Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second (41 page)

He stayed there, on the other side of the room, yelling at Alexia. It was as though he’d placed the distance between them,
not because he didn’t want to come at her and tear her apart, but because he really thought he might. His eyes were such a
pale yellow they were almost white. Alexia had never seen them that color before. And, despite the filthy words coming out
of his mouth, those eyes were agonized and bereft.

“But I didn’t,” Alexia tried to say. “I wouldn’t. I’d never do those things. I am no adulteress. How could you even think?
I would never.” But her protestations of innocence only seemed to injure him. Eventually, his big, good-natured face crumpled
slightly about the mouth and nose, drawing down into lines of pain, as though he might actually cry. He strode from the room,
slamming the door behind him.

The silence he left behind was palpable.

Lady Kingair had, during the chaos, managed to change back into human form. She came around the front of the couch and stood
a moment before Alexia, entirely naked, shielded only by her long gray-brown hair, loose over her shoulders and chest.

“You will understand,
Lady
Maccon,” she said, eyes cold, “if I ask you to leave Kingair territory at once. Lord Maccon may have abandoned us once, but
he is still pack. And pack protects its own.”

“But,” Alexia whispered, “it is his child. I swear it. I was never with anyone else.”

Sidheag only stared at her, hard. “Come now, Lady Maccon. Shouldna you come up with a better story than that? ’Tis na possible.
Werewolves canna breed children. Never have done, never will do.” Then she turned and left the room.

Alexia turned to Madame Lefoux, shock written all over her face. “He really believes I was unfaithful.” She herself had reflected
recently how much Conall valued loyalty.

Madame Lefoux nodded. “I’m afraid it is a belief most will share.” Her expression sympathetic, she placed a small hand on
Alexia’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I wasn’t, I swear I wasn’t.”

The Frenchwoman winced. “I believe that, Lady Maccon. But I will be in the minority.”

“Why would you trust me when even my husband does not?” Alexia looked down at her own stomach and then rested shaking hands
upon it.

“Because I know how very little we understand about preternaturals.”

“You are interested in studying me, aren’t you, Madame Lefoux?”

“You are a remarkable creature, Alexia.”

Alexia widened her eyes, trying not to cry, her mind still vibrating with Conall’s words. “Then how is this possible?” She
pressed hard against her stomach with both hands, as though asking the tiny creature inside to explain itself to her.

“I imagine that is something we had best figure out. Come on, let’s get you out of this place.”

The Frenchwoman helped Alexia to stand and supported her weight out into the hallway. She was surprisingly strong for such
a delicate-looking creature, probably all that lifting of heavy machinery.

They ran into Felicity, looking remarkably somber.

“Sister, there was the most awful to-do,” she said as soon as she saw them. “I believe your husband just smashed one of the
hall tables into a thousand pieces with his fist.” She cocked her head. “It
was
an astonishingly ugly table, but still, one could always give it to the deserving poor, couldn’t one?”

“We must pack and leave immediately,” said Madame Lefoux, keeping one arm supportively about Alexia’s waist.

“Good Lord, why?”

“Your sister is pregnant, and Lord Maccon has cast her out.”

Felicity frowned. “Well,
that
does not follow.”

Madame Lefoux had clearly had enough. “Quickly, girl, run off and gather your things together. We must quit Kingair directly.”

Three-quarters of an hour later, a borrowed Kingair carriage sped away toward the nearest train station. The horses were fresh
and made good time, even in the slush and mud.

Alexia, still overcome with the most profound shock, opened the small window above the carriage door and poked her head out
into the rushing wind.

“Sister, come away from the window. That will wreak havoc with your hair. And, really, your hair doesn’t need the excuse,”
Felicity jawed on. Alexia ignored her, so Felicity looked to the Frenchwoman. “What
is
she doing?”

Madame Lefoux gave a sad little grimace of a smile—no dimples. “Listening.” She put a gentle hand on Alexia’s back, rubbing
it softly. Alexia did not appear to notice.

“For what?”

“Howling, running wolves.”

And Alexia was listening, but there was only the damp quiet of a Scottish night.

Ms. Carriger began writing in order to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon.
She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in Higher Learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the
historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She now resides in the Colonies, surrounded
by a harem of Armenian lovers, where she insists on tea imported directly from London. She is fond of teeny-tiny hats and
tropical fruit. Find out more about Ms. Carriger at
www.gailcarriger.com
.

If you enjoyed CHANGELESS,

look out for

BLAMELESS

The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Third

by Gail Carriger

H
ow much longer, Mama, must we tolerate this gross humiliation?”

Lady Alexia Maccon paused before entering the breakfast room. Cutting through the comfortable sounds of chinking teacups and
scrunching toast came her sister’s nondulcet tones. In an unsurprising morning duet of well-practiced whining, Felicity’s
voice was soon followed by Evylin’s.

“Yes, mumsy darling, such a scandal under our roof. We really shouldn’t be expected to put up with it any longer.”

Felicity championed the cause once more. “This is ruining our chances”—crunch, crunch—“beyond all recuperation. It isn’t to
be borne. It really isn’t.”

Alexia made a show of checking her appearance in the hall mirror, hoping to overhear more. Much to her consternation, the
Loontwills’ new butler, Swilkins, came through with a tray of kippers. He gave her a disapproving glare that said much on
his opinion of a young lady caught eavesdropping on her own family. Eavesdropping was, by rights, a butler’s proprietary art
form.

“Good morning, Lady Maccon,” he said loudly enough for the family to hear even through their chatting and clattering. “You
received several messages this morning.” He handed Alexia two folded and sealed letters and then waited pointedly for her
to precede him into the breakfast room.

Alexia hid her annoyance and flounced in. “Good morning, dearest family.”

Said family responded reluctantly to her pleasant greeting.

As she made her way carefully to the only empty chair, four pairs of blue eyes watched her progress with an air of condemnation.
Well, three pairs: the Right Honorable Squire Loontwill seemed entirely taken with the correct cracking of his soft-boiled
egg. This involved the application of an ingenious little device, rather like a handheld sideways guillotine, that nipped
the tip off the egg in perfect, chipless circularity. Thus happily engrossed, he did not bother to attend to the arrival of
his stepdaughter.

Alexia carefully poured herself a glass of barley water and took a piece of toast from the rack, no butter, trying to ignore
the smoky smell of breakfast. It had once been her favorite meal; now it invariably curdled her stomach. So far the infant-inconvenience—as
she’d taken to thinking of it—was proving itself far more tiresome than one would have thought possible, considering it was
years away from either speech or action.

Mrs. Loontwill looked with manifold approval at her daughter’s meager selection. “I shall be comforted,” she said to the table
at large, “by the fact that our poor dear Alexia is practically wasting away for want of her husband’s affection. Such fine
feelings of sentimentality.” She clearly perceived Alexia’s breakfast-starvation tactics as symptoms of a superior bout of
wallowing.

Alexia gave her mother an annoyed glance. Since the infant-inconvenience had already brought with it a small amount of weight
added to Alexia’s already substantial figure, she was several stone away from “wasting.” Nor was she of a personality inclined
toward wallowing. In addition, she resented the fact that Lord Maccon might be perceived as having anything whatsoever to
do with the fact—aside from the obvious, of which her family was as yet unaware—that she was off her food. She opened her
mouth to correct her mother in this regard, but Felicity interrupted her.

“Oh, Mama, I hardly think Alexia is the type to die of a broken heart.”

“Nor is she the type to be gastronomically challenged,” shot back Mrs. Loontwill.

“I, on the other hand,” interjected Evylin, helping herself to a plateful of kipper, “may jolly well do both.”

“Language, Evy darling, please.” Mrs. Loontwill snapped a piece of toast in half in her distress.

The youngest Miss Loontwill rounded on Alexia, pointing a forkful of eggs at her accusingly. “Captain Featherstonehaugh has
thrown me over! How do you like that? We received a note only this morning.”

“Captain Featherstonehaugh?” Alexia muttered to herself. “I thought he was engaged to Ivy and you were engaged to someone
else. How confusing.”

“No no, Evy’s engaged to him now. Or, was. How long have you been staying with us? Do pay attention, Alexia dear.” Mrs. Loontwill
admonished.

Evylin sighed dramatically. “And the dress is already bought and everything. I shall have to have it entirely made over.”

“He did have very nice eyebrows,” consoled Mrs. Loontwill.

“Exactly,” crowed Evylin. “Where will I find another pair of eyebrows like that? Crushed, I tell you, Alexia. I am absolutely
crushed. And it’s all
your
fault.”

Evylin, it must be noted, did not actually look nearly so bothered as one rightly ought over the loss of a fiancé, especially
one reputed to possess such heights of eyebrow superiority. She stuffed the eggs into her mouth and chewed methodically. She
had taken it into her head recently that chewing every bite of food twenty times over would keep her slender. What it did
was keep her at the dinner table longer than anyone else.

“He cited philosophical differences, but we all know why he really broke things off.” Felicity waved a gold-edged note at
Alexia—a note that clearly contained the good captain’s deepest regrets—a note that, from the stains about its person, had
received the concerted attention of everyone at the breakfast table, including the kippers.

“I agree.” Alexia calmly sipped her barley water. “Philosophical differences? That cannot possibly be true. You don’t actually
have a philosophy about anything. Do you, Evylin dear?”

“So you admit responsibility?” Evylin was moved to swallow her eggs early so that she could launch the attack once more. She
tossed her blond curls, only one or two shades removed from the color of her eggs.

“Certainly not. I never even met the man.”

“But it is still
your
fault. Abandoning your husband like that, staying with us instead of him. It is outrageous. People. Are. Talking.” Evylin
emphasized her words by stabbing ruthlessly at a sausage.

“People do tend to talk. I believe it is generally considered one of the better modes of communication.”

“Oh, why must you be so impossible? Mama, do something about her.” Evylin delegated her mother as responsible for Alexia’s
good conduct, gave up on the sausage, and went back to her eggs.

“You hardly seem very cut up about it.” Alexia watched as her sister chewed away.

“Oh, I assure you, poor Evy is deeply effected. Shockingly overwrought, even.” Mrs. Loontwill came to her daughter’s defense.

“Surely you mean
affected
?” Alexia was not above a barb or two where her family was concerned.

At the end of the table, Squire Loontwill, the only one likely to understand a literary joke, chuckled softly.

“Herbert,” his wife reprimanded immediately, “don’t encourage her to be pert. Most unattractive quality in a married lady,
pertness.” She turned back to Alexia. Mrs. Loontwill’s face, that of a pretty woman who had aged without realizing it, screwed
itself up into a grimace Alexia supposed was meant to simulate motherly concern. Instead she looked like a Pekinese with digestive
complaints. “Is that what the estrangement with
him
is over, Alexia? You weren’t… brainy… with
him
, were you, dear?” Mrs. Loontwill had refrained from referring to Lord Maccon by name ever since her daughter’s marriage,
as if by doing so she might hold on to the fact that Alexia
had
married—a condition believed by most to be highly unlikely right up until the fateful event—without having to remember
what
she had married. A peer of the realm, it was true, and one of Her Majesty’s finest, to be certain, but also a werewolf. It
hadn’t helped that Lord Maccon loathed Mrs. Loontwill and didn’t mind who knew it—including Mrs. Loontwill. Why, Alexia remembered,
once he had even… She stopped herself from further thought of her husband, squashing down ruthlessly on the small smile attempting
to creep up at the memory.