Miss Sekhmet looked down her nose at them both in a regal manner. “It is an honour to be one with the Daughters of Sekhmet, to have the option of becoming a cat. Who would not want such a thing?”

Primrose answered, without pause, “Me! Why is it immortals always think everyone else wants to be immortal?”

Rue hadn’t given the matter much thought, as by her very nature she would never have the option.

“Lady Primrose, you’re an odd duck.” The werecat’s tone was condescending.

“Not that odd!” Rue leapt to her friend’s defence. “Countess Nadasdy had Mabel Dair, the famous actress, in her stable for years. She never asked for the bite. And there’s Quesnel’s mother, indentured to a hive and never considered metamorphosis even though there’s a good chance she has extra soul. She’s awfully creative.”

“And Quesnel, too, I’d say.” Primrose looked at the werecat with sudden intensity. “Would you have bitten him, if the bullet necessitated it?” Her dark eyes were fixed on the werelioness.

Tasherit dipped her head, embarrassed. “Don’t be silly. I’ve no breeding bite. I’m female.”

That surprised the two girls.

Rue narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean? Female vampires are always makers. Female werewolves are always Alphas. It’s much harder to survive a bite if you’re a woman, but you’re awfully powerful once you do. We assumed, you being female and immortal, that it was the same.” She looked to Prim for corroboration. Her friend nodded vigorously.

Tasherit gave them the kind of head wiggle that implied they were both insane. “Lioness, remember? Can go up high. Not as badly affected by aether. My kind is as different from werewolves in this as in other things. Prides are usually made up of one male lion and several lionesses, whether in natural or supernatural form.”

Rue and Primrose exchanged startled looks.

“You mean werecats are mostly female immortals?” Primrose was gobsmacked.

“And only one male maker?” Rue was slowly puzzling it out. “Like the opposite of a hive?”

The werecat inclined her head. “Exactly. Although, we, too, have a queen.”

“So male werecats are harder to metamorphose? And they need to be protected by the others because without him the pride would die out?”

“Yes, poor things. Of course, we need werelions to continue to exist, but the lads are useless without us.”

Primrose frowned. “How many of you are left? This pride we are going to find?”

Miss Sekhmet shrugged. “In my pride? A dozen or so last I checked. It’s been a while. We aren’t on good terms. If this weren’t a serious matter of exposure, I would leave them be.”

“And how many males?”

“Just the one, Mios. Hopeless buffoon, but sweet. The ladies like him. Not really to my taste.”

Rue and Prim both struggled to button down their surprise. They’d never heard of such a thing. The Vanaras, surprising though it was to find a whole herd of shape-shifters that were basically large monkeys, had otherwise fit the general mould of werewolves. They were all male with an Alpha male leader. The idea that a pride of werecats might be mostly female was mind-altering.

An awkward silence descended.

“It sounds lovely,” said Primrose finally.

Rue, who’d been raised by large numbers of males on both sides of the family, couldn’t even conceive of the idea. She supposed, in general, things would smell better.

They continued south, leaving the desert behind at last. The White Nile became the Sudd, a vast marshland bloated with splotches of floating papyrus islands.

The Drifter escort waved red hankies in discomfort. They were nomadic but never left the desert to float over such an alien landscape. Rue reminded them that they had a bargain, so they stayed, bobbing nervously.

“We will have stories to tell our grandchildren.” Anitra was riveted by the swamp, eyes wide in awe. “To see so much green in one lifetime.”

Eventually, the Sudd narrowed into a proper river again and on the morning of the eighth day, they floated over the small trading post of Gondokoro. Rue consulted Aggie, who was moderately civil, and said they were fine on fuel, having little used the propeller. Rue instructed Percy to press on.

The Blue Mountains appeared to their left, aptly named. The Nile below them pushed through dense jungle. The next day they passed over Lake Albert, after which the Nile turned white and perilous, full of waterfalls and rapids. Then, a full ten days on from their unpleasant stop at Khartoom, low on food rations and almost out of boiler water, they limped over Lake Victoria.

Lake Victoria was quite the sight from high up, the horizon an arc instead of a line. It sprawled southwards as far as they could see. It was dotted with islands, the vegetation around the edge varied and lush; here and there floated large bright green blobs of more papyrus.

Even Percy left the helm to stare out over the dark water with its verdant banks.

“As big as Ireland, they say.” He looked pensive. Since his guilt-ridden confession to Rue, he’d sunk ever more into himself. It must have taken quite an effort to become even more glum. He had found a pamphlet on the proper treatment of bullet wounds, which helped insofar as it supported their initial medical decisions, but otherwise Percy never again spoke of Quesnel’s injury. He had visited the sickroom and each time emerged looking thoughtful. Rue wasn’t certain if that was a good or a bad thing.

If Percy is too much for me to have puzzled out in the space of twenty years, that’s not going to change anytime soon.