Note: Obviously, the aunties and cousins are my invention... especially this cousin. To be fair, I had other plans for Elsie, but then Deryn insisted that her husband was a porridge.
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.
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"Oh, bollocks."
With that, Deryn comes to a halt in the middle of the airship terminal, heedless of the people around her. Alek narrowly avoids stepping on her heels.
"What is it?" he asks, concerned. They have their luggage; Bovril is perched on his shoulder; and the new bruise on her neck (that he hadn't, quite, meant to put there) is safely hidden beneath her shirt collar. There's nothing amiss that he can see. "Did you leave your sketches in the gondola?"
"Worse." She grimaces. "It's Elsie."
Ah. Cousin Elizabeth, married to the dull man whose name Deryn can't be bothered to remember. Alek peers around the terminal, wondering if he can find the woman without knowing what she looks like.
The terminal is larger and more busy than Alek had expected. For that matter, Glasgow itself exceeds his expectations: its roads and buildings spreading out for miles in a ragged spider's web, its river crowded with ships and beasts of all sorts.
He'd heard that it was a busy, prosperous city – a London of the north. But since the majority of his information came from Deryn, who tends to improve, as it were, upon details in her storytelling, he hadn't given it as much credit as he might.
He has to admit, now, that she was perfectly honest about her home. Presumably her depiction of her cousin is likewise correct.
"Is that her…?" he asks, nodding in the direction of a rather stout young couple, both gazing about with bland expressions.
"Aye, and her porridge husband. Sod it all," Deryn says. She squares her shoulders and starts forward again. "Come on, then."
Alek follows in her wake, pretending that his palms have not begun to sweat. God's wounds. He met the Kaiser once – Wilhelm came to admire his father's rose garden at Konopischt, a scarce two months before the war began – and had managed that without making a fool of himself.
This is only a cousin. A daft one, he reminds himself. He refuses to be nervous.
"Personal affairs," Bovril murmurs into his ear.
Blast.
"Traitor," he tells the loris. It giggles.
"Oi, Elsie!" Deryn calls out as they draw closer.
Elsie startles, offers an uncertain smile in Deryn's direction, then clutches her husband's arm and says something to him when he bends down. He looks up at Deryn and then Alek, apparently confused.
Alek steels himself.
"Hello, er, Dylan," Elsie says, pasting on a wide smile. She's a few years older than Deryn, a full head shorter, and several kilograms heavier. Her blonde hair is carefully pinned up beneath a hat that doesn't suit her, and the cut of her dress is on the conservative side of stylish.
Alek is immediately reminded of the society matrons of Vienna, forever clucking disapprovingly. Usually at his mother, who married so scandalously far above her station.
"Elsie," Deryn says, giving her cousin a brief hug that neither of them seem to enjoy. She eyes Elsie's husband, who still looks confused, but says nothing to him. "Where's Ma?"
"Auntie Janet's busy with dinner," Elsie says, lifting her round chin, full of self-importance. "She sent me on instead. Oh, goodness, your hair. I hadn't seen it. What a fright!"
So. Exactly like the society matrons.
Alek decides that he dislikes cousin Elizabeth.
Deryn steps back and nudges Alek forward. "This is Alek."
He sets the valise by his feet and puts his hand out politely. Politeness can be an insult; Volger has sliced lesser men to ribbons in such a fashion. However, he doubts Elsie is sophisticated enough to realize it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
Elsie's hand is soft and limp beneath her glove, and her attitude is all flustered bewilderment. She is, he understands, twice as intimidated to meet him as he ever was to meet her. "Oh, aye, Your H – Mr. – what am I to call you?"
"Alek is fine," he says. "And the blame for Dylan's hair must lie with me, I'm afraid – I convinced him that I could do as well as a professional barber."
Elsie opens her mouth, then closes it again. "Well – ah –"
Pleased to have knocked her off-balance, Alek turns to the husband. "Sir."
Elsie's husband comes to life. "George Murray," he says, shaking Alek's hand. His hand is equally soft and plump; his suit is well-tailored, though it doesn't hide his generous stomach. Porridge indeed. "Good to meet you, lad."
The "lad" is rather presumptuous, given that George can't be more than eighteen or twenty. His moustache is more of a plan than a reality.
"Likewise," Alek says. George nods vaguely.
"Well," Elsie says, reclaiming the conversation, "we've a taxi waiting. Shall we?"
She takes her husband's arm again, clutching it proudly, and nearly drags the man towards the street exit.
Alek and Deryn retrieve their luggage and exchange a glance. Alek lifts an eyebrow; Deryn rolls her eyes; and they both look away, trying not to laugh.
Outside, the taxi driver touches the brim of his hat and holds the door open for Elsie, who clearly thinks she's sweeping inside like a mannered lady. Elsie, however, is no Dr. Barlow.
"Come on, George," she orders from inside the taxi. George obediently climbs in after her, leaving Deryn and Alek to handle their luggage on their own.
Or rather, Deryn and the driver. She hoists herself atop the taxi and helps the man secure the two suitcases, talking and laughing all the while. Alek ought to get into the taxi, but instead he stays where he is and watches Deryn with a small smile.
He frequently wishes that he had her easy, confident way with strangers. Today, he's rather desperate for it. He's already given up on impressing Elsie and George, who hardly deserve it, but as for Mrs. Sharp…
Deryn hops to the ground with only the slightest twinge for her knee, brushing off her hands, eyes bright. "Ready?" she asks him.
"How far is your mother's house?" he asks by way of answering. The street is busy in either direction. He supposes it's the hour for it; businesses will be closing soon. The fabricated animal hitched to the taxi makes a bleating noise, and the driver rubs the beast's neck before mounting the box.
She makes a face. "Too bloody far."
"Porridge," Bovril declares. "Sodding inconvenient."
"Aye, beastie." Deryn plucks Bovril from Alek's shoulder and settles the loris onto hers. "We could ride with the driver…"
"Bear up, Mr. Sharp," Alek says, mock-stern. He puts a hand on her shoulder and propels her towards the taxi, which earns him a snorted laugh.
Elsie and George have settled onto the padded, upholstered bench that faces the rear of the taxi. Elsie is fretting about her hat, and George is gazing at nothing in particular. Deryn and Alek take seats across from them, Deryn raps on the ceiling to alert the driver, and they're off.
"So," Elsie says, preening. "I reckon Auntie Janet passed along the happy news?"
"Aye," Deryn says. She reaches up to give Bovril a scratch behind the ears, making the loris purr. "Congratulations to the both of you."
Alek needs another moment to understand what they're discussing, but when he does, he feels himself flush. He sneaks a glimpse of George, who now has his head tipped back and his eyes closed. God's wounds, is the man asleep? "Pure dead boring" may have been an understatement.
He clears his throat. "Yes, congratulations."
Deryn smirks and elbows his side. "Clanker. After all these months working at the Zoo…"
"George is in accounting," Elsie announces, loud and bright. "He's so clever with money."
George's mouth is hanging slack.
Elsie continues, falsely sweet: "And you work at a zoo, Alek?"
Alek elbows Deryn back and says, "I've been thinking of going into politics."
Elsie clucks approvingly. "Oh, wouldn't that be grand! We haven't any politicians in the family, yet. Speaking of, Deryn – where's your ring?"
"My what?"
"Your ring, dear." Elsie holds up her left hand and waggles her fingers importantly, so that the light catches her gold wedding band. Her voice turns sly: "No need to hide now that we're all to ourselves."
Deryn colors slightly and darts a glance at Alek, who is determinedly keeping his face blank. She turns her attention to Elsie again. "I don't have a ring, ninny. We're not married."
Elsie leans back, her mouth falling open in a perfect O of surprise. "Not – but – you traveled alone -!"
Deryn snorts, unimpressed. "I went unchaperoned on the Leviathan, too, you know."
Elsie hasn't recovered, and that information fails to help. Her pale skin turns an unattractive, blotchy pink. "But – it's been months since! I thought – well – it seemed from your letters – You really ought to be married," she finishes with a haughty sniff. "It's only proper, and you're not getting any younger, aye?"
"Barking spiders! Not all of us want a sodding ring on our finger and a baby in our belly by the time we're eighteen!" Deryn exclaims, glaring at her cousin, fists clenching in what Alek hopes is an unconscious gesture and not the prelude to a fight. He doesn't think he can prevent a few of her punches from connecting.
Then again, he's not certain that he doesn't want a few of Deryn's punches to connect.
He puts a hand on her arm regardless.
Elsie's blotchy pink becomes a blotchy red. Her eyes snap to Alek. "And you haven't anything to say?" she says, in high dudgeon now.
"I wasn't aware that I was invited to this discussion," he says, striving to keep his voice level and cool.
"Well!" Elsie says in a huff. She sits up as straight as is possible in a taxi, looking pointedly away from her cousin.
Deryn crosses her arms and scowls at the city passing by the window.
George begins to drool.
Alek sighs inwardly and folds his hands in his lap, doing his best not to think about what Deryn just said, despite the panicked feeling in his stomach.
Not all of us want a sodding ring on our finger.
Perhaps she didn't mean it. He'll have to ask her – but no, God's wounds, that won't do. Not to mention that this disastrous first impression on her family might scuttle his plans before they're even properly launched.
At least, he thinks, Volger isn't here to mock me.
It's a small consolation.
