The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (60 page)

“He said that this was the true, the one, the only.”

Lady Maccon gave a noncommittal murmur at that. What else could one say to such folderol?

Miss Hisselpenny, unconcerned by a lack of response, continued to bemoan her fate. “And I love him. I really and truly do.
You could never understand this type of love, Alexia. Not such true love as ours. Marrying for practical gain is all very
well and good, but this… this is the real thing.”

Lacy Maccon tilted her head in sham surprise. “Is that what I did?”

Ivy continued without acknowledgment. “But we cannot possibly marry.”

Alexia continued to rummage. “Mmm, no, I see that.”

That made Miss Hisselpenny sit up and look daggers down at her friend. “Really, Alexia, you are not being even remotely helpful.”

Lady Maccon remembered she had transferred her most important papers to her parasol after the first break-in and quickly snapped
the dispatch case shut, locked it, and tucked it back behind Ivy's stack of hatboxes.

“Ivy, my dear, I am terribly sympathetic to your plight. Honestly, I am, most sincerely. But you must excuse me. Necessity
demands I handle a situation downstairs rather hurriedly.”

Miss Hisselpenny flopped back onto the bed, hand to her head. “Oh, what kind of friend are you, Alexia Maccon? Here I lie,
in crisis and abject suffering. This is the worst evening of my whole life, you realize? And
you
care only for your husband's lucky socks!” She flipped over and buried her head in the pillow.

Alexia departed the room before Ivy could come up with further histrionics.

Most of the pack still stood outside the parlor door, looking confused. Alexia glared at them with her best Lady Maccon glare,
opened the door, and shut it once more in their faces.

She handed the gun to Tunstell, who took it but swallowed nervously.

“You know what this is?”

He nodded. “Tue Tue Sundowner. But why would I need it? There are no vampires here, or werewolves for that matter. Not with
the way things currently stand.”

“They are not going to stand like this for much longer, not if I have anything to say about it. Poison does not work on a
werewolf, and I intend to see my husband wide awake sooner than it would take for that stuff, whatever it may be, to run its
course through a human system. Besides, that deadly little gun will work just as well on daylight folk. Are you authorized
to use it?”

Tunstell shook his head slowly. His freckles stood out starkly on his white face.

“Well, you are now.”

Tunstell looked like he would like to argue the point. Sundowner was a BUR position. Technically the muhjah had no real say
in the matter. But his mistress was looking dreadfully belligerent, and he had no wish to try her patience.

She pointed an autocratic finger at him. “No one is to come in or out of this room.
No one
, Tunstell. No staff, no pack, no claviger, not even Miss Hisselpenny. Speaking of which, I really must insist you refrain
from embracing her in public. It is most discomforting to watch.” Her nose wrinkled slightly.

Tunstell flushed at that, his freckles fading under the red, but he kept to the main point. “What are you going to do now,
my lady?”

Lady Maccon glanced up at the grandfather clock ticking sonorously in the corner of the room. “Send an aetherogram, and soon.
This is all getting terribly out of hand.”

“To whom?”

She shook her head, hair falling down now that she wore no cap. “Just you do your job, Tunstell, and let me do mine. I will
want to know immediately if either of them awaken or worsen. Understood?”

The redhead nodded.

She scooped up the large pile of Madame Lefoux's gadgets, stuffing them into her lace cap as a kind of bag. Her hair was loose
about her face, but sometimes one must sacrifice appearance to cope with trying circumstances. Grasping the cap of booty in
one hand and her parasol in the other, she exited the parlor, pulling the door firmly closed with her foot.

“I am afraid I must inform you, Lady Kingair, that no one is to go in or out of that room, including yourself, for the foreseeable
future. I have left Tunstell exceedingly well armed and with strict instructions to fire on any who attempt to enter. You
would not want to test his obedience to me, now, would you?”

“Under whose authority have you done this? The earl's?” Lady Kingair was shocked.

“My husband has become”—Alexia paused—“indisposed at the moment. So, no, this is no longer a BUR matter. I have taken it under
my own jurisdiction. I have tolerated this shilly-shallying and hedging of yours long enough. I have pandered to your pack
problems and your pack ways, but
this
is outside of enough. I want this plague of humanization lifted, and I want it lifted now. I will not have anyone else shot
at, or attacked, or spied upon, or any further rooms ransacked. Things are getting far too messy, and I cannot abide a mess.”

“Temper, Lady Maccon, temper,” remonstrated Lady Kingair.

Alexia narrowed her eyes.

“Why should we do what you say?” Dubh was militant.

Alexia shoved the letter of marque under the Beta's nose. He left off his grumbling, and the oddest expression suffused his
wide, angry face.

Lady Kingair grabbed the paperwork and held it up to the indifferent light of a nearby oil lamp. Satisfied, she passed it
on to Lachlan, who appeared the least surprised by its contents.

“I take it you were not informed of my appointment?”

Sidheag gave her a hard look. “I take it you didna marry Lord Maccon purely for love?”

“Oh, the political position was a surprise advantage, I assure you.”

“And one that wouldna have been given to a spinster.”

“So you know the queen's disposition sufficiently to predict that at least?” Alexia took her marque back and tucked it carefully
down the front of her bodice. It would not do for the pack to be made aware of her parasol's hidden pockets.

“Muhjah has been vacant for generations. Why you? Why now?” Dubh was looking less angry and more thoughtful than Alexia had
yet seen him. Perhaps there was brain behind all that brawn and bluster.

“
She
did offer it to your father,” Lachlan pointed out.

“I had heard something to that effect. I understand he turned it down.”

“Oh no, no.” Lachlan gave a little half-smile. “We filibustered.”

“The werewolves?”

“The werewolves and the vampires and one or two ghosts as well.”

“What
is
it with you people and my father?”

At that Dubh snorted. “How much time do you have?”

The grandfather clock, locked in the room with Tunstell and his two comatose charges, tolled a quarter 'til.

“Apparently, not enough. I take it you accept the letter as authentic?”

Lady Kingair was looking at Alexia as though a good number of her previous questions about one Lady Maccon had now all been
answered. “We will accept it, and we will defer to your authority in this.” She gestured to the closed parlor door. “For the
time being,” she added, so as not to lose face in front of the pack.

Lady Maccon knew this was as good as she was going to get, so, in characteristic fashion, she took it and asked for more.
“Very good. Next I will need to compose and send a message on your aethographor. While I am doing that, if you would please
collect all the artifacts you brought back from Egypt into one room. I should very much like to peruse them as soon as my
message has been sent. If I cannot determine which artifact is most likely causing the humanity problem, I shall have my husband
removed to Glasgow, where he should return to supernatural and recover with no ill effects.” With that, she headed up to the
top of the castle and the aethographor.

She was in for a prodigious surprise. For what should she find on the floor of the aethographor room but the comatose form
of the bemused claviger who was caretaker of the machine and every single valve frequensor in Kingair's library broken to
smithereens. The place was littered with glittering crystalline shards.

“Oh dear, I knew they ought to have been locked away.” Lady Maccon checked the claviger, who was still breathing and as fast
asleep as her husband, and then picked her way through the wreckage.

The apparatus itself was undamaged. Which made Alexia wonder; if the objective in destroying the valve frequensors was to
prevent outside communication, why not take down the aethographor itself? It was, after all, an awfully delicate gadget easily
and quickly disabled. Why smash all the valves instead? Unless, of course, the culprit wanted continued access to the aethographor.

Alexia rushed into the transmitting chamber, hoping that the fallen claviger had disturbed the vandal in the act. It looked
like he had, for there, still sitting in the emitter cradle, was a unrolled scroll of metal with a burned-through message
clearly visible upon it. And it was
not
the message she had sent to Lord Akeldama the evening before. Oh no, this message was in French!

Lady Maccon was not quite as good at reading French as she should have been, so it took her long precious moments to translate
the burned-through metal.

“Weapon here but unknown,” it said.

Lady Maccon was disgruntled that the bloody thing did not read like an old-fashioned ink-and-paper letter, with a “dear so-and-so”
and a “sincerely, so-and-so,” thus revealing all to her without fuss. Who had Madame Lefoux sent the message to? When had
the message been sent—just before she was shot, or earlier? Was it really the inventor who had also destroyed the valve frequensors?
Lady Maccon could not believe that wanton destruction of technology was Madame Lefoux's style. The woman adored all gadgetry;
it would be against her nature to destroy it with such abandon. And, regardless of all else, what
had
she been trying to tell them right before she was shot?

With a start, Alexia realized it was getting on toward eleven o'clock, and she had best etch her message and prepare it to
send right away. Currently, the only concrete action she could think to take was consultation with Lord Akeldama. She did
not have the valves to contact the Crown or BUR, so the outrageous vampire would have to do.

Her message read simply, “Floote check library: Egypt, humanization weapon? BUR send agents to Kingair.”

It was a long message for the aethographor to handle, but it was the shortest she could formulate. Lady Maccon hoped she could
remember the pattern of movements the young claviger had used the evening before. She was generally good about such things,
but she might have missed a button or two. Still, there was nothing for it but to try.

The tiny transmitting room was much less crowded with only one person. She extracted Lord Akeldama's valve from her parasol
and placed it carefully into the resonator cradle. She slotted the inscribed metal into the frame and pulled down the switch
that activated the aetheric convector and chemical wash. The etched letters burned away, and the hydrodine engines spun to
life. It was easier than she had thought. The director of the Crown's aethographic transmitter said one needed special schooling
and certification to run the complicated apparatus—little liar.

The two needles raced across the slate, sparking as they met. Alexia sat in perfect silence throughout the transmission, and
when it was finished, she removed the slate from the cradle. She wouldn't want to be so careless as the spy had been.

Lady Maccon bustled into the other chamber, which proved far more difficult to operate. No matter how many knobs she twiddled
or cogs she turned, she could not get the ambient noise down far enough to receive. Luckily, Lord Akeldama took his sweet
time replying. She had nearly half an hour to get the receiving chamber quiet. She did not manage to get it down nearly so
low as the claviger had, but it was eventually quiet enough.

Lord Akeldama's response began to appear inside the black magnetic particulates between the two pieces of glass, one letter
at a time. Trying to breathe quietly, Alexia copied down the message. It was short, cryptic, and totally unhelpful.

“Preternaturals always cremated,” was all it said. Then there was some kind of image, a circle on top of a cross. Some kind
of code? That was rich! Blast Lord Akeldama for being coy at a time like this!

Alexia waited another half an hour, past midnight, for any additional communication, and when nothing further materialized,
she turned the aethographor off and left in a huff.

The house was abuzz. In the main drawing room across from the front parlor, in which remained Tunstell and his charges, a
cheery fire burned in the fireplace and maids and footmen bustled about setting out artifacts.

“Good gracious, you did do a little shopping in Alexandria, now, didn't you?”

Lady Kingair looked up from the small mummy she was arranging carefully on a side table. It appeared to have started life
as some kind of animal, perhaps of the feline persuasion? “We do what we must. The regimental pay isna adequate to cover Kingair's
upkeep. Why should we not collect?”

Lady Maccon began looking through all the artifacts, not quite certain what she was looking for. There were little wooden
statues of people, necklaces of turquoise and lapis, strange stone jars with animal-head lids, and amulets. All of them were
relatively small except for two mummies, both still properly clothed. These were more impressive than the one they had unwrapped.
They resided inside curvy, beautifully painted coffins, the surfaces of which were covered in colorful images and hieroglyphics.
Cautiously, Alexia moved toward them but felt no overwhelming repulsion. None of the artifacts, mummies included, seemed any
different from those she had seen on display in the halls of the Royal Society or, indeed, in the Museum of Antiquities.