Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second (10 page)

Alexia picked up a pair of burnt umber kid gloves from a display basket. They were as soft as butter to the touch, and she
looked at them to stop herself from staring at the woman.

“I am Madame Lefoux. Welcome to Chapeau de Poupe. How may I serve you fine ladies?” She had the hint of a French accent, but
only the barest hint, utterly unlike Angelique, who could never seem to handle the “th” sound.

Ivy and Alexia curtsied with a little tilt to their heads, the latest fashion in curtsies, designed to show that the neck
was unbitten. One wouldn’t want to be thought a drone without the benefit of vampiric protection. Madame Lefoux did the same,
although it was impossible to tell if her neck was bitten under that skillfully tied cravat. Alexia noted with interest that
she wore two cravat pins: one of silver and one of wood. Madame Lefoux might keep night hours, but she was cautious about
it.

Lady Maccon said, “My friend Miss Hisselpenny has recently become engaged and is in dire need of a new hat.” She did not introduce
herself, not yet. Lady Maccon was a name best kept in reserve.

Madame Lefoux took in Ivy’s copious flowers and feather bees. “Yes, this is quite evident. Do walk this way, Miss Hisselpenny.
I believe I have something over here that would perfectly suit that dress.”

Ivy dutifully trotted after the strangely clad woman. She gave Alexia a look over her shoulder that said, as clearly as if
she had the gumption to say it aloud,
what the deuce is she wearing?

Alexia wandered over to the offensive yellow toque she and Madame Lefoux had so hastily warned Ivy off of. It completely contrasted
with the general sophisticated tenor set by the other hats. Almost as though it wasn’t meant to be purchased.

As the extraordinary patroness seemed to be thoroughly distracted by Ivy (well, who wouldn’t be?), Alexia used the handle
of her parasol to gently lift the toque and peek underneath. It was at that precise moment she deduced why it was her husband
had sent her to Chapeau de Poupe.

There was a hidden knob, disguised as a hook, secreted under the hideous hat. Alexia quickly replaced the hat and turned away
to begin innocently wandering about the shop, pretending interest in various accessories. She began to notice that there were
other little hints as to a second nature for Chapeau de Poupe: scrape marks on the floor near a wall that
seemed
to have no door and several gas lights that were not lit. Alexia would wager good money that they were not lights at all.

Lady Maccon would not have thought to be curious, of course, had her husband not been so insistent she visit the establishment.
The rest of the shop was quite unsuspicious, being the height of la mode, with hats appealing enough to hold even
her
unstylish awareness. But with the scrapes and the hidden knob, Alexia became curious, both about the shop and its owner.
Lady Maccon might be soulless, but the liveliness of her mind was never in question.

She wandered over to where Madame Lefoux had actually persuaded Miss Hisselpenny to don a becoming little straw bonnet with
upturned front, decorated about the crown with a few classy cream flowers and one graceful blue feather.

“Ivy, that looks remarkably well on you,” she praised.

“Thank you, Alexia, but don’t you find it a tad reserved? I’m not convinced it quite suits.”

Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux exchanged a
look.

“No, I do not. It is nothing like that horrible yellow thing at the back you insisted on at first. I went to take a closer
look, you know, and it really is quite ghastly.”

Madame Lefoux glanced at Alexia, her beautiful face suddenly sharp and her dimples gone.

Alexia smiled, all teeth and not nicely. One couldn’t live around werewolves and not pick up a few of their mannerisms. “It
cannot possibly be your design?” she said mildly to the proprietress.

“The work of an apprentice, I do assure you,” replied Madame Lefoux with a tiny French shrug. She put a new hat onto Ivy’s
head, one with a few more flowers.

Miss Hisselpenny preened.

“Are there any more… like it?” wondered Alexia, still talking about the ugly yellow hat.

“Well, there is that riding hat.” The proprietress’s voice was wary.

Lady Maccon nodded. Madame Lefoux was naming the hat nearest to the scrape marks Alexia had observed on the floor. They understood
one another.

There came a pause in conversation while Ivy expressed interest in a frosted pink confection with feather toggles. Alexia
spun her closed parasol between two gloved hands.

“You seem to be having problems with some of your gas lighting as well,” said Alexia, all mildness and sugar.

“Indeed.” A flicker of firm acknowledgment crossed Madame Lefoux’s face at that. “And, of course, there is the door handle.
But you know how it goes—there are always kinks to work out after opening a new establishment.”

Lady Maccon cursed herself. The door handle—how had she missed that? She wandered over casually, leaning on her parasol to
look down at it.

Ivy, all insensible of the underpinnings to their conversation, went on to try the next hat.

The handle on the inside of the front door was far larger than it ought to be and seemed to be comprised of a complicated
series of cogs and bolts, far more security than any ordinary hat shop required.

Alexia wondered if Madame Lefoux was a French spy.

“Well,” Ivy was telling Madame Lefoux in a chatty manner when Alexia rejoined them, “Alexia always says my taste is abysmal,
but I can hardly see how she has much ground. Her choices are so often banal.”

“I lack imagination,” admitted Alexia. “Which is why I keep a highly creative French maid.”

Madame Lefoux looked mildly interested at that. Her dimples showed in a little half-smile.

“And the eccentricity of carrying a parasol even at night? I take it I am being honored by a visit from Lady Maccon?”

“Alexia,” Miss Hisselpenny asked, scandalized, “you never introduced yourself?”

“Well I—” Alexia was grappling for an excuse, when…

Boom!

And the world about them exploded into darkness.

A
n 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.