Quesnel, slightly smudged but presentable, chatted amiably with Primrose. He wore a day suit of steel grey with a green waistcoat, which perfectly corresponded to both his occupation and standing. He refused, it must be admitted, to wear his top hat while in engineering, although he had religiously donned it whenever above deck.

Even with Percy and Quesnel at odds, the teatime conversation was civil. Prim was adept at inane chatter and applied it with such dexterity that even her brother had to bow to her consummate skill. With Rue gamely holding up her end of the gossip, the gentlemen didn’t stand a chance.

Until the probe squirted.

Virgil, who was manning the helm in his master’s stead, gave a squawk of surprise not unlike that of the pigeons earlier. The sticky stuff plopped onto his shoe. Having been told to alert Percy should anything out of the ordinary occur, the valet sent up a wail of distress. Everyone but Prim jumped up, scattering crumpets, and dashed to the poop deck to ascertain the nature of the catastrophe.

“What? What is it?” Rue demanded.

Virgil pointed an accusatory finger at the probe and then his shoe. “That thing excreted at me.”

Percy paled beneath his freckles. “Already? But it’s far too soon. We shouldn’t be hitting the Mediterranean Shifter for another fifteen minutes.”

Quesnel said, “Your calculations must be off.”

“My calculations are never off!”

Quesnel was already running for the stairs, removing his hat at the same time. “Well, explain that to me later, O wise one – right now we’ve a hop to make with limited preparation and less time. Lord save us all.”

Rue tried to look debonair and calm. She thought about Uncle Rabiffano, and allowed herself the hint of a dandy’s slouch. She thought that she might – at least – be fooling the decklings.

Percy continued protesting at Quesnel’s vanished form. “The current must have moved from its last charted location – there’s no way I could have predicted––”

Rue interrupted him. “Never mind that now, Percy. Virgil, stop squealing and use a handkerchief to clean your shoe. There’s a good lad. Percy, grab the helm and prepare for a hop.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not prepared.”

Rue gave a rather ferocious grin. “No time – we’re making this hop now. It’ll be a good test of the Custard’s mettle.”

Percy stared at her. She did look a mite crazed.

“Now, Percival!”

Percy sprang into action. He yanked at levers and cranked dials, getting the ship out of flotsam status.

Rue ordered the mainsail pulled in. It took the decklings longer than she liked. She’d have to run some drills on them to improve speed.

“Propeller at the ready?” she barked.

Percy grabbed and cranked over the appropriate bar. “Ready, captain.”

The Spotted Custard farted.