Rue reacted on instinct, flattening herself to the floor of the soot-covered chamber. Winkle was right there with her. He had excellent reflexes for a fop.
“What the devil?” Rue turned her head, trying to see through the smoke. All she could make out was Winkle’s dark eyes, wide in shock. His top hat tumbled off and rolled towards a pile of kindling.
There were shouts and Greaser Phinkerlington began yelling. The smoke and steam cleared slowly to reveal sooties running everywhere.
The floor of the chamber began to lean as the ship lurched to one side.
“Keep her steady, keep her up!” hollered Phinkerlington. “Puff, Spoo, Kip – man the redundancy boiler, get her stabilised fast. Wute, Ribbin, Jikes – find out what’s wrong with boiler primary. Firemen? Where are my firemen?”
The chaos resolved itself into a controlled scurry under Phinkerlington’s orders.
Rue stood, dusting herself off – glad she’d chosen to wear grey. She offered a hand to Winkle who looked a bit shaken by the experience. He stood and retrieved his hat, examining both it and the state of his knees with a distressed expression.
To take his mind of the problem of attire, Rue commented, “She’s very good at her job.”
“Unfortunately, she isn’t as good at personality,” replied the drone.
“Dama has his priorities. Personality can be improved upon – efficiency is a natural talent.”
Winkle chuckled. “Very wise indeed.”
As they watched, the activity became a well-coordinated hum, the floor levelled out and soon everything was more or less back to normal.
Aggie Phinkerlington gave Rue a look that suggested she would never forgive the young captain for having witnessed this shameful debacle.
Rue grinned hopefully at her.
The senior greaser spat out of the corner of her mouth and went back to work.
“Charming,” said Rue.
“Don’t you worry about Aggie, captain,” said a small voice. One of the young sooties, barely twelve if she was a day, stood next to her, cap in hand. “She’s a crotchety old thing, but she’s fair.”
Rue smiled softly down. “Thank you…?”
“Spoo, captain. She shortens all our names, better to shout quickly-like.”
“Thank you, Miss Spoo.”
“Just Spoo’ll do.”
“Spoo,” came the yell from Greaser Phinkerlington. “Stop your dawdling!”
Spoo popped her cap back on and scampered off.
Rue left the ship reluctantly, already planning which gadgets, tea, weapons, china, and shoes she would be packing for India. She’d have to see if Uncle Rabiffano could take the air sickness long enough to give her tips on decoration and furnishings. She emerged to find Dama sitting on the footboard of his coach, chatting amicably with his drones. He looked up as Rue came trotting over, wafting Winkle in her wake.
“Dama, she’s glorious.”
“Delighted you approve, Puggle. But what happened to your face and your lovely achromatic dress?”
“Problem with one of the boilers.”
“We thought we heard a shriek and a bang.”
“And you trusted me to sort it and didn’t send a drone to investigate? Dama, how lovely of you.”
“My dearest Puggle, my whole life with you has been a series of explosive events. Why should this be any different?”
“I shall take that as a compliment,” said Rue happily. “This one was not my fault – I feel compelled to defend my honour. And anyway, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed, said the horrible Phinkerlington creature.”
“Ah, you met Aggie, did you, Puggle my pet? Not to worry, she grows on you.”
“Like mould?”
“And like mould she can be very useful.”
“And tasty on cheese?” Rue was thinking of teatime.
“I wouldn’t go that far, my little petunia blossom.” Dama hopped lightly down and came to stand next to Rue, looking back over to the ship. “She still needs a few light touches by way of adornment.”
Rue was proprietorially offended on the ship’s behalf. “She’s perfect.”
“Now, my little Puggle-muffin, no insult intended. I merely wished to point out that her balloon needs to be oiled and painted. You’ll have to select the colour pallet. Make me proud, please, darling dewdrop? Also you need to name her.”
Rue was nothing if not decisive. “Can I have it painted red with black spots, like a great big ladybird?”
Dama let out an uncharacteristic bark of uncontrolled laughter. “I should have guessed. And the name?”
Rue considered and then, after taking into account the pale golden nature of the amazing Chinese wood and the generally warm spirit of the craft said, “The Spotted Custard.”
Dama suppressed a slight snort. “Are you certain, my brilliant child?”
Rue’s chin went up. “She’ll be spotted and custard is my favourite food.”
Dama didn’t question her further. “One of the drones will see her registered.” He reached into his emerald-green waistcoat pocket and pulled out a list. “Now, you require additional crew. I’ve already selected deckhands and three stewards, but you’ll need more domestic staff and, of course, officers. Here’s my list of recommendations.” He handed the bit of paper to her, almost nervously.
Rue would never have thought Dama capable of apprehension. Then she looked down the list. It was not very long and one name instantly jumped out at her. “Oh, bosh! Percy? Must I?”
“Now, Puggle, he’s the best man for the job of navigator in all of London. Who’s not already committed to queen, country, or contract. Do be reasonable. He’s smart and capable and used to being bossed around by a woman.”
“But he’s a pollock. And he whines. And he’s easily distracted.”
“He knows all about the history of every country in the British Empire. He can find out about almost anything else.”
Rue capitulated with a grumbled, “Prim won’t like it.”
“He speaks six languages,” weaselled her adopted father.
“And ignores instructions in all of them!”
Dama pursed his lips and then faced the lion’s wrath. “You haven’t finished the list.”