They continued their perambulations. When they encountered a group of clearly inebriated greaser types, Quesnel insisted the ladies hold tight to their reticules to protect the contents, and their parasols to protect their personages. Quesnel himself – not of a particularly threatening stature – afforded them only the protection of having an escort with both arms occupied. One of the rougher elements made their ineffectual appearance clear by shouldering in close and issuing the trio a lewd remark.

Rue, accustomed as she was to werewolf behaviour, was less upset than she ought to be by rough talk. Certainly, Dama would have reprimanded her for not taking greater offence. But then Rue had never quite grown into as much of a lady as her vampire father had hoped.

Primrose, on the other hand, was shocked and experienced such distress at the application of the phrase “a fine mouthful of muffin, there, ho ho” to her good self as to make it necessary to ascertain the location of the nearest restorative teahouse immediately.

“It is not, certainly not, that I am unaware of the compliment,” said Prim, panting from modest heart palpitations. “But perhaps the young man might have used a more delicate turn of phrase. Mouthful of muffin, I say!”

Rue patted her on the arm. “You did very well, dear.”

“I thought it verging on poetical.” Quesnel’s violet eyes were sparkling.

“Oh indeed, you chomp of cheese pie?” shot back Rue, hoping to distract Prim.

“Yes, O slurp of sweet syrup.”

Prim attempted a giggle but it was clear she was still overset from the encounter.

Quesnel’s brow furrowed in real concern as he realised that her trauma was genuine. He paused his banter. “Perhaps, ladies, this is not an ideal environment. Should we return to the ship?”

“Certainly not!” objected Rue. “Prim and I can take a little rough talk, can’t we, Prim?”

Prim sighed. “Ask me that after we’ve found tea.”

And then there it was – a beacon of light within the mists of mixed society, a diamond in the mud, a teahouse in the rough. A quaintly old-fashioned little shoppe complete with pink and white scroll paint, flowers in the window, lace curtains, and silver bells at the door. Outside stood a number of differently sized gilt cages and a polite little sign suggesting if patrons did not deposit their animals there, said animals would also be supplied with tea. And one never knew how tea would affect a goat.

Quesnel steered them towards it and they attained the tinkling entrance with no further distress to ear or wellbeing.

“What an exhilarating place the Maltese Tower is,” said Rue, nodding to the hostess and taking the proffered chair with ease.

Primrose folded into hers with evident relief. “Perhaps a tad uncivilised?”

Rue agreed but added, “I like it.”