The sound, which was a like a gargle meets a warble, only extremely loud, turned out to be The Spotted Custard’s version of a proximity alarm. It had been activated by a deckling in the crow’s nest. The young lad swung himself down to report that the Maltese Tower beacon was dead ahead in the murk of the aetherosphere. His glassicals – the far focus set handed out to any who manned the nest – amplified his watery eyes into huge blue orbs under the gaslight of the deck lanterns.

“Very good, young sir,” was Rue’s reply. “Now back up with you please, and let us know when we reach docking drop-down juncture.”

“Aye aye, Lady Captain.” The boy gave a floppy salute before pulling himself back up via a series of rope ladders ending with one long swinging run up the side of the balloon.

“Ah, to be young and agile again,” said Primrose.

“We were never that young,” replied Rue.

“More to the point, we were never that agile,” said Prim with a soft smile.

Rue huffed her agreement and turned to Percy, who had put away his book and resumed the helm the moment the alarm sounded. At least he had a sense of responsibility. “Prepare to drop out of aetherosphere as soon as we reach docking juncture point.”

“Yes, captain,” replied Percy, face a little drawn. “I had assumed.”

Rue spared a moment to worry that this job might be too much for even his arrogance. “Percy, have you ever docked a ship of this size?”

“Not exactly,” replied Percy.

“And what exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

“I’ve read about it.”

“Oh dear. Should I call Mr Lefoux up to take over from you?”

“Absolutely not. I’ll do perfectly well.” Percy’s face went from fearful to fiercely determined.

Pleased with herself for manipulating him properly, Rue said, “I’m sure you will.”

The crow’s nest hollered down, docking juncture spotted. Rue squinted into the swirling miasmic grey, not unlike London during the Great Pea Souper of 1887. Just ahead she thought she could make out… a lamp-post.

Or what looked like a lamp-post, except that it was only the top half of one and Rue knew that it only seemed small because they were still far away. In actual fact, the beacon was very large indeed. It was birdcage in shape and lit from within by a miasmic orange gas.

Rue ordered, “Deck hands pull in the mainsail, navigator prepare to drop out of aetherosphere on my mark.” She went to the speaking tube and bonged the boiler room.

“Yes?” barked a female voice.

“Greaser Phinkerlington?”

“You were expecting an opera girl?”

“Please prepare to engage the propeller.”

“We’re always prepared for that.” In an aside Rue was probably meant to hear, Aggie added, “Imbecile.”

Rue gritted her teeth and tried to think of sticky sweet buns. “Very good. Thank you for your efficiency.”