Rue tilted her black velvet hat at him. Three seasons old when there had been a blessedly brief fad for sewing small gears to hatbands. “Do I really? Excellent!”

“Prudence Maccon Akeldama!” was Prim’s opinion, rendered in a very high voice. “Is that rouge? On your lips? And your cheeks! And what on earth do you think you are wearing?” She looked as if she might faint.

Quesnel said, “I think it’s delightfully flattering.”

“It’s certainly rather tight.” Rue was trying not to breathe too deeply for fear of the seams bursting.

Percy said, “Suspiciously accurate, as these things go, if you ask me.”

Prim responded to her brother. “No one did ask. And I’m shocked you would know.”

Rue was further delighted. She twirled. She’d even left her hair down. It felt very wicked. “Is it possible I have a bad case of the spotted crumpet?”

Quesnel laughed. “The worst.”

“I think we are ready to depart then.” Rue and Quesnel turned to leave.

“This is a terrible idea,” said Prim. Not for the first time.

“I agreed that Quesnel could come along only if you stopped questioning my judgement,” responded Rue. Also not for the first time.

Before Prim could say anything more, Rue left the ship.

Quesnel followed, chuckling.

It was dark as they marched towards the werewolf barracks. It was the barracks that accounted for Rue’s attire. Only one type of woman visited a soldier’s den after hours. Rue tried to sashay in a manner she though such women might walk. This was not a role she felt comfortable in; she wasn’t familiar with the nuances. She tried for movements and expressions that would appear worldly, but from Quesnel’s ill-disguised grin she wasn’t doing very well.

Quesnel was dressed in the part of her curator. Showing less skin, sadly, although his trousers were fantastically tight. His favourite top hat was turned to the seedy side through the addition of some very loud plaid ribbon. He’d even donned a small waxed moustache.

The fortress was quiet – presumably most of the military were off looking for the missing Mrs Featherstonehaugh, or fighting dissidents, or wheeling cheese, or whatever. The werewolves, unable to work during the day, would no doubt be conducting the night-time search. Rue hoped to catch them before they left. Or more precisely, she hoped to catch her Uncle Lyall.

There was a sleepy guard posted at the side entrance. He jumped to his feet at Quesnel’s throat clearing, but didn’t seem to know quite what to do when faced with a flesh dealer and his wares.

“Good evening,” said Quesnel. “Mr Pinpod and a lady to call upon the Kingair Pack. Please inform them that we are here.”

The man stuttered, “I wasn’t told. That is – your names are not on the list. Sir and, uh, lady.”

“They most certainly are,” insisted Quesnel.