Changeless

CHAPTER FOUR The Proper Use of Parasols

An enormous noise shook the structure around them. All of the hats on the ends of their long chains swung about violently. Ivy let out the most milk-curdling scream. Someone else yelled, rather soberly by comparison. The gas lighting went out, and the shop descended into darkness.

It took a moment for Lady Maccon to realize that the explosion had not, in fact, been intended to kill her. Given her experiences over the past year, this was a novel change of pace. But it also made her wonder if the explosion had been intended to kill someone else.

“Ivy?” Alexia asked the darkness.

Silence.

“Madame Lefoux?”

Further silence.

Alexia crouched down, as much as her corset would allow, and felt about, willing her eyes to acclimatize to the black. She felt taffeta: the ruffles attached to Ivy’s prone form.

Alexia’s heart sank.

She patted Ivy all about for injury, but Miss Hisselpenny seemed unscathed. Light puffs of breath hit the back of Lady Maccon’s hand when she passed it under Ivy’s nose, and there was a pulse—shallow but solid. Apparently, Miss Hisselpenny had simply fainted.

“Ivy!” she hissed.

Nothing.

“Ivy, please!”

Miss Hisselpenny shifted slightly and murmured, “Yes, Mr. Tunstell?” under her breath.

Oh dear, thought Alexia. What a terribly unsuitable match, and Ivy already engaged to someone else. Lady Maccon had no idea that things had progressed so far as to involve murmurings in times of distress. Then she felt a stab of pity. Better to let Ivy have her dreams while she could.

So Lady Maccon left her friend as she lay and did not reach for the smelling salts.

Madame Lefoux, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. She had apparently vanished into the blackness. Perhaps seeking the source of the explosion. Or perhaps being the source of the explosion.

Alexia could guess as to where the Frenchwoman had disappeared. Her eyes now partly adjusted to the gloom, she made her way along the wall toward the back of the shop, where the scrape marks were located.

She felt all about the wallpaper for a switch or a knob of some kind, finally finding a lever hidden under a glove display box. She pressed it sharply down, and a door swung open before her, nearly cracking her on the nose.

Lady Maccon managed to determine that it was no room or passageway but a large shaft with several cables down the middle and two guide rails on the side. She craned her head inside and looked up, hanging on to the doorjamb. What appeared to be a steam-powered windlass occupied the whole of the top of the shaft. She found a cord to one side of the doorway that, when pulled upon, engaged the windlass. With many puffs of steam and some creaking and groaning, a boxy cage appeared from out of the shaft depths. Alexia was familiar with the concept—an ascension room. She’d had previous dealings with a less sophisticated version at the Hypocras Club. She had found that they did not suit her stomach, but she stepped into the cage regardless, closing the grate behind her, and turned a crank on one side to lower the contraption.

The cage bumped when it hit the ground, causing Alexia to stumble violently up against the side. Parasol held defensively before her as though it were a cricket bat, she opened the grate and stepped out into an illuminated underground passageway.

The lighting mechanism was like nothing Lady Maccon had ever seen. It must be some kind of gas, but it appeared as an orange tinted mist inside glass tubing set along the ceiling. The mist swirled about within its confines, causing the illumination to be patchy and faint in odd, shifting patterns. Light cast as clouds, thought Alexia fancifully.

At the end of the passage was an open doorway, out of which spilled a mass of brighter orange light and three voices raised in anger. As she neared, Alexia realized the passage must traverse directly underneath Regent Street. She also realized the voices were arguing in French.

Alexia had a good grasp of the modern languages, so she followed the gist of the conversation without difficulty.

“What could possibly have possessed you?” Madame Lefoux was asking, her voice still smooth despite her annoyance.

The entranceway appeared to service a laboratory of some kind, although it was nothing like those Alexia had seen at the Hypocras Club or the Royal Society. It had more the look of an apparatus factory, with massive machine components and other gadgetry.

“Well, you see, I could not for the life of me get the boiler running.”

Alexia peeked into the room. It was huge and in a complete and utter muddle. Containers had been knocked off tables, glass had shattered, and thousands of tiny gears were scattered across the dirt floor. A jumble of cords and wire coils lay on the ground along with the hat stand they had once been hanging on. There was black soot everywhere, coating both those tubes, gears, and springs that had not fallen and the larger pieces of machinery. Outside the blast zone, things were also in disarray. A pair of glassicals lay atop a pile of research books. Large diagrams drawn in black pencil on stiff yellow paper were pinned haphazardly to the walls. It was clear that some accident had disrupted matters, but it was equally clear the place had been untidy well before the unfortunate event.

It was noisy, as many of those mechanisms and gadgets not affected by the blast were running. Steam puffed out in little gasps and whistles, gears clanked, metal chain links clicked, and valves squealed. Such a cacophony of noises as only the great factories of the north might make. But it wasn’t an invasive noise, more a symphony in engineering.

Partly hidden behind the piles, Madame Lefoux stood, hands on angular trouser-clad hips, legs wide like a man, glaring down at some species of grubby child. The urchin came complete with grease-smeared face, filthy hands, and jaunty tilt to his newsboy cap. He was clearly in a hot spot of bother but seemed less apologetic than excited about his inadvertent pyrotechnics.

“So, what did you do, Quesnel?”

“I just soaked a bit of rag in ether and tossed it into the flame. Ether catches fire, no?”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Quesnel. Don’t you ever listen?” This came from a new voice, a ghost, who was making a show of sitting sidesaddle on an overturned barrel. She was a very solid-looking specter, which meant her dead body must be relatively close and well preserved. Regent Street was well north of the exorcised zone, so she would have escaped last night’s incident undead. If the ghost’s speech was anything to go by, her body must have traveled over from France, or she had died in London an immigrant. Her face was sharply defined, her visage that of a handsome older woman who resembled Madame Lefoux. Her arms were crossed over her chest in annoyance.

“Ether!” shrieked Madame Lefoux.

“Well, yes,” said the ragamuffin.

“Ether is explosive, you little…” After which followed a stream of unpleasant words, which still managed to sound pleasant in Madame Lefoux’s mellow voice.

“Ah,” replied the boy with a shameless grin. “But it did make a fantastic bang.”

Alexia could not help herself; she let out a little giggle.

All three gasped and looked over at her.

Lady Maccon straightened up, brushed her blue silk walking dress smooth, and entered the cavernous room, swinging her parasol back and forth.

“Ah,” said Madame Lefoux, switching back to her impeccable English. “Welcome to my contrivance chamber, Lady Maccon.”

“You are a woman of many talents, Madame Lefoux, an inventor as well as a milliner?”

Madame Lefoux inclined her head. “As you see, the two more often cross paths than one would think. I should have realized you would deduce the function of the windlass engine and the location of my laboratory, Lady Maccon.”

“Oh,” replied Alexia. “Why should you have?”

The Frenchwoman dimpled at her and bent to retrieve a fallen vial of some silvery liquid, which had managed to escape Quesnel’s explosion unbroken. “Your husband informed me that you were clever. And prone to interfering overmuch.”

“That sounds like something he would say.” Alexia made her way through the shambles, lifting her skirts delicately to keep them from getting caught on fragments of glass. Now that she could see them closer up, the gadgets lying about Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber were amazing. There seemed to be an entire assembly line of glassicals in midconstruction and a massive apparatus that looked to be composed of the innards of several steam engines welded to a galvanometer, a carriage wheel, and a wicker chicken.

Alexia, tripping only once over a large valve, completed her trek across the room and nodded politely to the child and the ghost.

“How do you do? Lady Maccon, at your service.”

The scrap of a boy grinned at her, made an elaborate bow, and said, “Quesnel Lefoux.”

Alexia gave him an expressionless look. “So, did you get the boiler started?”

Quesnel blushed. “Not exactly. But I did get a fire started. That should count for something, don’t you feel?” His English was superb.

Madame Lefoux cast her hands heavenward.

“Indubitably,” agreed Lady Maccon, endearing herself to the child for all time.

The ghost introduced herself as Formerly Beatrice Lefoux.

Alexia nodded to her politely, which surprised the ghost. The undead were often subjected to rudeness from the fully alive. But Lady Maccon always stood on formality.

“My impossible son and my noncorporeal aunt,” explained Madame Lefoux, looking at Alexia as though she expected something.

Lady Maccon filed away the fact that they all had the same last name. Had Madame Lefoux not married the child’s father? How very salacious. But Quesnel did not look at all like his mother. She need not have claimed him. He was a towheaded, pointy-chinned little creature with the most enormous violet eyes and not a dimple in sight.

The lady inventor said to her family, “This is Alexia Maccon, Lady Woolsey. She is also muhjah to the queen.”

“Ah, my husband saw fit to tell you that little fact, did he?” Alexia was surprised. Not many knew about her political position, and, as with her preternatural state, both she and her husband preferred to keep it that way: Conall, because it kept his wife out of danger; Alexia, because it caused most individuals, supernatural or otherwise, to come over all funny about soullessness.

The ghost of Beatrice Lefoux interrupted them. “You are ze muhjah? Niece, you allow an exorcist into ze vicinity of my body? Uncaring, thoughtless child! You are ze worse than your son.” Her accent was far more pronounced than her niece’s. She moved violently away from Alexia, floating back and upward off the barrel upon which she had pretended to sit. As though Alexia could do anything damaging to her spirit. Silly creature.

Lady Maccon frowned, realizing that the aunt’s presence eliminated Madame Lefoux as a suspect in the case of the mass exorcism. She could not have invented a weapon that acted like a preternatural, not here, not if her aunt’s spirit resided in the contrivance chamber.

“Aunt, do not get so emotional. Lady Maccon can only kill you if she touches your body, and only I know where that is kept.”

Alexia wrinkled her nose. “Please do not agitate yourself so, Formerly Lefoux. I prefer not to perform exorcisms in any event: decomposing flesh is very squishy.” She shuddered delicately.

“Oh, well, thank you for that,” sneered the ghost.

“Ew!” said Quesnel, fascinated. “Have you conducted simply masses of them?”

Alexia narrowed her eyes at him in a way she hoped was mysterious and cunning, and then turned back to his mother. “So, in what capacity did my husband see fit to inform you of my nature and my position?”

Madame Lefoux was leaning back slightly, a faint look of amusement on her lovely face. “What could your ladyship possibly mean?”

“Was he in attendance upon you as Alpha, as earl, or as the head of BUR investigations?”

Madame Lefoux dimpled once more at that. “Ah, yes, the many faces of Conall Maccon.”

Alexia bridled at the Frenchwoman’s use of Conall’s first name. “And how long, exactly, have you known my husband?” Abnormal dress was one thing, but loose morals were an entirely different matter.

“Calm yourself, my lady. My interest in your husband is purely professional. He and I know each other through BUR transactions, but he visited me here a month ago as the earl and your husband. He wished me to make you a special gift.”

“A gift?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, where is it?”

Madame Lefoux looked to her son. “Scat, you. Go find the cleaning mechanicals, hot water, and soap. Listen to your former great-aunt; she will tell you what can take water immersion and what will need to be cleaned and repaired by some other means. You have a very long night ahead of you.”

“But, Maman, I simply wanted to see what would happen!”

“So, now you see. What happens is it makes your maman angry and gets you nights and nights of cleaning as punishment.”

“Aw, Maman!”

“Right this very minute, Quesnel.”

Quesnel sighed loudly and scampered off with a “nice to meet you” directed over his shoulder at Lady Maccon.

“That will teach him to run experiments without some valid hypothesis. Go after him, please, Beatrice, and keep him away for at least a quarter of an hour while I finish my business with Lady Maccon.”

“Fraternizing with a preternatural! You run a far more dangerous game than I did in my day, niece,” grumbled the ghost, but she dispersed easily enough, presumably after the boy.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Formerly Lefoux,” said Alexia defiantly to the now-empty air.

“Please do not concern yourself with her attitude. Even when alive, my aunt was difficult. Brilliant, but difficult. An inventor like me, you see, but less socially indoctrinated, I am afraid.”

Lady Maccon smiled. “I have met many such scientists, and most of them could not claim brilliance as an excuse. That is not to say they didn’t claim it, of course, just that…” She trailed off. She was babbling. She wasn’t certain why, but something about the beautiful, strangely dressed Frenchwoman made Alexia nervous.

“So.” The inventor moved closer to her. Madame Lefoux smelled of vanilla and mechanical oil. “We find ourselves alone. It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, Lady Maccon. The last time I was in the company of a preternatural, I was but a small child. And, of course, he was nowhere near as striking as you.”

“Well, uh, thank you.” Alexia was a little taken aback by the compliment.

The inventor took her hand gently. “Not at all.”

The skin of the inventor’s palm was callused. Lady Maccon could feel the roughness even through her gloves. At the contact, Alexia experienced certain slight palpitations that had, heretofore, been associated only with the opposite sex and, more specifically, her husband. Not much truly shocked Alexia. This did.

As soon as was seemly, she withdrew her hand, blushing furiously under her tan. Considering it a rude betrayal by her own body, Alexia ignored the phenomenon and grappled ineffectually for a moment, trying to remember the direction of her inquiry and the reason they were now alone together. Which was? Ah, yes, at her husband’s insistence.

“I believe you may have something for me,” she said at long last.

Madame Lefoux doffed her top hat in acknowledgment. “Indeed I do. One moment, please.” With a sly smile, she moved off to one side of the lab and rummaged about for a moment in a large steamer trunk. Eventually, she emerged with a long skinny wooden box.

Lady Maccon held her breath in anticipation.

Madame Lefoux carried it over and flipped open the lid.

Inside was a not-very-prepossessing parasol of outlandish shape and indifferent style. Its shade was slate gray in color, edged in embroidered lace, with a thick cream ruffle trim. It had a peculiarly long spike at its tip, decorated with two egg-sized metal globules, like seedpods, one near the fabric and another closer to the tip. Its ribs were oversized, making it bulky and umbrella-like, and its shaft was extremely long, ending in a chubby, knobby, richly decorated handle. The handle looked like something that might top an ancient Egyptian column, carved with lotus flowers—or a very enthusiastic pineapple. The parasol’s parts were entirely of brass, in what looked to be variable alloys, giving it a wide-ranging coloration.

“Well, Conall’s taste strikes again,” commented Alexia, whose own taste, while not particularly imaginative or sophisticated, at least did not tend toward the bizarre.

Madame Lefoux dimpled. “I did my best, given the carrying capacity.”

Alexia was intrigued. “May I?”

The inventor offered her the box.

Lady Maccon lifted out the monstrosity. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

“That is one of the reasons I made it so very long. I thought it might serve double as a walking stick. Then you would not have to carry it everywhere.”

Alexia tested it. The height was ideal for just that. “Is it likely to be something I must carry everywhere?”

“I believe your esteemed husband would prefer it so.”

Alexia demurred. It leaned heavily toward the ugly end of the parasol spectrum. Many of her favorite day dresses would clash most horribly with all that brass and gray, not to mention the decorative elements.

“Also, of course, it had to be tough enough to serve as a defensive weapon.”

“A sensible precaution, given my proclivities.” Lady Maccon had destroyed more than one parasol through the application of it against someone else’s skull.

“Would you like to learn its anthroscopy?” Madame Lefoux became gleeful as she made the offer.

“It has anthroscopy? Is that healthy?”

“Why, certainly. Do you believe I would design an object so ugly without sufficient cause?”

Alexia passed her the heavy accessory. “By all means.”

Madame Lefoux took hold of the handle, allowing Alexia to maintain a grip on the top spire. Upon closer examination, Alexia realized the tip had a tiny hydraulic hinge affixed to one side.

“When you press here”—Madame Lefoux indicated one of the lotus petals on the shaft just below the large handle—“that tip opens and emits a poisoned dart equipped with a numbing agent. And if you twist the handle so…”

Alexia gasped as, just above where she gripped the end, two wickedly sharp spikes flipped out, one of silver and one of wood.

“I did notice your cravat pins,” Lady Maccon said.

Madame Lefoux chuckled, touching them delicately with her free hand. “Oh, they are more than simply cravat pins.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Does the parasol do anything else?”

Madame Lefoux winked at her. “Ah, that is just the beginning. In this, you understand, Lady Maccon, I am an artist.”

Alexia licked her bottom lip. “I am certainly beginning to comprehend that fact. And here I thought only your hats were exceptional.”

The Frenchwoman blushed slightly, the color visible even in the orange light. “Pull this lotus petal here, and so.”

Every noise in the lab fell silent. All the whirring, clanking, and puffs of steam that had faded into the background as ambient sound became suddenly noticeable by way of their absence.

“What?” Alexia looked about. All was still.

And then, moments later, the mechanisms started up once more.

“What happened?” she asked, looking in awe down at the parasol.

“The nodule here”—the inventor pointed to the egg attachment near the shade section of the parasol—“emitted a magnetic disruption field. It will affect any metal of the iron, nickel, or cobalt family, including steel. If you need to seize up a steam engine for any reason, this will probably do the trick, but only for a brief amount of time.”

“Remarkable!”

Again the Frenchwoman blushed. “The disruption field is not of my own invention, but I did make it substantially smaller than Babbage’s original design.” She continued on. “The ruffles contain various hidden pockets and are fluffy enough to disguise small objects.” She reached inside the wide ruffle and pulled out a little vial.

“Poison?” asked Lady Maccon, tilting her head to one side.

“Certainly not. Something far more important: perfume. We cannot very well have you fighting crime unscented, now, can we?”

“Oh.” Alexia nodded gravely. After all, Madame Lefoux was French. “Certainly not.”

Madame Lefoux pushed the shade up, revealing that the parasol was of an old-fashioned pagoda shape. “You can also turn it thus”—she flipped the parasol around so that the shade was pointing the wrong direction—“and twist and press here.” She pointed to a small nodule just above the magnetic disruption emitter, in which a tiny dial was set. “I have designed it to be quite difficult to operate, to prevent any unfortunate accidents. The rib caps of the parasol will open and emit a fine mist. At one click, these three will emit a mixture of lapis lunearis and water. At two clicks, the other three ribs will emit lapis solaris diluted in sulfuric acid. Make certain that you, and anyone you care about, stay well out of the blast area and upwind. Although the lunearis will cause only mild skin irritation, the solaris is toxic and will kill humans as well as disabling vampires.” With a sudden grin, the scientist added, “Only werewolves are resistant. The lunearis is, of course, for them. A direct spray should render the species in question helpless and gravely ill for several days. Three clicks and both will emit at once.”

“Quite outstanding, madame.” Alexia was suitably impressed. “I did not know there were any poisons capable of disabling either species.”

Madame Lefoux said mildly, “I once had access to a partial copy of the Templar’s Amended Rule.”

Lady Maccon’s mouth dropped. “You what?”

The Frenchwoman elucidated no further.

Alexia took the parasol, turning it about in her hands reverently. “I shall have to change over half my wardrobe to match it, of course. But I suspect it will be worth it.”

Madame Lefoux dimpled in pleasure. “It will also keep the sun at bay.”

Lady Maccon snorted in amusement. “As to the cost, has my husband dealt with the necessities?”

The Frenchwoman held up a small hand. “Oh, I am well aware that Woolsey can see to the expense. And I have had dealings with your pack before.”

Alexia smiled. “Professor Lyall?”

“Mainly. He is a curious man. One wonders, sometimes, as to his motivations.”

“He is not a man.”

“Just so.”

“And you?”

“I, too, am not a man. I simply enjoy dressing like one,” replied Madame Lefoux, purposefully choosing to misinterpret Alexia’s question.

“So you say,” replied Lady Maccon. Then she frowned, remembering something Ivy had said about the new hat shop: that actresses like Mabel Dair were known to frequent it. “You are dealing with the hives as well as the packs.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Miss Hisselpenny mentioned that Miss Dair visited your establishment. She is drone to the Westminster Hive.”

The Frenchwoman turned away, busying herself with tidying the laboratory. “I provide to those who can afford my services.”

“Does that include loners and roves? Have you catered to, for example, Lord Akeldama’s taste?”

“I have not yet had the pleasure,” replied the inventor.

Alexia noted that the Frenchwoman did not say that she had not heard of him.

Lady Maccon decided to meddle. “Ah, this is a grave lapse! It ought to be rectified immediately. Would you be free for tea later this evening, say around midnight? I shall consult with the gentleman in question and see if he is available.”

Madame Lefoux looked curious but wary. “I believe I could arrange to get away. How very kind of you, Lady Maccon.”

Alexia inclined her head in grand-dame fashion, feeling silly. “I shall send around a card with the address, if he is amenable.” She wanted to meet with Lord Akeldama alone first.

Just then, a new noise made itself heard through the hubbub of machinery, a querulous, high-pitched, “Alexia?”

Lady Maccon whirled about. “Oh dear, Ivy! She has not made her way down here, has she? I believe I closed the door to the ascension chamber behind me.”

Madame Lefoux looked unperturbed. “Oh, do not concern yourself. It is only her voice. I have an auditory capture and dispersal amplifier funneling sounds in from the shop.” She pointed to where a trumpet-shaped object was cabled to the ceiling. Lady Maccon had thought it some kind of gramophone. But Ivy’s voice emanated from it, as clearly as if she were in the laboratory with them. Astonishing.

“Perhaps we should return to the shop and attend her,” suggested the inventor.

Alexia, clutching her new parasol to her ample bosom like a newborn child, nodded.

They did so, to find that the gas lighting was up and running once more. And that, under the bright lights of the empty shop, Miss Hisselpenny was still reposing on the floor, but now seated upright and looking pale and confused.

“What happened?” she demanded as Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux approached.

“There was a loud bang, and you fainted,” replied Alexia. “Really, Ivy, if you did not lace your corset so tight, you would not be so prone to the vapors. It is reputed to be terribly bad for your health.”

Miss Hisselpenny gasped at the mention of underclothing in a public hat shop. “Please, Alexia, do not spout such radical folderol. Next thing, you will want me to engage in dress reform!”

Lady Maccon rolled her eyes. The very idea: Ivy in bloomers!

“What have you got there?” Miss Hisselpenny asked, focusing on the parasol Lady Maccon clasped to her chest.

Alexia crouched down to show the parasol to her friend.

“Why, Alexia, that is quite beautiful. It does not reflect your customary taste at all,” approved Miss Hisselpenny with glee.

Trust Ivy to like the hideous thing for its looks.

Miss Hisselpenny glanced eagerly up at the Frenchwoman. “I should like one just like it, in perhaps a nice lemon yellow with black and white stripes. Would you have such an item to hand?”

Alexia giggled at Madame Lefoux’s shocked expression.

“I should think not,” the inventor croaked out finally, having cleared her throat twice. “Should I”—she winced slightly—“order you one?”

“Please do.”

Alexia stood and said softly in French, “Perhaps without the additional garnishing.”

“Mmm,” replied Madame Lefoux.

A little bell chimed cheerfully as someone new wandered into the shop. Miss Hisselpenny struggled to rise from her undignified lounge upon the floor.

The newcomer approached them, parting the forest of dangling hats and, upon seeing Ivy’s plight, leaped to her aid.

“Why, Miss Hisselpenny, are you unwell? Let me offer my most humble services.”

“Tunstell,” interjected Alexia, glaring at the young man. “What are you doing here?”

The redheaded claviger ignored her, cooing over Miss Hisselpenny solicitously.

Ivy attained her feet and clutched at his arm, leaning against his side weakly and looking up at him out of big dark eyes.

Tunstell seemed to be taking a long, leisurely swim in those eyes, like some sort of gormless guppy.

Actors, the lot of them. Alexia poked at his bottom, nicely packaged in some excessively tight britches, with the tip of her new parasol. “Tunstell, explain your presence at once.”

Tunstell jumped slightly and looked at her in a maltreated manner.

“I have a message from Professor Lyall,” he said, as though she were somehow to blame for this.

Lady Maccon did not ask how Lyall had known she would be at Chapeau de Poupe. The ways of her husband’s Beta were often mysterious and better left unquestioned.

“Well?”

Tunstell was staring once more into Miss Hisselpenny’s eyes.

Alexia tapped the parasol on the wooden floor, enjoying the metallic clicking noise it made. “The message.”

“He requests for you to visit with him at BUR as a matter of some urgency,” said Tunstell without looking at her.

A matter of urgency was pack code for activation of Lady Maccon as muhjah. Lyall had some information for the Crown. Alexia nodded. “In that case, Ivy, you would not mind if I left you under Tunstell’s care while you complete your shopping? He will see you safely off. Won’t you, Tunstell?”

“It would be my very great pleasure.” Tunstell beamed.

“Oh, I believe that would suit adequately,” breathed Ivy, smiling back.

Lady Maccon wondered if she had ever been so foolish over Lord Maccon. Then she recalled that her affection generally took the form of threats and verbal barbs. She gave herself a pat on the back for avoiding sentimentality.

The inventor-cum-milliner walked her to the front door.

“I shall send a card around presently when I determine Lord Akeldama’s availability. He should be at home, but you never can tell with roves. This summons from Professor Lyall cannot possibly take long.” Alexia looked back at Tunstell and Ivy, engaged in an overly familiar tête-à-tête. “Please, do try to prevent Miss Hisselpenny from purchasing anything too hideous, and see that Tunstell puts her into a hackney but does not get into it himself.”

“I shall do my level best, Lady Maccon,” replied Madame Lefoux with an abbreviated bow—so short as to be almost rude. Then, in a quick-fire movement, she caught one of Alexia’s hands with her own. “It was a great pleasure to meet you at last, my lady.” Her grip was firm and sure. Of course, lifting and building all that machinery below street level would give anyone a certain degree of musculature, even the rail-thin woman before her. The inventor’s fingers caressed Alexia’s wrist just above the perfect fit of her gloves, so quickly that Alexia was not certain the action had occurred. There was that faint scent of vanilla mixed with gear oil once more. Then Madame Lefoux smiled, dropped Alexia’s hand, and turned back into the shop, disappearing among the swinging jungle of fashionable headgear.

Professor Lyall and Lord Maccon shared an office at BUR headquarters, on Fleet Street, but it was always considerably cleaner whenever the earl was not in residence. Lady Alexia Maccon breezed in, swinging her new parasol proudly and hoping Lyall would ask about it. But Professor Lyall was mightily distracted behind a pile of paperwork and a stack of metal scrolls with acid-etched notes upon them. He stood, bowed, and sat back down again as a matter of course rather than courtesy. Whatever had occurred was clearly occupying all of his considerable attention. His glassicals were perched upon his head, mussing his coiffure. Was it possible that his cravat could be minutely askew?

“Are you well, Professor Lyall?” Alexia asked, quite worried by the cravat.

“I am in perfect health, thank you for asking, Lady Maccon. It is your husband who concerns me, and I have no way to get through to him at present.”

“Yes,” said the earl’s wife, deadpan, “I daily face a similar dilemma, frequently when he and I are in conversation. What has he gone and done now?”

Professor Lyall smiled slightly. “Oh no, nothing like that. It is simply that the plague of humanization has struck again, moving northward as far as Farthinghoe.”

Alexia frowned at this new information. “Curious. It is on the move, is it?”

“And heading in the same direction as Lord Maccon. Though slightly ahead of him.”

“And he doesn’t know that, does he?”

Lyall shook his head.

“That family matter, it’s the dead Alpha, isn’t it?”

Lyall ignored this and said, “Don’t know quite how it’s moving so fast. The trains have been down since yesterday—strike. Trust the daylight folk to become inefficient at a time like this.”

“By coach, perhaps?”

“Could be. It seems to be moving quickly. I should like to make the earl aware of this information, but there is no way to contact him until he arrives at the Glasgow offices. Not to mention Channing’s blather about the boat ride over. This thing is mobile and Conall doesn’t know that.”

“You think he might overtake it?”

The Beta shook his head again. “Not at the rate it is moving. Lord Maccon is fast, but he said he was not going to push this run. If it keeps traveling north at the rate I predict, it will hit Scotland several days before he does. I have sent a note to our agents in the north, but I thought you should know as well, as muhjah.”

Alexia nodded.

“Will you inform the other members of the Shadow Council?”

Lady Maccon frowned at that. “I do not think that is entirely wise just yet. I think it might wait until our next meeting. You should file a report, of course, but I shall not go out of my way to tell the potentate and the dewan.”

The Beta nodded and did not inquire as to her reasons.

“Very well, Professor Lyall. If there is nothing else, I should be off. I have need of Lord Akeldama’s council.”

Professor Lyall gave her an unreadable look. “Well, I suppose someone must. Good evening, Lady Maccon.”

Alexia left without ever having shown Professor Lyall her new parasol.