The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (73 page)

“I am certain I heard the most horrible thing about Italy recently. I am failing to recall quite what it was, but it cannot
possibly be a healthy place to visit, Alexia. I understand that Italy is the place vegetables come from—all that weather.
Terribly bad for the digestion—vegetables.”

Lady Maccon could think of nothing to say in response to that, so she continued packing.

Ivy returned to perusing the hats, finally settling on a flowerpot style covered in striped purple and black tweed, with large
purple rosettes, gray ostrich plumes, and a small feathered pouf at the end of a long piece of wire that stuck straight out
of the crown. It looked, when Ivy proudly donned said hat, as though she were being stalked by an enraptured jellyfish.

“I shall have a new carriage dress made to match,” she announced proudly while poor Tunstell paid for the atrocity.

Lady Maccon remarked, under her breath, “Wouldn't it be more sensible to, for example, simply throw yourself off a dirigible?”

Ivy pretended not to hear, but Tunstell shot his wife's friend a wide smile.

Madame Lefoux cleared her throat, looking up from the transaction.

“I was wondering, Mrs. Tunstell, if you might do me a very great favor.”

Ivy was never one to let down a friend in need. “Delighted, Madame Lefoux. How may I be of assistance?”

“Well, as you may have surmised”—never a good phrase when applied to Ivy—“I will be accompanying Lady Maccon to Italy.”

“Oh, really? How noble of you. But I suppose you
are
French, which can't possibly be all
that
different from Italian.”

Madame Lefoux paused in stunned silence before recovering her powers of speech. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I was
wondering if you might consider overseeing the day-to-day running of the hat shop while I am away.”

“
Me?
Engage in
trade?
Well, I don't know.” Ivy looked about at the dangling hats, undeniably tempting in all their feathered and flowered glory.
But still, she had not been raised for commerce.

“You could, of course, borrow from the stock at your leisure and discretion.”

Mrs. Tunstell's eyes took on a distinctly covetous sheen. “Well, if you put it like that, Madame Lefoux, how can I possibly
refuse? I would be absolutely delighted to take on the task. What do I need to know? Oh, wait just a moment, before we start,
if you please. Ormond.” Ivy summoned her husband with a little flap of her hand.

Dutifully, Tunstell trotted over, and Ivy issued him a complex set of whispered instructions. In a flash, he had doffed his
hat to the ladies, let himself out the front door, and was off down the street about some errand at his wife's behest.

Alexia approved. At least Ivy had him well trained.

Madame Lefoux led Mrs. Tunstell behind the small counter and spent the next half hour showing her how to cook the books.

“No need to place any new orders, and no need to open the shop for business all that frequently while I am away. I have listed
the important appointments here. I understand you are a busy lady.”

Ivy displayed surprising aptitude for the accounting. She always had been good with sums and figures, and she was obviously
capable of being serious, at least about hats. Just as they were finishing up, Tunstell reappeared, clutching a small brown
paper package.

Alexia joined them to make her good-byes. Directly before leaving, Ivy handed Alexia the package that Tunstell had just acquired.

“For you, my dearest Alexia.”

Curiously, Alexia turned it about in her hands before unwrapping it carefully. It turned out to be a whole pound of tea inside
a decorative little wooden box.

“I remembered that awful thing I had heard about Italy.” Ivy dabbed at the corner of one eye with her handkerchief in an excess
of sentiment. “What I heard… Oh, I can hardly speak of it… I heard that in Italy they drink”—she paused—“
coffee.
” She shuddered delicately. “So horribly bad for the stomach.” She pressed Alexia's hand fervently with both of hers and the
damp handkerchief. “Good luck.”

“Why, thank you, Ivy, Tunstell, very thoughtful and kind of you both.”

It was good-quality tea, large-leaf Assam, a particular favorite of Alexia's. She tucked it carefully into her dispatch case
to carry with her on board the trans-channel dirigible. As she was no longer muhjah and the dispatch case could not serve
its intended purpose of carrying secret and highly significant documents and gadgets belonging to queen and country, it might
as well carry an item of equal value and importance.

Ivy might be a tad preposterous at times, but she was a kind and thoughtful friend. Much to both of their surprise,
Alexia kissed Ivy on the cheek in gratitude. Ivy's eyes welled with tears.

Tunstell gave them yet another cheerful grin and shepherded his still-emotive spouse from the shop. Madame Lefoux had to dash
after them to give Ivy the spare key and a few last instructions.

Professor Lyall had endured a long and trying day. Ordinarily, he was well equipped to cope with such tribulation, being a
self-assured gentleman possessed of both mental acumen and physical prowess accompanied by the economy of thought required
to choose quickly which best suited any given situation. That afternoon, however, with the full moon rapidly approaching,
an Alpha out of commission, and Lady Maccon heading to Italy, it must be admitted that he
nearly,
on two occasions, lost his temper. The vampire drones were being unresponsive, only admitting to the fact that their respective
masters “might not be available” for BUR duty that evening. There were three vampires on staff, and BUR was not designed to
cope with a sudden loss of these supernatural agents all at once. Especially not when the four BUR-affiliated werewolves were
all young enough to already be out of commission on their monthly bone-bender. To compound the staffing issue, certain supplies
hadn't arrived as scheduled, two suspicious dirigible accidents needed to be investigated, and there was an exorcism to perform
just after sunset. While dealing with all of this, Professor Lyall had to foil no less than eight reporters hoping to interview
Lord Maccon, ostensibly about the dirigibles but undoubtedly about Lady Maccon. Needless to say, Lyall was in no mood to find,
upon returning home just prior to sunset,
his Alpha singing opera—or what might have been considered opera by a tribe of tone-deaf orangutans—in the bathtub.

“You managed to break back into my specimen collection, didn't you? Really, my lord, those were the last of my samples.”

“Ish good stuff, fermaldathdie.”

“I thought I set Major Channing to keep watch over you. He hasn't gone to sleep, has he? He should be able to hold for one
full day. He can take direct sunlight—I have seen him do it—and you are not so difficult to track, not in this condition at
least.” Professor Lyall looked accusingly around the bathing chamber, as though the Woolsey Gamma's blond head might just
pop up from behind the clothing rack.

“He canna poshibly do tha.”

“Oh, no, why not?” Professor Lyall tested the water in which Lord Maccon splashed and wallowed like some bewildered water
buffalo. It was quite cold. With a sigh, the Beta retrieved his Alpha's robe. “Come on, my lord. Let's get you out of there,
shall we?”

Lord Maccon grabbed his washrag and began conducting the opening sequence of
The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein,
flicking water all about the room as he did so. “Maidens, never mind us,” sang the earl, “twirling 'round and 'round.”

“Where has Major Channing gone off to, then?” Professor Lyall was irritated, but it didn't show in his voice. It seemed he
had spent a lifetime being irritated with Channing, and given the day so far, this was nothing more than what was to be expected.
“I gave him a direct order. Nothing should have superseded that. I am still Beta of this pack, and Major Channing is under
my command.”

“Under mine firsh,” objected Lord Maccon mildly. Then he warbled out, “For you'll be left behind us, you'll be safe and sound.”

Professor Lyall attempted to part pull, part lift his Alpha out of the bathtub. But he lost his grip and Lord Maccon slipped
and went falling back into it with a tremendous splash. The massive tub, with its small steam-heating attachment, was extremely
well constructed and had been imported from the Americas at great expense because there they
knew
steel. But it still wobbled dangerously on its four clawed feet under Lord Maccon's weight.

“If a bullet's billet, you are doomed to fall,” sang out the drenched werewolf, skipping several of the words.

“You gave Channing a direct order? In this state?” Professor Lyall tried once more to extract the earl from the tub. “And
he obeyed you?”

For one brief second, Lord Maccon's eyes sharpened and he looked quite sober. “I am still his Alpha; he had
better
obey me.”

Professor Lyall finally managed to get his Alpha out of the water and into the robe in a desultory kind of way. The thin material
stuck indecently close in places, but the earl, never one to suffer the strain of modesty under any circumstances, clearly
didn't give a fig, or a fig leaf.

Professor Lyall was used to it.

Lord Maccon began swaying back and forth in time with his singing. “Take your glass and fill it, laugh and drink with all!”

“Where did you send him?” Professor Lyall, supporting the brunt of his Alpha's weight, blessed his own supernatural strength,
which made the massive man merely
awkward rather than hopeless to maneuver. Lord Maccon was built like a brick outhouse, with opinions twice as unmoving and
often equally full of crap.

“Aha, wouldna you like ta know tha?” The Alpha did not do coy well, and Professor Lyall was not amused at the lack of a direct
answer.

“Did you send him after Lord Akeldama?”

Lord Maccon came over slightly sober once more. “That pansy. Missing, is he? Good. He reminds me of limp custard filling,
all cream and no crust. Never could understand what Alexia saw in that pointy-toothed ninnyhammer. My wife! Cavorting about
with a crustless vampire. Least I know
he
isna the father.” The Alpha's yellow eyes squinted, as if he were trying to keep from thinking about that.

Suddenly, he flopped downward with all his weight, slipped out of Professor Lyall's hold, and landed in a cross-legged heap
in the middle of the floor. His eyes were starting to go completely yellow, and he was looking altogether too hairy for Professor
Lyall's liking. Full moon wasn't for a couple more nights, and Lord Maccon, by Alpha rights and strength, ought to be able
to resist the change easily. Apparently, he wasn't bothering to try.

The earl continued to sing even as his slurring from the drink gave way to slurring from his jawbones breaking and re-forming
into those of a wolf's muzzle. “Drink and sing a ditty, good-bye to the past, all the more's the pity, if this cup's our last!”

Professor Lyall was Woolsey Pack Beta for many reasons, one of them being that he knew perfectly well when he needed to ask
for assistance. A quick run to the door and one loud yell had four of Woolsey's strongest clavigers
in to help him navigate his lordship, now a very drunken wolf, down into the cellar lockup. Four legs offered no improvement
in the matter of the earl's wobbling, and instead of singing, he merely took to letting forth with a mournful howl or two.
An aggravating day was looking to become an equally aggravating night. With Major Channing vanished, Professor Lyall really
had only one recourse left to him: he called for a pack meeting.

               

I
t was early evening, the sun just setting, when three unlikely-looking companions boarded the last dirigible for Calais, leaving
from its mooring atop the white cliffs of Dover. No reporters managed to capture the departure of the notorious Lady Maccon.
This may have had something to do with the swiftness of her response to the publication of her alleged indiscretion, or it
may have been the fact that the lady in question was traveling incognito by means of being outrageous in entirely new ways.
Instead of her fashionable but severely practical garb, Alexia sported a black floating dress with chiffon ruffles, yellow
modesty straps dangling about the skirt, and a hideous yellow hat. She bore, as a result, some passing resemblance to a self-important
bumblebee. It was a truly ingenious disguise, for it made the dignified Lady Maccon look and act rather more like an aging
opera singer than a societal grande dame. She was accompanied by a well-dressed young gentleman and his valet. Only one
conclusion might be drawn from such a party—that it was an impropriety in action.

Madame Lefoux gave herself over to the portrayal of a boy paramour with enthusiasm, affecting many acts of sycophant-like
solicitousness. She donned an extraordinarily realistic-looking mustache for the charade—a large black waxed affair that curled
up at each side just over her dimples. It managed to disguise much of the femininity of her face through sheer magnitude,
but the protuberance had the unfortunate side effect of causing Alexia fits of intermittent giggles whenever she had to look
Madame Lefoux directly on. Floote had an easier time of it, sliding comfortably back into his old role of valet, dragging
behind him Madame Lefoux's boxes and his own battered portmanteau, which looked about as old as he was and much the worse
for wear.

They were greeted with ill-disguised contempt by the float staff and with actively shocked avoidance by the rest of the passengers.
Imagine, such a relationship openly flaunted on board! Disgusting. The resulting isolation suited Alexia perfectly. At Floote's
suggestion, she had purchased her ticket under her maiden name, Tarabotti, never having gotten around to commissioning new
travel papers after her marriage.

Madame Lefoux had initially objected. “Is that wise, do you think, given your father's reputation?”

“Wiser than traveling under the name of Lady Maccon, I suppose. Who wants to be associated with Conall?” Safely ensconced
in her apartments, Alexia pulled off the bumblebee hat and flicked it, as though it were a poisonous snake, across the room.

While Floote puttered about seeing to the unpacking,
Madame Lefoux came over and stroked Alexia's hair, now freed from its confines, as though Alexia were a skittish animal. “Only
among the supernatural set does the name Tarabotti carry much meaning. There are those who will make the connection eventually,
of course. I am hoping we will move through France faster than the gossip does.”

Alexia did not object to the petting—it was comforting. She assumed Madame Lefoux was simply entering into the spirit of her
role. Very enthusiastic about such things, the French.

They ate a private meal in their quarters, declining to join the rest of the passengers. Judging by the rapid appearance and
freshness of the foodstuffs, the staff approved of this maneuver. Most of the offerings were cooked over the steam engine—a
refreshing, if bland, method of preparation.

After supper they left their quarters and made their way up to the squeak deck for some air. Alexia was amused to find that
those already relaxing in the evening aether breezes hurriedly departed as soon as she and her party arrived.

“Snobs.”

Madame Lefoux dimpled slightly from behind her preposterous mustache and leaned against Alexia as they both propped their
elbows on the railing, looking down at the dark waters of the channel far below.

Floote watched. Alexia wondered if her father's faithful valet mistrusted Madame Lefoux because she was French, because she
was a scientist, or because she was so consistently inappropriately dressed. With Floote, all three qualities were likely
to engender suspicion.

Alexia herself had no such reservations. Genevieve Lefoux had proved herself a most loyal friend over the past month, perhaps
a little guarded in matters of the heart, but she was kind of word and more importantly, intelligent of action.

“You miss him?” The Frenchwoman did not need to specify further.

Alexia stuck out one gloved hand and let it ride the rushing aether currents.

“I don't want to. I'm so blasted angry with him. I've come over all numb. Makes me feel slow and stupid.” She glanced sideways
at the inventor. Genevieve, too, had experienced loss. “Does it get better?”

Madame Lefoux closed her eyes for a long moment. Probably thinking of Angelique. “It changes.”

Alexia looked up at the almost-full moon, not yet high enough in the sky to vanish behind the enormous balloon section of
the ship. “It's already changing. Tonight”—she gave a tiny shrug—“hurts differently. Now I'm thinking about full moon. It
was the one night we remained close, touching, the entirety of the night. Other times, I tried to refrain from extended contact
with him. He never cared, but I didn't feel it worth the risk, to keep him mortal for longer than necessary.”

“Were you afraid you would age him?”

“I was afraid some loner wolf with madness in his eyes would savage him before I could let go.”

They were silent for a brief while.

Alexia pulled her hand back in and tucked it under her chin. It was numb.
Familiar sensation.
“Yes. I miss him.”

“Even after what he did?”

Unconsciously, Alexia slid her other hand down to her stomach. “He was always a bit of a jackass. To be smart, he should never
have married me in the first place.”

“Well”—Madame Lefoux tried to lighten the mood by changing the subject—“at the very least, Italy should be interesting.”

Alexia gave her a suspicious look. “Are you quite certain you entirely understand what that word means? I understand English
is not your native tongue, but really.”

The inventor's fake mustache was wiggling dangerously in the breezes. She put one elegant finger up to her face to hold it
in place. “It is a chance to find out how you got pregnant. Isn't that interesting?”

Alexia widened her dark eyes. “I am perfectly well aware of
how
it happened. What it is, is a chance to force Conall to recant his accusations. Which is more useful than interesting.”

“You know what I mean.”

Alexia looked up into the night sky. “After marrying Conall, I assumed children were not possible. Now it's like some exotic
disease has happened to me. I cannot bring myself around to being pleased. I should like to know how, scientifically, such
a pregnancy occurred. But thinking about the infant too much frightens me.”

“Perhaps you just do not want to become attached to it.”

Alexia frowned. Trying to understand one's own emotions was a grueling business. Genevieve Lefoux had raised another woman's
child as her own. She must have lived constantly with the fear that Angelique would come and simply take Quesnel away from
her.

“I could be doing it unintentionally. Preternaturals
are supposed to be repelled by one another, and we are supposed to breed true. By rights, I ought to be allergic to my own
child, unable even to be in the same room with it.”

“You believe you are going to miscarry?”

“I believe that, if I do not lose this child, I may be forced to attempt to rid myself of it, or go insane. That, even if,
by some miracle, I manage to carry through my confinement, I will never be able to share the same air as my own baby, let
alone touch it. And I am so angry that my great lout of a husband has left me to deal with this alone. Couldn't he have, oh,
I don't know,
talked
to me about it? But, no, he gets to blunder about acting all put-upon and getting sloshed. While I—” Alexia interrupted herself.
“That's a fantastic idea! I should do something equally outrageous.”

At which statement Madame Lefoux leaned forward and kissed her, quite softly and gently on the mouth.

It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it also wasn't quite the done thing in polite society, even among friends. Sometimes, Alexia
felt, Madame Lefoux took that regretfully French aspect of her character a little too far.

“That wasn't exactly what I had in mind. Got any cognac?”

The inventor only smiled. “I think, perhaps, it is time for bed.”

Alexia felt very worn about the edges, like an old carpet. “This is exhausting, talking about one's feelings. I am not sure
I approve.”

“Yes, but has it helped?”

“I still loathe Conall and want to prove him wrong. So, no, I don't think it has.”

“But you've always felt that way about your husband, my dear.”

“True, true. Are you certain you don't have any cognac?”

They set down in France the next morning with surprisingly little incident. Madam Lefoux brightened considerably once they
landed. Her step was light and cheerful as they walked the gangplank down from the dirigible, leaving the colorful ship bobbing
against its tethers behind them. The French, who, in addition to a marked preference for ridiculous mustaches, had a propensity
for highly civilized mechanicals, were prepared for vast amounts of luggage. They loaded La Diva Tarabotti's trunks, Mr. Lefoux's
cases, and Floote's portmanteau onto a kind of platform that floated, kept aloft by four aether-inflated balloons and pulled
along by a lackadaisical porter. Madame Lefoux engaged in several protracted arguments with various staff, arguments that
seemed to be more the general formula of conversation than embodying any genuine vehemence. From what Alexia could follow,
which wasn't much given the rapidity of the tongue, there appeared to be some question concerning the bill, the gratuity,
and the complexity of hiring transport at this time of the morning.

Madame Lefoux admitted the time of day to be unacceptably early but would brook no delay on their journey. She rousted up
a youngish carriage driver, who had a particularly spectacular mustache and who met them rubbing sleepy eyes. With baggage
in place and Alexia, Madame Lefoux, and Floote safely ensconced within, they drove some ten miles or so to a station where
they caught the mail train on its six-hour journey to Paris, via Amiens.
Madame Lefoux promised, in a low voice, there would be sustenance available on board. Sadly, the provisions on the rail turned
out to be wretchedly inferior. Alexia was underwhelmed; she had heard such wondrous things about French cuisine.

They arrived in the late afternoon, and Alexia was perturbed to find, never having traveled to foreign climes, that Paris
seemed just as dirty and crowded as London, only peopled by buildings more swooped and gentlemen more mustached. They did
not go directly into town. Despite a most pressing need for tea, the possibility of pursuit remained uppermost in all their
minds. They went to the city's main train station, where Floote pretended to purchase train tickets, and they made a prodigious
fuss over catching the next high-boil steamer to Madrid. They went loudly in on one side of the train, with luggage, and then
quietly off the other, much to the annoyance of one long-suffering porter who was liberally rewarded for his pains. They then
exited at the back end of the station, into a large but seedy carriage. Madame Lefoux directed the driver to a tiny, rickety
little clockmaker's shop nestled next to a bakery in what appeared, shockingly enough, to be the tradesmen's quarter of Paris.

Mindful that she was a fugitive and could not afford to be particular, Alexia trailed her friend into the tiny shop. She spotted
the small brass octopus above the door and could not quite prevent a lurch of apprehension. Once inside, however, her fears
were quickly dissipated by curiosity. The interior was littered with clocks and companion devices of all shapes and sizes.
Unfortunately, Madame Lefoux pressed on through rapidly into a back room and up a set of stairs. They arrived thus, with very
little pomp
or circumstance, in the tiny reception chamber of a set of residential apartments above the shop.

Alexia found herself surrounded and embraced by a room of such unmitigated welcome and personality that it was akin to being
yelled at by plum pudding. All the furniture looked comfortable and worn, and the paintings on the walls and side tables were
bright and cheerful. Even the wallpaper was equally amiable. Unlike in England, where courtesy to the supernatural set prevailed,
resulting in interiors kept dark with heavy curtains, this room was bright and well lit. The windows, overlooking the street
below, were thrown open and the sun allowed to stream in. But for Alexia, the most welcoming thing about the place was the
myriad of gadgets and mechanical knickknacks strewn about. Unlike Madame Lefoux's contrivance chamber, which had no other
purpose but production, this was a home that also happened to be a work space. There were gears piled atop half-finished knitting
and cranking mechanisms attached to coal scuttles. It was a marriage of domesticity and technology like none Alexia had witnessed
before.

Madame Lefoux gave a funny little holler but did not go looking for the denizen of the abode. With the air of a regular visitor,
she settled herself easily into a soft settee. Alexia, finding this familiar behavior highly irregular, resisted joining her
at first, but due to the weariness of extended travel was eventually persuaded not to stand on ceremony. Floote, who seemed
never to tire, laced his fingers behind his back and took up his favorite butler stance near the door.

“Why, Genevieve, my dear, what an unexpected pleasure!” The gentleman who entered the room matched the
house perfectly—soft, friendly, and gadget-riddled. He wore a leather apron with many pockets, a pair of green spectacles
rested upon his nose, a pair of brass glassicals perched atop his head, and a monocle hung about his neck. The clockmaker,
no doubt. He spoke in French, but fortunately much less rapidly than others Alexia had met so far, allowing her to follow
the conversation.