Quesnel and her mother ensured Paw’s comfort. Apparently, he was still alive, or as alive as a werewolf got when in a preservation tank.

“This floor is filthy,” said Rue to no one in particular.

The one sootie on duty heard her. The girl tended to her obligations with forced diligence, throwing glances at the corner of the room where naked aristocrats were doing suspicious things with tanks. Rue couldn’t blame her for her curiosity.

“Sorry, Lady Captain, it’s the boilers, see – full of soot.”

The sootie’s response drew Rue out of her funk. What am I doing huddling here? I’m a fully grown, perfectly respectable young lady. So I’ve lost my pack and my parents are moving away, but I’ve the family I’ve built aboard this ship. Primrose won’t abandon me. Primrose would never abandon me. Buck up!

She took a breath and straightened. “Tasherit, would you be so kind as to fetch me a robe?”

The lioness considered this request and then, likely because she knew Rue couldn’t do anything interesting if she had to stay huddled, and because the tank situation was proving dull, she trotted away.

She was soon back, clutching a robe in her mouth. It was one of hers, a voluminous silky thing that was too long for Rue but preserved her dignity.

Rue was standing with it on by the time Quesnel finished with his tank. She felt wan and worn but Quesnel looked at her as if she were the pudding course and he hadn’t had any supper. Her hair was down and wildly tangled, and the silk of the robe was thin enough so that if she were not in the boiler room, she’d be cold.

Lady Maccon pinched him. “Stop looking at my daughter like that.”

Quesnel rubbed him arm. “But…”

“Just because I disagree with my husband’s mollycoddling doesn’t mean I’m permissive.”

Rue wondered if Tasherit might let her keep the robe. “Mother, do you still need me?”

Lady Maccon blinked, remembering Rue’s purpose there. “No, dear, no. Clearly the tank works on tethers.”

Rue turned to leave. She needed to see Dama. She needed to know he remained unchanged. The sunrise was not far off. She could ill afford to waste time, for she must dress properly for Dama.

A rustle of skirts heralded her mother’s running to catch up. “Infant, do you require” – she paused as though unsure of the right word – “comfort?”

It was sweet of her to try.

Quesnel followed, his expression concerned.

“Now, Mother, you know you’re horrid at that.”

Lady Maccon was not offended by truth. Rue rather admired her for that.

“No, you’re quite right. You’ll be visiting your other father?”

Rue nodded. “Soon, before I lose the night.”

Lady Maccon nibbled her lip and then, in a decisive move, folded Rue into a warm motherly embrace. It was a good hug because Mother was lovely and squishy, even corseted. Rue let herself enjoy it, even knowing that her poor old mother couldn’t begin to understand why Rue was upset. Lady Maccon was thinking that everything was perfectly fine. Everyone was alive and mostly uninjured. Her plan to emigrate to Egypt was commencing. The pack had transitioned as smoothly as one could hope.

That was how Lady Maccon thought the world worked. She bent it to her will regardless of consequences. That was how Rue had come into existence. It was her mother’s nature to be soulless. She couldn’t be faulted for it.

Rue extracted herself from the hug. “Thank you, Mother. But I think…”

Lady Maccon waved her off. “Carry on. Your young man and I are going to engage in some nice civilised discourse.”

“We are?” Quesnel was positively horrified by this statement.

“Perhaps I should stay, then,” said Rue. “And he’s not my young man.”

Lady Maccon only waved at her again. “Oh, I think he might be. Go on, dear, you aren’t necessary.”

Rue, remembering how Quesnel and Percy and their ridiculous feud had started the whole messy brawl earlier, felt that he deserved some extended exposure to her mother. So she left them to it.

Dama was waiting for her, bless him.

“Puggle, darling!” His embrace smelled of lemon hair tonic and sweet lavender and only a little bit of old blood. He was bony where Mother was soft, and certainly too small to envelop her, but he did his parental best. And he understood, so it worked.

“Sit, my poor dear girl.” Instead of insisting on ceremony, the vampire tugged her to the softest of his sofas, the one facing the fireplace with a little table for reading. He sat next to her, keeping her hand in his, for they both wore thick enough gloves. He was careful not to let any skin touch as he consoled her.

Rue was grateful. She didn’t want to be a vampire right now.

“Tell me everything.” His expression was all sympathy.

“Don’t you already know?”

“I know the facts, my little pea blossom, but not the rest. Has my B—?” A slight mistake there, he collected himself. “Has the pack transitioned?”

Rue nodded. “New Alpha. Uncle Rabiffano, if you can believe that.”

“I am the only one who was never surprised.”

“No, you’re good like that.” Rue suspected there was something more than Dama’s normal understanding of how the world worked but she didn’t want to pry. The London Pack was no longer her business.

“He managed to do it without killing Lord Maccon?”