They floated up smoothly, if rather more round and cheerful than elegant. Once clear of the trees, the propeller whirled to life, driving them forwards, preparing to push them into the correct current once they broke into the aetherosphere. Then, quite unexpectedly, the chimney off the stern belched out two great burps of smoke along with a tremendous flatulent noise.

Rue could feel herself blushing, for this was not the dignified float-off she had imagined. Some pigeons, all unnoticed until that moment, squawked and left their roosting spots on The Spotted Custard. Rue gave them a dirty look.

Percy let out a bark of laughter.

“Is that normal?” Prim wondered.

“It’s fine, only somewhat lacking in gravitas,” Rue assured her hopefully. She looked up. “And you’re never going to let Quesnel forget it, are you, Percy?”

“Certainly not.” The redhead grinned at her.

“It is going to do that every time we lift off?” wondered Prim.

“Very probably. Design flaw, I’m afraid,” said Percy, grinning even more broadly.

“Ah well, these things will happen.” Rue looked over the railing. The trees of Regent’s Park began to blur together, then the buildings around it became visible, then they too lost detail, and finally London herself was spread out below in one big dirty blob. The pigeons accompanied them up a short way. Rue shouted at them about the brief nature of their future existence and they lost interest, gliding lazily back down in search of statuary.

Thus unchaperoned, The Spotted Custard farted again and floated sedately upward.

Rue did not see, hidden under the trees on one side of the clearing, a tall couple. The woman wore no gloves and held the man’s massive hand in one of hers – fingers interlaced, skin touching skin. Lord Maccon had once been a strong enough werewolf to stand under direct sun, but he was getting weaker, and his wife’s touch was now vital during daylight.

He still looked as big and as strong as he had when Rue was a child, but he slept each night touching Lady Maccon, mortal, shaved each morning, and had aged ten years to Rue’s twenty as a result. His dark brown hair was salted with grey but it was worth it. His wife’s touch was the only medicine that staved off the Alpha’s curse of age-born madness. As far as Conall Maccon was concerned, ageing slowly was a worthwhile price to pay.

Alexia leaned her dark head on her husband’s shoulder and said, “Good enough now, my love? She’s safely away and on her own.”

“Indeed,” Conall grudgingly agreed, nestling his chin into his wife’s curls. Alexia had forgotten to wear her hat. “But safe?” He whispered the query into that glossy hair, still as thick and dark as when they had first met. He’d sat one evening upon a hedgehog and never forgotten – the hair, the magnificent figure, or the hedgehog.