely and they would spiral down to certain death far below.
“Not enough power,” yelled Percy.
Rue battled the tilt of the deck, reaching for the speaking tube, holding her hat to her head out of instinct. She lifted the tube to her mouth, pressing the alert.
“What now?” came Quesnel’s voice, oddly calm under the circumstances, only that extra French to his accent indicating stress.
“More heat to the boilers, please, Quesnel,” said Rue, forgetting to use formal address in her fear.
“Since you ask so nicely, mon petit chou,” was Quesnel’s pleasant reply.
Rue nodded at Percy. “Again.”
Percy gave The Spotted Custard another puff.
The ship rose up in a quick bob, hooked in and then…
Everything levelled out, the balloon returned to its chubby ladybird state, the gondola hung straight down as if it had never tilted. Everything went calm as a loon floating serenely on placid waters.
Rue set the tube down with a whoosh of breath overset by a terrible temptation to give in to wobbly knees and collapse to the deck. But as captain she had no time for such silliness. She turned to Percy. “Everything as ordered, Professor Tunstell?”
Percy blinked at her. “Erm. Yes, captain. A completely seamless hop, as I predicted.”
“Indeed, seamless.” Rue arched an eyebrow at this outrageous statement. She turned to Virgil who was lurking to one side with a group of panting decklings. They’d only just managed to lower the mainsail in time for the hop.
“Deckhands, decklings, everyone still solid? Virgil?”
“Floating pretty, Lady Captain,” said Virgil with a grin. He’d recovered his aplomb with the remarkable speed of the very young. The other decklings only seemed able to nod, awed by what had just occurred.
Rue picked the speaker tube back up.
“What now, chérie?” came Quesnel’s voice, now devoid of accent.
“How’s everything in engineering?”
“Bit of a bumpy ride but we weathered it well and good. Couple of welts and bruises, the odd small burn, nothing requiring Matron. Got us a coal spill to clean up if you could spare any hands from up top?”
It was certainly a good thing no one needed a surgeon as they didn’t have one on board. Rue pointed at the decklings. “You six, report to engineering. Back up here post haste, mind you. We’ll need that sail up again shortly. You two to the crow’s nest – I want eyes on that current. You two stay on deck at alert.”
They sprang to do her bidding. Virgil wandered over.
“Six coming down to you now, Mr Lefoux,” said Rue into the speaker.
“Ta, mon petit chou.” This time Quesnel hung up on her.
Rue replaced the tube and went to attend to her last concern.
“It’s a good thing you started out bossy before you were given command,” Primrose said from where she sat, slightly swallowed by a partly collapsed deck-chair.
“Are you well, Prim?”
“One tea-cup down. But it was empty, thank goodness, so nothing spilled. And the pot’s still warm. Would you like a refresher?”
Rue, feeling all-conquering and victorious, waved a casual hand about her head in what she felt was a field marshal manner. “Just pour it, darling, just pour it.”
When she returned to her seat, however, it was to learn that all the crumpets had overturned to land buttered-side down on the deck. “Why must that always be the case?”
“Laws of the unnatural humours,” sympathised Prim before sending Virgil to Cook for some more. “And lemon curd please this time, not raspberry jam. Lemon is so much better with crumpets, don’t you feel?”
“Indubitably,” replied Rue, sipping her tea.
They made the Maltese Tower in just under three days. Percy bragged that this was almost – although not quite – a record. “Next time we could do it in two and a half if we kicked in the propeller more frequently.”
“I’m not pushing my sooties and tapping the fuel reserves so you can have a record on the slates with the Royal Society,” replied Quesnel.
They were enjoying a nice supper in the mess hall. Or at least it could have been nice. Cook had managed macaroni soup, roast pork ribs, cabbage, and Napier pudding. Unfortunately, Percy and Quesnel’s constant squabbling could upset even Rue’s iron stomach.
Rue put down her knife and fork to glare at them. “Don’t you two ever stop?”
“Everyone needs some form of entertainment, mon petit chou,” replied Quesnel with a charming smile.
Percy returned to his book, a treatise on the health benefits of sea-bathing versus aetheric emersion. They had unsuccessfully tried to stop him from reading at table. In the end, Rue had insisted he wear a pinafore if he continued to try to eat and read, but if he had already finished his meal, she no longer objected. He seemed perfectly able to participate in the conversation, even when he was to all appearances entirely absorbed by the written word.
“Almost there, captain, a little higher,” reassured Percy, looking utterly terrified.
He pressed the puffer button again.
They rose, but the balloon began to collapse inward on the leeward side. The gondola lurched to starboard as the balloon caught one current, while the lower part of the ship caught another. The two halves were being torn apart. If they weren’t quick, the gondola could separate from the balloon entirely and they would spiral down to certain death far below.
“Not enough power,” yelled Percy.
Rue battled the tilt of the deck, reaching for the speaking tube, holding her hat to her head out of instinct. She lifted the tube to her mouth, pressing the alert.
“What now?” came Quesnel’s voice, oddly calm under the circumstances, only that extra French to his accent indicating stress.
“More heat to the boilers, please, Quesnel,” said Rue, forgetting to use formal address in her fear.
“Since you ask so nicely, mon petit chou,” was Quesnel’s pleasant reply.
Rue nodded at Percy. “Again.”
Percy gave The Spotted Custard another puff.
The ship rose up in a quick bob, hooked in and then…
Everything levelled out, the balloon returned to its chubby ladybird state, the gondola hung straight down as if it had never tilted. Everything went calm as a loon floating serenely on placid waters.
Rue set the tube down with a whoosh of breath overset by a terrible temptation to give in to wobbly knees and collapse to the deck. But as captain she had no time for such silliness. She turned to Percy. “Everything as ordered, Professor Tunstell?”
Percy blinked at her. “Erm. Yes, captain. A completely seamless hop, as I predicted.”
“Indeed, seamless.” Rue arched an eyebrow at this outrageous statement. She turned to Virgil who was lurking to one side with a group of panting decklings. They’d only just managed to lower the mainsail in time for the hop.
“Deckhands, decklings, everyone still solid? Virgil?”
“Floating pretty, Lady Captain,” said Virgil with a grin. He’d recovered his aplomb with the remarkable speed of the very young. The other decklings only seemed able to nod, awed by what had just occurred.
Rue picked the speaker tube back up.
“What now, chérie?” came Quesnel’s voice, now devoid of accent.
“How’s everything in engineering?”
“Bit of a bumpy ride but we weathered it well and good. Couple of welts and bruises, the odd small burn, nothing requiring Matron. Got us a coal spill to clean up if you could spare any hands from up top?”
It was certainly a good thing no one needed a surgeon as they didn’t have one on board. Rue pointed at the decklings. “You six, report to engineering. Back up here post haste, mind you. We’ll need that sail up again shortly. You two to the crow’s nest – I want eyes on that current. You two stay on deck at alert.”
They sprang to do her bidding. Virgil wandered over.
“Six coming down to you now, Mr Lefoux,” said Rue into the speaker.
“Ta, mon petit chou.” This time Quesnel hung up on her.
Rue replaced the tube and went to attend to her last concern.
“It’s a good thing you started out bossy before you were given command,” Primrose said from where she sat, slightly swallowed by a partly collapsed deck-chair.
“Are you well, Prim?”
“One tea-cup down. But it was empty, thank goodness, so nothing spilled. And the pot’s still warm. Would you like a refresher?”
Rue, feeling all-conquering and victorious, waved a casual hand about her head in what she felt was a field marshal manner. “Just pour it, darling, just pour it.”
When she returned to her seat, however, it was to learn that all the crumpets had overturned to land buttered-side down on the deck. “Why must that always be the case?”
“Laws of the unnatural humours,” sympathised Prim before sending Virgil to Cook for some more. “And lemon curd please this time, not raspberry jam. Lemon is so much better with crumpets, don’t you feel?”
“Indubitably,” replied Rue, sipping her tea.
They made the Maltese Tower in just under three days. Percy bragged that this was almost – although not quite – a record. “Next time we could do it in two and a half if we kicked in the propeller more frequently.”
“I’m not pushing my sooties and tapping the fuel reserves so you can have a record on the slates with the Royal Society,” replied Quesnel.
They were enjoying a nice supper in the mess hall. Or at least it could have been nice. Cook had managed macaroni soup, roast pork ribs, cabbage, and Napier pudding. Unfortunately, Percy and Quesnel’s constant squabbling could upset even Rue’s iron stomach.
Rue put down her knife and fork to glare at them. “Don’t you two ever stop?”
“Everyone needs some form of entertainment, mon petit chou,” replied Quesnel with a charming smile.
Percy returned to his book, a treatise on the health benefits of sea-bathing versus aetheric emersion. They had unsuccessfully tried to stop him from reading at table. In the end, Rue had insisted he wear a pinafore if he continued to try to eat and read, but if he had already finished his meal, she no longer objected. He seemed perfectly able to participate in the conversation, even when he was to all appearances entirely absorbed by the written word.
