The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (110 page)

“Oh, no, that's quite all right. It wasn't precisely what
I was hoping for, but it has convinced me that I must contact Lady Kingair as soon as possible. I must convince my husband's
old pack to reveal the details of the original plot. Only they can fully unravel this mystery. I can't believe that the OBO
was not involved, but if your aunt says so with such conviction, only the source of the threat itself can reveal the truth
of the matter.”

“And, of course, my aunt was never a member of the Order.”

“She wasn't?” Alexia was genuinely surprised.

“Absolutely not. Women weren't allowed to join back in her day. It's difficult enough now.” The French inventor, one of the
smartest people Alexia had ever met, reached behind her neck to finger the octopus tattoo that lay hidden there, just under
the curls of her scandalously short hair. Alexia tried to imagine Genevieve without her secret underground world. Impossible.

Alexia said, “I shall have to send someone to Scotland. I don't suppose…?”

Madame Lefoux looked even more unhappy. “Oh, no. I am sorry, my dearest Alexia, but I cannot afford the time. Not right now.
I have this”—she waved a hand at the monstrous thing she was building—“to finish. And my aunt to think of. I should be with
her, now that the end is near.”

Lady Maccon turned to the inventor and, because she seemed to need it more than anything else, embraced her gently. It was
awkward given Alexia's belly but worth it for the slight lessening Alexia could feel in Genevieve's stiffened shoulders. “Would
you like me to send her on?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“No, thank you. I am not yet ready to let her go. You understand?”

Alexia sighed and released her friend. “Well, worry not on this particular matter. I will get to the bottom of it. Even if
I have to send Ivy Tunstell to Scotland for me!”

Fated words that, as is often the case with frivolous speech, Alexia was going to come to regret.

W
ere they not recently moved into new accommodations, Lady Maccon might have made a different choice—one of Woolsey's older
clavigers, perhaps. But the pack was in chaos over the relocation. They were nowhere near as tethered to a place as vampires,
but werewolves were, in simple terms, tethered to each other and were creatures of profound habit. Such arbitrary reorganization
ruffled the fur. Solidarity and proximity became ever more necessary for the pack's continued cohesion. Were BUR not occupied
with its own investigation as to the current threat against Queen Victoria, Alexia might have tapped Haverbink or another
experienced investigator. And, finally, were the Shadow Council supplied with its own agents, the muhjah would have had manpower
to call upon. However, with none of these options readily available, Lady Maccon cast about herself and found that she had
only one possible choice—as unlikely and as addlepated as that choice might be.

Mrs. Tunstell ran a tight household, despite overseeing her rented accommodations with a floppy hand and absentminded disposition.
Her abode was clean and neat, and callers could be assured of a decent cup of tea or candy dish of raw meat, depending upon
taste and inclination. Despite an interior resplendent in every shade of pastel, Ivy's home was a popular watering hole. As
a result, the Tunstells had developed a name for themselves among the more esoteric members of the West End as agreeable hosts
interested in a wide range of topics and ever willing to open their door to the friendly visitor. This meant that, at any
given time, one was practically guaranteed to find some breed of indifferent poet or insipid sculptor in residence.

So it was that when Lady Maccon called around teatime that summer afternoon, a delighted Mrs. Tunstell welcomed her inside
with assurances that while they had indeed adopted a stray poet, that versifier was quite firmly asleep and had been for the
better part of three days.

Ivy's good-humored little face fell. “He drinks, poor man, to forget the pain of the embittered universe that subsumes his
soul. Or do I mean sublimes his soul? Anyhoo, we've had to remove the tea quite forcibly from his grasp on more than one occasion.
Barley water, says Tunny, is the only thing one should take when suffering such ailments of the emotional humors.”

“Oh, dear,” commiserated Alexia. “I suppose one might recover one's spirits out of desperation if all one had to drink was
barley water.”

“Exactly so!” Ivy nodded over her husband's evident sagacity on the application of revolting beverages to
despondent poets. She motioned her friend into her front parlor, a diminutive room that boasted all the elegance of iced Nesselrode
pudding.

Lady Maccon deposited her parasol into the small umbrella stand and made her way gingerly toward a wingback chair, careful
not to upset any of the decorative objects strewn about. Her visiting dress was of flowing blue paisley with a stiffened quilted
skirt. Designed to accommodate her increasing girth, it was much wider—and thus more dangerous to Ivy's receiving room—than
the current trends dictated.

She sat heavily in the chair, sighing at the relief of getting the weight off her poor feet, which seemed to have swollen
to near twice their original proportions. “Ivy, my dear, I was wondering if I might prevail upon you for a very great favor.”

“Oh, Alexia, of course. You have only to ask and I shall do whatever.”

Lady Maccon hesitated, wondering exactly how much to reveal. Ivy was a dear little soul, but was she reliable? She decided
to buck up and take the plunge. “Ivy, have you ever wondered if there might, just possibly, be something slightly unusual
about me?”

“Well, Alexia my dear, I never liked to say, but I have always wondered about your hat preferences. They have struck me as
mighty plain.”

Lady Maccon shook her head. The long blue ostrich feather of her not-at-all-plain hat wafted back and forth behind her. “No,
not that, I mean… Well, dash it, Ivy, there's nothing for it.”

Mrs. Tunstell gasped in enchanted shock at Lady Maccon's lowbrow language. “Alexia, you have been fraternizing
with werewolves overmuch! Military men can be terribly bad for one's verbal concatenation.”

Alexia took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I'm preternatural.”

Ivy's dark eyes widened. “
Oh, no
! Is it catching?”

Alexia blinked at her.

Ivy donned a sympathetic expression. “Is it a terribly painful condition?”

Lady Maccon continued to blink.

Ivy put a hand to her throat. “Is it the baby? Will you both be well? Should I send for barley water?”

Alexia finally found her voice. “No,
preternatural.
You might know the term, as in
soulless
? Or curse-breaker. I have no soul. None at all. As a matter of fact, I can cancel it out in supernatural creatures given
half a chance.”

Ivy relaxed. “Oh,
that.
Yes, I knew. I shouldn't let it concern you, my dear. I doubt anybody minds.”

“Yes, but… Wait, you knew?”

Ivy tut-tutted and shook dark ringlets at her friend in mock amusement. “Of course I knew—have done for simply ages.”

“But you never mentioned a thing to me on the subject.” Alexia was not often flummoxed. She found it an usual sensation and
wondered if this was what Ivy felt like most of the time. Her friend's revelation did, however, give her some degree of confidence
in her next move. Despite all her frivolities, Ivy could clearly keep a secret and, it turned out, was more observant than
Alexia had previously given her credit for.

“Now, Alexia, I thought you were embarrassed about it. I didn't want to bring up an uncomfortable personal disability. I have
more sensitivity and care for the feelings of others than that!”

“Ah, oh, well. Of course you do. Regardless, as a preternatural, I am currently engaged in some investigations. I was hoping
to enlist your aid. It has to do with my husband's work.” Alexia didn't want to tell Ivy absolutely everything, but she didn't
want to fib outright either.

“For BUR? Espionage! Oh, really? How terribly glamorous.” Ivy clasped yellow-gloved hands together in delight.

“To which end I was hoping to, well, induct you into a kind of secret society.”

Ivy looked as though she had not heard anything so thrilling in all her life. “Me?” she squeaked. “Really? How
marvelous.
What's it called, this secret society?”

Alexia hesitated and then, recalling a phrase her husband had once offered up in the heat of annoyance, suggested tentatively,
“The Parasol Protectorate?”

“Oooh, what a perfectly splendid name. So full of ornamentation!” Ivy practically bounced up and down on the lavender settee
in her excitement. “Must I make a pledge, or memorize a sacred code of conduct, or engage in some pagan ritual or other?”
Ivy had an expectant look on her face that suggested she would be very disappointed if this were not the case.

“Well, yes, of course.” Lady Maccon floundered, trying to come up with something appropriate to the occasion. She couldn't
make Ivy kneel, not in that dress—a periwinkle muslin day gown with an extremely long, tight bodice of the style favored by
actresses.

After a moment's thought, Alexia stood laboriously and waddled over to the umbrella stand to retrieve her parasol. This she
opened and placed point downward in the center of the room. Since the room was so very small, this did manage to take up most
of the free space. Motioning Ivy to
stand, Alexia handed her the handle and said, “Spin the parasol three times and repeat after me: I shield in the name of fashion.
I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

Ivy did as she was told, face serious and concentrated. “I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit
of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

“Now pick the parasol up and raise it, open, to the ceiling. Yes, just like that.”

“Is that all? Shouldn't the vow be sealed in blood or something like?”

“Oh, do you think?”

Ivy nodded enthusiastically.

Alexia shrugged. “If you insist.” She took back her parasol, snapped it closed, and twisted the handle. Two wickedly sharp
spikes projected out of the tip, one of silver, the other of wood.

Ivy inhaled in appreciation.

Lady Maccon flipped the parasol about. Then she took off one of her gloves. After a moment's hesitation, Ivy did the same.
Alexia nicked the pad of her thumb with the silver spike and then did the same for Ivy, who gave a little squeak of alarm.
Then Alexia pressed their two thumbs together.

“May the blood of the soulless keep your own soul safe,” intoned Alexia, feeling appallingly melodramatic but knowing Ivy
would love this better than anything.

Ivy did. “Oh, Alexia, this is so very stirring! It should be part of a play.”

“I shall have a special parasol made up for you, similar to mine.”

“Oh, no, but thank you for the thought, Alexia. I couldn't possibly carry an accessory that emitted things all willy-nilly
like that. Really, I'm much obliged, but I simply couldn't bear it. You, of course, manage to carry it off with aplomb, but
it would be too vulgar on someone like me.”

Lady Maccon frowned, but knowing her friend's true weakness, she made another suggestion. “A special hat, perhaps?”

Ivy hesitated.

“Madame Lefoux designed my parasol.”

“Well, perhaps a small hat. One that isn't too oozy?”

Alexia smiled. “I am convinced that could be arranged.”

Ivy bit her lip on a smile. “Oh, Alexia, a secret society. How marvelous of you. Who else is a member? Do we have regular
meetings? Is there a covert signal so we should know one another at social gatherings?”

“Um, well, as to that, so far you are my first inductee, so to speak. I anticipate future members, though.”

Ivy looked quite crestfallen.

Lady Maccon continued on hastily. “But you will have to operate and report in under a cipher, of course—for aetherograms and
other secret messages.”

Ivy brightened at that. “Oh, of course. What shall my cipher be? Something romantic yet subtle, I hope?”

Lady Maccon contemplated her friend while a series of rather silly names suggested themselves. Finally, she settled on one
she knew Ivy would like, because it represented a style of headdress to which she was rather devoted but that Alexia might
remember because it struck her as particularly Ivyish. “How about Puff Bonnet?”

Ivy's pretty face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, fabulous. Perfectly modish. And what's yours?”

Again, Alexia was ill prepared for the question. She cast about helplessly. “Uh. Oh, let me think.” She grappled, running
through her mind several of Lord Akeldama's epithets and some of her husband's more affectionate endearments. Nothing quite
suited a secret society, at least not that she could admit openly to Ivy. Finally, she settled on the simplest she could think
of. “You may refer to me as the Ruffled Parasol. That should do well enough.”

Ivy clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent. Alexia, this is superb fun.”

Lady Maccon sat back down. “Do you think we might have tea now?” she asked plaintively.

Ivy immediately rang the bell rope, and in short order a nervous young maid brought in a laden tea tray.

“Marvelous,” said Lady Maccon in evident relief.

Ivy poured. “And now that I have been properly inducted into the Protectorate, what is my first assignment?”

“Ah, yes, the reason I came to visit in the first place. You see, there is a matter of national delicacy concerning an assassination
attempt on Queen Victoria. Some twenty years ago, members of the Kingair Pack tried to eliminate Her Majesty.”

“Oh, no, really? Not those nice Scotsmen? They couldn't possibly do anything so treasonous. Well, except trot around displaying
their knees for all to see, but nothing so calamitous as attempted regicide.”

“I assure you, Ivy, this is the honest truth, universally acknowledged by those in a position to know such details.” Lady
Maccon sipped her tea and then nodded wisely. “Fact—my husband's previous pack tried to kill Queen Victoria by means of a
poison. I need
you
to float back to Castle Kingair and ascertain the particulars.”

Ivy grinned. She had developed, since her first trip with Alexia to Scotland, a most unladylike fondness for dirigible travel.
Her current position in life did not allow her to indulge, but now…

Lady Maccon grinned back. “All I know is that the previous Beta spearheaded the plot and was killed. My husband left the pack
as a result. Any further information could be invaluable to my current investigation. Do you think you are up to this task,
even in your present condition?”