The two ladies linked arms and headed across the poop deck to the ladder down to their quarters.

Since the idea was to impress, they chose two of their best walking dresses – after consultation to ensure the outfits would display well together. Primrose selected a lemon-yellow organza with black velvet trim in petal-like layers over the skirt and black flower appliqué on the bodice. It had a wide black velvet belt to emphasise the slenderness of her waist. The sleeves were the latest in leg-of-mutton cut with wide black ribbon cuffs. And, of course, it boasted a matching black hat decorated with yellow bows and a huge ostrich plume out the back.

Rue went with a burnt umber Indian silk Worth. Dama was dear friends with Jean-Philippe and had a standing order in for Rue – new gowns every season. Dama referred to the older Worth’s demise earlier that year as the Great Tragedy, and had consoled Jean-Philippe with copious flowers, bolts of silk, and letters of condolence. Jean-Philippe had responded with, among other things, this very dress. It was simpler than Prim’s gown, with a slashed bodice and overskirt. Out from the skirt peeked crêpe of a slightly darker umber, and from the bodice a Madras muslin of cream with brown flowers. The edges of the gown were bordered in more of the crêpe, with collar and cuffs of brown velvet. A patten of cream appliqué over the bodice echoed that of the black on Prim’s lemon gown. Rue’s sleeves were narrow and cut high with a lace trim. Her hat was a great deal more modest – of flat Italian straw with one brown velvet bow and three umber silk roses. Together they looked rather like excited mobile tiger lilies.

Both ladies carried parasols against the Indian sun – Rue rejected her mother’s as too ugly and borrowed a brown lace one from Prim. Prim had, of course, a matching lemon-yellow number with black edging. They looked, as Spoo whispered behind their backs, a treat, and might have strolled through Hyde Park at the height of the season with not a single nasty remark from any patroness of high society, not even the anti-supernatural set.

It was wickedly hot. By the time they crossed the deck and strolled down the gangplank, Rue thought she might be melting. She blessed her own irreverent nature and shape-shifting inclination which allowed her to forego stays and undergarments. To wear anything more than outward modesty required, even for the sake of decency, was patently ridiculous. Poor Prim looked likely to faint after only a few minutes’ walk. She did not sweat of course, not the Honourable Primrose Tunstell, but there was a certain sheen to her face that delicacy might term a damp aura.