His wife made a funny sputter noise that might have been outrage or amusement or outraged amusement. “Our girl is thoroughly modern, dear. Young people have a different perspective on such things. Will you be continuing this particular croquet match?”

Rue tilted her head, humouring her. “Not at the moment. I believe Mr Lefoux needs to stew. He thinks himself far too enticing. I won’t be played with, croquet or no croquet.”

“Good girl, very wise,” approved her mother.

“Rejecting him because he kissed you back?” Lord Maccon perked up, not following but hopeful.

Rue finally sputtered to a halt. “It’s no good. This is too bad. I can’t be discussing this with you. You’re my parents. Who I go about kissing, or not kissing as the case may be, really is none of your business.”

At that, Lady Maccon became annoyed. “Of course it’s our business! You’re a proper lady, or as proper as we could turn out given the circumstances. You can’t go around kissing coquettish Frenchmen willy-nilly. It’s not done and the papers will positively float off the stands. Frankly, I’m not convinced Mr Lefoux is a top choice. I don’t keep full accounts of your generation, but isn’t he a terrible philanderer? Wasn’t there something about an opera girl a few seasons ago?”

Rue was about to point out that what she meant was that she didn’t want to discuss the specifics of the kissing, when a tremendous galumphing clatter in the hallway made further speech impossible and indicated that the pack was departing for the evening.

“Should you let them out?” Rue wondered aloud before she could stop herself.

Lady Maccon sucked in a breath.

Lord Maccon said, very deadly and quiet, “Are you questioning my authority?”

Rue dropped her gaze submissively, took a big breath, and leapt. “No, Paw. I’m questioning your control.”

She wasn’t certain what such a bald statement might do. Would he drop Mother’s hand and shift, charge at her, roaring? Would he crumble like a child into confessions and tears? But what did happen was almost worse. There was nothing but silence. Rue glanced up through her lashes.

Mother was grey under her olive skin, her eyes sad. Paw was hunched, small as he could get, which wasn’t very. Her indomitable parents, Rue realised, looked defeated.

The silence stretched.

Desperate to see something of their normal dynamic, Rue sacrificed her own pride. “Look. I like Mr Lefoux. I think he’s a prime piece, if you take my meaning. And it’s good if one of us is well versed, don’t you think? Paw, don’t answer that. Regardless, I believe he is attracted to me, although I doubt he takes me very seriously.”

“I canna be listening to this,” said Lord Maccon. And then on a roar, “What do you mean he doesn’t take you seriously?”

“Oh, Paw, be fair. I don’t take me seriously most of the time. Why should anyone else? Besides, I’m not sure I want serious – it can be such a bother.”

Lord Maccon looked exactly as if he wanted to bash heads, possibly hers and Quesnel’s.

Rue soldiered on. “Besides, I don’t think Mr Lefoux takes anything seriously except maybe inventions and boilers. He’s charming, undoubtedly, but not a lot more than charming. I was hurt when he wandered off to Egypt and abandoned me, but I’ve learned my lesson. I believe he’ll give me a good education, but keeping my heart out of it seems the best approach.”

Lord Maccon looked pained, as if he wanted to stopper over his ears, but then he roared again. “He abandoned you?”

Mother, accustomed to the roar, was briefly distracted. “Did you say Egypt?”

Rue nodded, noting the emphasis with interest. “Then he returned to London without telling me and installed this tank in my boiler room without asking, so he’s clearly not to be trusted.”

Mother arrowed in on that like a pointer on a dead partridge. “What kind of tank?”

“I don’t know! That’s the annoying part.”

Lady Maccon focused on her husband, ignoring Rue with an abrupt thoroughness that Rue had grown accustomed to over the years. “I need to talk to Genevieve.”

“Must you?” grumbled her father.

She turned back to Rue. “Go on, infant. You were saying about the boy?”

Rue shrugged. “That was it. I only want a bit of fun. I think I’ve got it sorted so I don’t get hurt. Neither of you need worry on that score.”

Paw still looked upset. But Lady Maccon took Rue at her word. Mother was like that, mostly accepting of other people’s assessments of themselves. She was eminently pragmatic, which came with being soulless. She also mistakenly assumed everyone else was equally practical. This ought to have gotton her into trouble, living with werewolves, but most of the pack accepted her at face value, too. They treated her not as another pack member as much as an anchor located well below the emotional aetheric currents upon which werewolves bobbed.

She was thoughtful. “I don’t know the boy, not well. Young scamp of a thing running around blowing up contrivance chambers at the drop of a hat when I first met him. You’d have thought the same about his mother, though, flirty and inconsequential, had you known her when we were younger. Genevieve hides inside her inventions as a protection against affection. Perhaps her son is similar? Angelique, well, she was a different matter entirely.”

“Angelique?”

“Quesnel’s blood mother.”