Aesop loved a party. Aesop had loved any excuse to nibble a square of cured meat off a toothpick, or lap up a saucer of champagne. Parties with Aesop had been almost fun, because she would happily lounge at Ruthven’s side, entertaining him with her snarky commentary.
Missing his cat was at its worst on a night like this: Ruthven the wallflower, nursing a drink he hadn’t wanted in the first place while Pablo bloody Picasso rearranged stuffed animals in ‘amusing’ dioramas that made sense only to him.
Boswell and Cressida were no substitute. Cressida was nervous and tense, her eyes flicking around the crowd on deck as if she was waiting for someone or something.
Hopefully not another velociraptor.
Boswell was just grumpy. Even the fresh oysters Ruthven had collected for him from the refreshment table were worthy of nothing more than a glare and a lick. “What are we waiting for, Cressida?” the marmalade tabby demanded.
Cressida put her hands behind her back. “I think I need to get changed.” She was still in the Viking apron, and braids. “Back in a minute.”
“Hang on,” said Ruthven, reaching out to grab her arm. “You can’t just…”
He stared. Her hand was pale. Too pale. He could see Pablo Picasso through it; the man was on the floor putting toy train tracks together.
“Damn it,” said Cressida. Even her voice was fading out. “Thought I’d have more time. Listen, Ruthven. You need to… Boz, can you claw me, or something?”
Without hesitation, Boswell reached out and drew his paw over her ankle. Lines of red spiked up instantly. Ruthven winced as Cressida began to bleed.
“Oh, good,” she said, clapping her hands together. Not entirely solid, but they were more opaque than previously. “So, Fleur Shropshire should be at this party. She’s one of the Anachronaut leaders. Very high up.”
“Wait,” said Ruthven, unsure whether he had heard her correctly. “Fleur Shropshire? Lady Ann from Cramberleigh?”
Cressida looked exasperated. “I’m dissolving before your eyes and you want me to repeat myself?”
“She won’t be born for another five years. Ow!” Ruthven looked down to see that Boswell had taken a swipe at his own ankle. “What was that for? I’m not dissolving.”
The marmalade tabby glared up at him with the heat of a thousand suns. “Ruthven. We’re time travellers.”
“I know we’re…” Ruthven stopped and thought about it. “Really, Fleur Shropshire?”
“Shall I go on?” Cressida asked between gritted teeth.
“Please do.” His mind was whirling. How many cast members of Cramberleigh were implicated in the Anachronaut organisation? Was it a Cramberspiracy?
“Shropshire is meeting someone. It’s crucial we find out who that is.”
“Crucial to whom?” Boswell asked acidly. “Who is ‘we’ in that sentence?”
Cressida looked somewhat hurt. “You sound like you don’t trust me, Boz.” She was fading again. Her long golden braids were the colour of champagne. Her green Viking apron dress was filmy and pale. “Ugh,” she said. “This isn’t helping. I need to recharge in the time aisle.” She poked a finger into Ruthven’s chest. “You. Follow Fleur Shropshire. Find out who she meets. Don’t be seen.”
She whirled around quickly and disappeared into the dancing, laughing, champagne-drenched crowd.
“What is happening?” Ruthven asked no one in particular.
Boswell sat on his foot. “I believe, young man, you have been charged with stalking a Cramberleigh actor at a party. It’s the mission you’ve been training for all your life.”
“Hilarious.”
“Up, please.”
Ruthven picked up Boswell, holding him carefully. He was a solid mound of warm tabby, but Ruthven wasn’t quite ready to let him settle on his shoulders, not with how quick he was with his claws.
Boswell settled in his arms, as if this was what he had wanted all along. “You’d better get more champagne,” he commanded. “It will help you blend in. And don’t let any of those artists pet me. I don’t know where they’ve been.”
The party showed no sign of winding down.
Ruthven had to admit, these things were a lot more entertaining when you had a purpose. In this case, searching a barge full of Bohemians and ballerinas for an actress who was going to be rather popular in around four decades.
He’d absorbed the idea of Fleur Shropshire being one of the bad guys, as long as he didn’t have to actually speak to her; talking to celebrities, historical or otherwise, was one of those things guaranteed to bring Ruthven out in a cold sweat.
After two hours of completely nothing, he was almost bored enough to welcome the challenge. Perhaps he should take a leaf out of Monterey’s book and flirt the night away with Cole Porter instead of sitting around awkwardly.2
“Is that Fleur Shropshire?” asked Boswell with a disinterested sniff from where he was currently perched, on top of one of the three grand pianos on the barge.
“No, that’s Clara Bow,” said Ruthven.
“All humans basically look alike to me.”
“I figured that when you asked if Charlie Chaplin was the woman we’re looking for.”
Boswell’s paw suddenly lashed out, swiping at Ruthven with just enough claw to sting. “That,” he said in a low snarl. “Is not Fleur Shropshire.”
“No,” said Ruthven, staring. “It’s not.”
He knew who Boswell was talking about. It was hard to miss her. On a ship full of ladies with hair cut fashionably short and shingled, this woman had long dark red hair all the way down her back. She wore a knee-length floaty silk coat which was not out of place here, on a 1923 party boat, but also had the unmistakeable style of a 1980s Zandra Rhodes.3
