The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (72 page)

Floote began cleaning up the disarray.

“Pity,” said Madame Lefoux.

Professor Lyall gave the Frenchwoman a suspicious look.

The inventor raised both of her hands defensively. “Not my craftsmanship, I assure you. I do not deal in”—a sudden dimpled
grin spread over her face—“coccinellids.”

“I think you had better explain why you're blaming the vampires, Professor.” Alexia brought the matter back to hand and gave
her husband's Beta a very hard look.

Professor Lyall did explain, starting with his deductions about the poisoning, the missing journal, and the kidnapping attempt,
and moving on to his belief that now that Lady Maccon's pregnancy was in print, and she was no longer officially under the
Woolsey Pack's protection, such incidents were only likely to increase in both frequency and ferocity.

Enchanting. What do I expect next? Hordes of barbaric brass bumblebees?
“Why do they want me dead? I mean, aside from the customary reasons.”

“We think it has something to do with the child.” Madame Lefoux took Alexia's elbow softly in hand, trying to steer her in
the direction of the overturned barrel.

Alexia resisted, instead turning to Professor Lyall, her throat tight with pent-up emotion. “So you believe me? You believe
that this infant-inconvenience is Conall's?”

He nodded.

“‘Infant-inconvenience'?” whispered Tunstell to Floote.

Floote remained impassive.

“Do you know something Conall does not?” Alexia's heart leapt with the possibility of exoneration.

Sadly, the Beta shook his head.

Hope dissipated. “Funny that you should trust me more than my own husband.” Alexia sat down heavily on the barrel and scrubbed
at her eyes with her knuckles.

“He has never acted reasonably where you are concerned.”

Lady Maccon nodded, her mouth tight. “That does not excuse his behavior.” Her face felt stiff, as though it were made of wax.
An image that brought back some very uncomfortable memories.

“No, it does not,” Professor Lyall agreed with her.

Alexia wished he wouldn't be so nice—it drove her pathetically close to actual wallowing. “And the only vampire likely to
be on my side in this is Lord Akeldama. And he has disappeared.”

“He has?” Madame Lefoux and Professor Lyall said it at the same time.

Alexia nodded. “I was at his house earlier this morning. Abandoned. And that after he asked me to stay with him.”

“Coincidence?” Tunstell looked like he already knew the answer to such an idea.

“That reminds me of an old saying of Mr. Tarabotti's,” offered Floote, speaking for the first time. “‘Floote,' he used to
say to me, ‘there's no such thing as fate—there's just werewolves, and there's no such thing as coincidence—there's just vampires.
Everything else is open to interpretation.'”

Alexia looked at him hard. “Speaking of my father…”

Floote shook his head, glanced at Lyall, and then said, “Classified information, madam. Apologies.”

“I didn't know you were an agent, Mr. Floote.” Madame Lefoux was intrigued.

Floote looked away. “Not as such, madam.”

Alexia knew Floote of old; he would not budge on the subject of her father. It was maddening behavior from the otherwise exemplary
family retainer. “To the Continent, then.” Alexia had given this some thought while in the tea shop. America was out of the
question, and vampires were much more vulnerable in Europe—where few countries had followed King Henry's example and integrated
the supernatural set. Perhaps they would not be quite so deadly. Or, at least, have access to fewer ladybugs.

“I do not mean to be rude,” said Professor Lyall, employing the phrase most often used by those who are about to be very rude
indeed, “but such travel should commence quickly. It would be no bad thing for you to leave London before the next full moon,
Lady Maccon.”

Madame Lefoux consulted a lunar calendar posted on the wall alongside various diagrams. “Three nights from now?”

Professor Lyall nodded. “Preferably sooner. I can use BUR agents to protect you until then, Lady Maccon, but at full moon
all of my werewolves are out of commission and my secondary resources are tapped, for I cannot rely on the vampire agents.
They will go against BUR orders if under the influence of a queen.”

“You can store your possessions here while we are away,” offered Madame Lefoux.

“Well, that is something. At least my clothing will be safe.” Alexia threw her hands up in exasperation. “I knew it was a
terrible idea to get out of bed this morning.”

“And Ivy, I am certain, would be happy to write you regularly with all the latest news from London.” Tunstell offered up his
form of encouragement, accompanied by the expected flash of persuasive white teeth. Alexia reflected that it was a good thing
her husband hadn't turned Tunstell into a werewolf. The redhead smiled too often. Most werewolves did not do smiling very
adeptly; it came off as sinister.

Neither Lady Maccon nor Madame Lefoux saw fit to explain how unlikely it was that any missive would actually reach them.

“So where are we going?” Madame Lefoux looked at her friend with interest.

Alexia had also given this due consideration over her tea and toast. If she had to leave, she was going in pursuit of information.
If she had to flee, she might as well flee toward the possibility of proving her innocence. Only one country knew anything
substantial about preternaturals.

“I hear that Italy is lovely at this time of year.”

               

I
taly?”

“The hotbed of antisupernatural sentiment,” spat Professor Lyall.

“The cesspit of religious fanaticism,” added Tunstell.

“The Templars.” That last was from Floote, and he whispered it.

“I think it's a perfectly topping idea,” said Alexia, expressionless.

Madame Lefoux examined Alexia's face sympathetically. “You think the Templars can explain how Lord Maccon managed to get you
with child?”

“Why don't you tell me? You once said you managed to read a portion of the Templars' Amended Rule.”

“You did
what
?” Professor Lyall was impressed.

Floote looked at the Frenchwoman with renewed suspicion.

“They must know
something
about this thing.” Alexia poked an accusatory finger at her still-flat stomach.

Madame Lefoux looked thoughtful but clearly did not want to tempt Alexia with false hope. “I think they might be so intrigued
at meeting a female preternatural that they will be unguarded in their approach. Especially if they find out you are pregnant.
But they are warriors, not intellectuals. I'm not convinced they can furnish you with what you
actually
desire.”

“Oh, and what's that?”

“The return of your husband's regard.”

Alexia glared daggers at the Frenchwoman.
The very idea!
She didn't want that disloyal fuzz-ball back in love with her. She simply wanted to prove him wrong.

“I think,” said Professor Lyall before Alexia could commence a diatribe, “that you are entering a wasp hive.”

“So long as it is not a ladybug hive, I shall be fine.”

“I think,” said Floote, “that I should come with you ladies.”

Neither of the ladies in question objected.

Alexia raised a finger in the air. “Might I recommend we arrange a regular aethographic transmission date, Professor Lyall?
Although that presupposes the fact that we will be able to find a public transmitter.”

“They have become more popular recently.” Madame Lefoux clearly approved of the idea.

The Beta nodded. “Keeping a time slot open at BUR headquarters is an excellent notion. I shall give you a list of all the
names and locations of transmitters for whom we have crystalline valve frequensors, and with whom we can thus transmit. From
what I recall, Florence has a good one. You understand, our apparatus is not as sophisticated as Lord Akeldama's?”

Alexia nodded. Lord Akeldama had recently purchased the latest and greatest in aethographic transmitters, but BUR's was old
and clunky. “I shall need a valve for your transmitter as well, for the Italian end of the business.”

“Of course. I will send an agent 'round directly. Shall we set the appointment for just after sunset? I will have my men set
ours to receive from Florence and hope something comes through from you at some point on that frequency. If only so that I
know you are alive.”

“Oh, that is terribly optimistic of you,” said Alexia in mock umbrage.

Professor Lyall did not apologize.

“So, Italy it is?” Madame Lefoux rubbed her hands together in the manner of one about to embark on an adventure.

Lady Maccon glanced about at the four standing around her. “One should always visit one's roots once in one's lifetime, don't
you feel? I expect the carriage with my things has arrived by now.” She turned to leave. The others followed. “I shall have
to repack. Better do it quickly, before anything else goes wrong today.”

Madame Lefoux touched her arm before she could dash off. “What else happened to you this morning?”

“Aside from the announcement of my rather embarrassing condition in the public papers and an attack of virulent ladybugs?
Well, Queen Victoria fired me from the Shadow Council, my family ejected me from their house, and Lord Akeldama vanished,
leaving me a very terse message about a cat. Which reminds me.” Lady Maccon took the mysterious metal cat collar out of her
reticule and waved it at Madame Lefoux. “What do you make of this?”

“Magnetic auditory resonance tape.”

“I thought it might be something like.”

Professor Lyall looked on with interest. “Do you have a resonance decoding cavity?”

Madame Lefoux nodded. “Of course, over here somewhere.” She disappeared behind a vast pile of parts that looked to be the
dismembered components of a dirigible's steam engine combined with half a dozen enormous spoons. She returned carrying an
object that gave every indication of being a very tall stovepipe-style top hat, with no brim, mounted on a teapot stand with
a crank attachment and a trumpet coming out its underside.

Lady Maccon had nothing to say upon seeing such a bizarre-looking contraption. She handed over the metal tape in mystified
silence.

The inventor fed the tape in through a slit in the underside of the hat, turning the crank to run it through the device. As
she did so, a pinging sound began to emerge, akin to the noise a piano might make after inhaling helium. She cranked faster
and faster. The pings began meshing together, and eventually a high voice came into existence.

“Leave England,” it said in a tinny, mechanical tone. “And beware Italians who embroider.”

“Useful,” was Madame Lefoux's only comment.

“How on earth did he know I would choose Italy?” Sometimes Lord Akeldama still managed to surprise Alexia. She pursed her
lips. “Embroidery?” Lord Akeldama was never one to prioritize one vital factor, such as murder, over another, such as fashion.
“I'm worried about him. Is it safe for him to be away from his house? I mean to say, I understand his being a rove detaches
him
from the hive, but I was under the impression roves also became part of a place. Tethered, a little like ghosts.”

Professor Lyall tugged on one earlobe thoughtfully. “I wouldn't concern yourself overly, my lady. Roves have a much larger
roaming ability than hive-bound vampires. It takes considerable strength of soul to break the queen dependency to begin with,
and the older the rove, the more mobile. It is their very capacity for movement that keeps most roves in favor with a local
hive. They are untrustworthy but useful. And since the rove needs the queen to convert his drones, they are vested in each
other's survival. Have you seen Lord Akeldama's BUR file?”

Lady Maccon shrugged noncommittally. She was not above poking about her husband's office, but she did not think Lyall needed
to be made aware of that little fact.

“Well, it is quite substantial. We've no record of his original hive, which suggests he has been a rove some considerable
time. I should think he could easily travel outside London city limits, perhaps even as far as Oxford, with very few psychological
or physiological consequences. He is probably not mobile enough to handle floating the aether or crossing the water out of
England, but he is certainly capable of making himself difficult to find.”

“Difficult to find? We are talking about the same Lord Akeldama?” The vampire in question had many sterling qualities—admirable
taste in waistcoats and an acerbic wit to name but a few—but subtlety was not among them.

Professor Lyall grinned. “I should rest easy if I were you, Lady Maccon. Lord Akeldama can take care of himself.”

“Somehow I do not find a werewolf's reassurances on behalf of a vampire all that heartening.”

“Shouldn't you be worrying about your own problems?”

“What enjoyment is there in that? Other people's are always far more entertaining.”

With that, Lady Maccon led the way back into the hallway, up in the ascension room, through the hat shop, and out into the
street. There she supervised the removal of her luggage and sent the waiting coachman off. He was clearly pleased to be heading
back toward the comparative sanity of the Loontwill household, where excitable members of the aristocracy did not hurl mechanical
beetles at him.

Professor Lyall hailed a hansom and directed it to BUR headquarters to continue on with what looked to be a most demanding
day. Floote used the Woolsey carriage to return to the castle and collect his own meager belongings. He arranged to meet the
ladies back at the Chapeau de Poupe in under four hours. They agreed that they should depart as quickly as possible, thus
traveling under the comparative protection of daylight. Madame Lefoux, of course, was already packed.

Lady Maccon immediately began upending her many suitcases, with Tunstell's assistance, right there in the midst of the forest
of hats. The bags had been hastily and rather upsettingly packed by the petulant Swilkins, and Alexia couldn't seem to find
anything she might require for a trip to Italy. Mindful of Lord Akeldama's message, she eliminated all articles of clothing
afflicted by the presence of embroidery.

Madame Lefoux contented herself with puttering about with her hats, putting them in order in anticipation
of their abandonment. They were all thus agreeably occupied when an enthusiastic rat-tat-tatting at the door interrupted them.
Alexia looked up to see Ivy Tunstell, black curls bouncing in her eagerness, waving madly from the other side of the glass.

Madame Lefoux went to let her in.

Ivy had taken to both married life and a considerable fall in social station with unexpected gusto. She seemed to genuinely
enjoy her new role as wife to an actor of middling reputation and denizen of—gasp—
rented
apartments in Soho. She spoke with pride of entertaining poets on a regular basis. Poets, of all things! She even made murmurs
about treading the boards herself. Alexia thought this might be a good plan, for Ivy had just the right kind of pleasant,
animated face and inordinately melodramatic temperament to suit life as a thespian. She certainly needed little help in the
wardrobe department. Always one for the outrageous hat in her unmarried state, her taste, cut free of her mother's apron strings,
now extended to the rest of her attire. Today's offering was a bright apple green, pink, and white striped visiting gown,
with a matching hat that boasted feathers of such epic proportions that Ivy actually had to duck slightly upon entering the
shop.

“There you are, you wretched man,” she said affectionately to her husband.

“Hello, magpie,” was his equally warm response.

“In my favorite hat shop.” Ivy tapped Tunstell coquettishly on the arm with her fan. “I wonder what could ever have brought
you
here.
”

Tunstell looked desperately at Lady Maccon, who flashed him an unhelpful smirk.

“Well”—he cleared his throat—“I thought you might want to pick out some new frippery or another, on the occasion of our”—he
scrabbled wildly—“month anniversary?” Alexia gave him a slight nod, and he let out a sigh of relief.

Trust Ivy to see nothing but the hats and not notice Lady Maccon's copious luggage strewn about the place, or, for a few moments,
Lady Maccon herself. When Ivy finally did, she was quite forward in her questioning.

“Alexia, good gracious me! What are you doing
here
?”

Alexia looked up. “Oh, hello, Ivy. How are you? Thank you kindly for the hat you sent over this morning. It was very, um,
uplifting.”

“Yes, well, never mind that now. Pray tell, what are you about?”

“I should think that was perfectly obvious, even to you, my dear. I am packing.”

Ivy shook her head, plumage swaying back and forth. “In the middle of a hat shop? There is something amiss with such a situation.”

“Needs must, Ivy. Needs must.”

“Yes, I can see
that,
but what one must need to know at this juncture is, not to put too fine a point on it,
why
?”

“I should think that, too, would be perfectly obvious. I am in imminent danger of traveling.”

“Not because of this upsetting business with the morning papers?”

“Precisely so.” Alexia figured it was as good an excuse as any. It went against her nature to be seen fleeing London because
she was thought adulterous, but it was better than having the real reason known to the general public.
Just imagine what the gossipmongers would say if they knew vampires were intent on assassinating her—so embarrassing.
Look at her,
they would say.
Oh, la, multiple assassination attempts, indeed! Who does she think she is, the Queen of Sheba?

And really, wasn't that what all disreputable ladies did in the end—escape to Europe?

Ivy knew nothing of Alexia's soulless state. She did not even know what
preternatural
meant. Lady Maccon's affliction was a not-very-well-kept secret, what with BUR and all the local werewolves, ghosts, and
vampires in on it, but the majority of the daylight folk were ignorant of the fact that there was a preternatural in residence
in London. It was generally felt, by Alexia and those intimate with her, that if Ivy knew of this, all attempts at anonymity
would be null and void within several hours. Ivy was a dear friend, loyal and entertaining, but circumspection could not be
listed among her more sterling qualities. Even Tunstell acknowledged this flaw in his wife's nature and had refrained from
informing the new Mrs. Tunstell of her old friend's real eccentricity.

“Yes, well, I suppose I can understand the need to absent yourself from town. But where are you going, Alexia? To the country?”

“Madame Lefoux and I are traveling to Italy, for my low spirits, you understand.”

“Oh, dear, but, Alexia, you do realize”—Ivy lowered her voice to a whisper—“that Italy is where they keep
Italians.
Are you quite certain you are adequately prepared to cope?”

Lady Maccon suppressed a smile. “I think I might just be able to muddle along.”