Gail Carriger

chapter ELEVEN

Wherein Alexia Encounters Both Pesto and a Mysterious Jar

Hadn’t we better go to the local dirigible station? Didn’t Monsieur Trouvé say he would send our luggage there?” Alexia looked down in disgust at the orange frilly dress she was wearing. “I could very much use the comfort of my own wardrobe.”

“I could not agree with you more.” Madame Lefoux’s feelings of maltreatment were equally evident, as she was clearly uncomfortable in her pink frilly version of the same gown. “I should like to pick up some supplies as well.” The inventor looked meaningfully at Alexia’s parasol. “You understand, for a reconstitution of the necessary emissions.”

“Of course.”

There was no one around them in the temple hallway, but Madame Lefoux’s use of euphemisms seemed to indicate that she felt they were in danger of being overheard.

They made their way to the front entrance of the temple and out into the cobbled streets of Florence.

Despite its generally orange overtones—Alexia’s dress fit right in—Florence was indeed an attractive metropolis. It had a soft, rich quality about it that Alexia felt was the visual equivalent of consuming a warm scone heaped with marmalade and clotted cream. There was a pleasantness to the air and a spirit about the town that did not come from its color, but from some inner, tasty citrus quality. It made Alexia wonder fancifully if cities could have souls. Florence, she felt, under those circumstances, probably had extra. There were even little bitter bits of rind scattered about the place: the dense clouds of tobacco smoke emanating from various cafes and an overabundance of unfortunates begging from the church steps.

There were no hansoms, nor any other ready form of public transportation. Indeed, the entire city was apparently possessed of only one means of locomotion: walking. Alexia was a profuse walker. Even though she was a little sore from her mountaintop peril, she was equal to further exercise. After all, she had been asleep for three days. Floote valiantly headed their expedition. He was suspiciously familiar with the city, leading them unerringly through a wide open plaza called the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, which Alexia thought sounded like an assembly of sainted literary pundits; down the Via dei Fossi, which sounded like a fascinating geological discovery; across a bridge; and down into Piazza Pitti, which sounded like a pasta dish. It was a long walk, and Alexia had reason to be grateful for her parasol, for Italy did not appear to notice that it was November and poured sun down upon them with unremitting cheerfulness.

As it turned out, the Italians beyond the walls of the temple were a friendly, excitable bunch. Several of them waved to Alexia and her party. Alexia was mildly put out; after all, these were people to whom she had not been introduced and had no particular interest in knowing, yet they waved as she passed. It was most disconcerting. Also, it became quickly evident that Alexia’s capable governess had been remiss in the matter of the Italian tongue. She had never taught Alexia that a great majority of communication was achieved through hand gesticulations. Although sentiments were often expressed a tad too loudly for Alexia’s refined sensibilities, it was indeed as lovely to watch as it was to hear.

Even with such distractions as shirtless men kicking rubber balls around the bank of the Arno and a language that danced, Alexia noticed something amiss.

“We are being followed, are we not?”

Madame Lefoux nodded.

Alexia paused in the middle of the bridge and looked casually back over her shoulder, using her parasol to disguise the movement.

“Really, if they wanted to hide, they ought not to wear those ridiculous white nightgowns. Imagine going out in public in such a state.”

Floote corrected his mistress. “Holy Tunics of Piety and Faith, madam.”

“Nightgowns,” insisted Alexia firmly.

They walked on.

“I counted six. Do you concur?” Alexia spoke in a low voice, although their followers were still a considerable distance behind and well out of earshot.

Madame Lefoux pursed her lips. “Yes, about that many.”

“Nothing to be done, I suppose.”

“No, nothing.”

Florence’s dirigible landing green was part of Boboli Gardens, a robust and extensive terraced park that lay in resplendent glory behind the most imposing castle Alexia had ever seen. In truth, Pitti Palace looked more like a prison of unusually fine proportions. They had to walk around the side of the massive edifice to get to the garden gate, where they were checked by a uniformed customs official.

The grounds were quite lovely, teeming with lush vegetation. The landing green was located directly behind the palace and on the same level. In its center stood an Egyptian obelisk, used as a tethering station, although no dirigibles were currently at rest. The luggage depot and waiting area took the form of a rebuilt ancient Roman gazebo. The official in charge was delighted to show them to the baggage storage area, where Alexia found her trunks, Madame Lefoux’s modest assortment of carpetbags, and Floote’s scruffy portmanteau, courtesy of Monsieur Trouvé.

As they began gathering up their possessions, Alexia thought she saw Madame Lefoux snatch at some small item sitting atop her hatbox but could not be certain what it was. She was about to ask when the station clerk approached to have her sign a chit for their belongings.

Once she had done so, the clerk glanced down and made a sudden face as he read Alexia’s name. “La Diva Tarabotti?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I ’ave ze”—he waved his hand in the air, apparently incapable of recalling the appropriate English vocabulary—“thing, para you.”

At which he bustled off, returning a moment later to hand Alexia something that amazed the entire party.

It was a letter directed to La Diva Alexia Tarabotti in round, sprawling script. And it was not, as any person of sense might have surmised, from Monsieur Trouvé. Oh, no, this missive was from Mrs. Tunstell.

Alexia twisted the heavy folded paper about in her hand for a moment in surprise. “Well, doesn’t that just go to show that no matter where you go, Ivy will always find you?”

“Perish the thought, madam,” replied Floote with feeling before bustling off to hire a cart.

The clerk kindly handed Alexia a letter opener, and she cut through the seal.

“My dearest, darlingest of Alexias,” it began in flamboyant style, and went on from there with no hope of sobriety. “Well, it is all go around London with you gone. All go, I tell you!” The missive employed Ivy’s preferred abuse of punctuation and reliance upon malapropisms. “Tunstell, my brilliant pip, has gotten himself the lead role in the Winter Season of Forthwimsey-Near-Ham’s operatic production of the HMS Pennyfarthing! Can you envisage that?” Alexia tried desperately not to. “I am lathe to admit it”—Alexia imagined Ivy spinning round and round like a top—“but I am adapting quite comfortably to life in trade, rather too comfortably for my mother’s peace of mind. Please tell Madame Lefoux that her hat shop is doing extremely well, and I have even made one or two improvements.” Alexia relayed this information to the Frenchwoman, who blanched.

“It has been less than a week. How much damage can she possibly have done in such a short time?” Madame Lefoux sounded as though she were trying to convince herself.

Alexia read on. “‘I have even, I blush to admit it here in print, inadvertently precipitated a wildly popular new craze in earmuffs for dirigible travel. I had the notion to affix fake hair falls from Paris to the exterior of the muffs so that the Young Lady Traveler might look as though she had an elaborate hairstyle while still staying warm. Such hairmuffs, as I call them, have the added benefit of bearing the brunt of the aether breezes’ mussing. Well, I don’t mind telling you, Alexia, they are selling by the baker’s dozen! They have been heralded, only this morning, as the very latest in vital travel wardrobe accoutrements by no less than three leading fashion journals! Have enclosed clipping for your perusal.’ ” Alexia read this bit of the letter out for Madame Lefoux’s continued edification and then handed her the newspaper clipping.

“‘In other shocking news, the dashing Captain Featherstonehaugh has announced his engagement to Miss Wibbley, who really is only just out of finishing school! This has had the unfortunate side effect of putting about the rumor that your younger sister was thrown over for a schoolroom chit, quite the persona au gratin, if you take my meaning. You will hardly be surprised when I tell you, London is all in uproars over the impending nuptials! I do hope this letter finds you well. As always, your dearest friend, Ivy.’ ”

Alexia folded the letter up, smiling. It was nice to be reminded of the mundanities of everyday life where there were no Templars stalking one through the streets of Florence, no drones in armed pursuit, and nothing was more worrisome than Miss Wibbley and her “au gratin” antics. “Well, what do you make of that?”

Madame Lefoux gave Alexia a particularly droll look. “Just out of finishing school, indeed.”

“I know. Shocking. Most girls recently out of finishing school are like soufflés: puffed up, not very substantial inside, and prone to collapsing at the slightest provocation.”

Madame Lefoux laughed. “And earmuffs with hair attached. How is it you English put it? I say!”

Floote returned with a pony and trap for their bags.

Alexia smiled, but she was, she hated to admit it, a little disappointed. She could not help noticing that there had been no mention of Lord Maccon, nor the Woolsey Pack, in Ivy’s letter. Either Ivy was being circumspect—which was about as likely as Floote suddenly dancing an Irish jig—or the London werewolves were staying well out of the social limelight.

“You may find yourself the exclusive owner of a highly profitable hairmuff business instead.”

Madame Lefoux flipped the newspaper clipping over and then stilled, face drawn.

“What is it? Genevieve, are you unwell?”

Mutely, the inventor passed the bit of paper back to Alexia.

It wasn’t the whole of the article, just a section of it, but it was enough.

“… surprised us all with a printed apology to his wife in the Morning Post. He has claimed that all previous rumors and accusations were not only false, but his fault, and that the child is not only his, but a miracle of modern science. Speculation is rampant as to the earl’s purpose in issuing this retraction. No one has seen Lady Maccon since…”

Alexia’s knees, previously quite reliable support structures, failed her, and she sat suddenly straight down onto the stone floor of the customs depot.

“Oh,” she said, because it was all she could think to say, followed by, “Blast.”

Then, surprising everyone, including herself, she started to cry. And not in the elegant, slow-dripping manner of true ladies of quality, but in loud embarrassing sobs like a little child.

Madame Lefoux and Floote stared down at her in stunned silence.

Alexia simply went on crying. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop.

Madame Lefoux finally reacted, crouching down to wrap her friend in a bony but comforting embrace. “Alexia, my dear, what is wrong? Isn’t this a good thing?”

“B-b-b-bastard,” blubbered Alexia.

Madame Lefoux was clearly at a loss.

Alexia, taking pity on her, tried desperately to control herself and explain. “I was doing so well, being angry at him.”

“So you are crying because you cannot be angry at him anymore?”

“No. Yes!” Alexia wailed.

Floote handed over a large handkerchief. “It is relief, madam,” he explained to the Frenchwoman.

“Ah.” Madame Lefoux applied said square of cotton to Alexia’s blotchy face with tender care.

Alexia realized she was making a spectacle of herself and tried to stand. Too many things were going on in her head at once, and it was causing her eyes to leak. She took a deep, shaky breath and blew her nose loudly into Floote’s handkerchief.

Madame Lefoux patted her back, still looking at her in concern, but Floote’s attention had shifted.

Alexia followed his gaze. Four robust-looking young men were heading purposefully in their direction across the garden.

“Those are definitely not Templars,” said Madame Lefoux with conviction.

“No nightgowns,” agreed Alexia, sniffing.

“Drones?”

“Drones.” Alexia stuffed the handkerchief up one sleeve and got shakily to her feet.

This time the drones looked to be taking no chances: each man held a wicked-looking knife and walked with decided purpose.

Alexia heard a faint shout and thought she could see, some way across the green, their group of Templar shadows running in their direction. They would in no way be fast enough.

Alexia raised her parasol in one hand and the clerk’s letter opener in the other. Madame Lefoux reached for her cravat pins. Finding she wore no cravat, she swore and groped blindly for the nearest heavy object, coming up with her stealth hatbox, the heavy one that contained her tools, from the stack of luggage in the cart behind them. Floote relaxed into a kind of loose-limbed fighting stance that Alexia had seen before: in a battle to defend the location of tents between two werewolves on her front porch. What was Floote doing fighting like a werewolf?

The drones attacked. Alexia’s parasol whipped out to deliver a crushing blow, only to be deflected by a knife. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Madame Lefoux swing the hatbox, cracking the wood casing against the side of a drone’s skull. Floote balled up his fist and, fast as any boxer—not that Alexia knew much of pugilism, being a lady of good breeding—dodged the knife slicing down toward him and made two quick hits to his opponent’s stomach.

Around them, waiting dirigible passengers gasped in shock, but no one did anything to either help or hinder. Italians were reputed to be a people of violent emotions; perhaps they thought this was a lover’s spat of some multifaceted variety. Or perhaps they thought the battle was over a ball sport. Alexia seemed to recall hearing one matron complain that the Italians were very passionate in their support of balls.

They could have used some assistance, for Alexia was no formally trained fighter, and Madame Lefoux, whether she was or not, was considerably hampered by her floofy dress. Quicker than Alexia would have thought possible, the drones had her disarmed, parasol rolling away across the stone floor of the gazebo. Madame Lefoux was thrust to the ground. Alexia thought she heard the Frenchwoman’s head hit the side of the cart on the way down. She certainly didn’t look to be moving anytime soon. Floote struggled on, but he was not quite so young as he once was, and certainly a good deal older than his opponent.

Two of the drones held Alexia fast between them, while the third, having determined Madame Lefoux was no longer a threat, brandished his knife with the clear intention of slitting Alexia’s throat. This time they were brooking no delay. They would simply eliminate the preternatural right there in broad daylight and in front of witnesses.

Alexia writhed in the grip of her two captors, kicking out and wiggling as much as possible, making it difficult for them to steady her for the knife. Floote, seeing her imminent peril, fought all the harder, but death seemed embarrassingly inevitable.

And then a very odd thing happened.

A tall masked man, hooded like some parody of a religious pilgrim, leapt into the fray, and he appeared to be on their side.

The unexpected champion was a big man—not so big as Conall, Alexia noticed, but then few were—and clearly quite strong. He carried a long sword in one hand, British military issue, and had a mean left punch, which was also, Alexia guessed, British military issue. The masked man certainly was liberal and enthusiastic with his use of both sword and fist.

Finding her captors distracted, Alexia jerked a knee into one in the vicinity of one’s nether regions at the same time twisting violently, trying to shake off the others’ grip. The one she’d kneed backhanded her across the mouth, and Alexia felt a starburst of pain before tasting blood.

The masked man reacted swiftly at that, slicing out with his sword and catching the offender behind one knee. The drone crumpled.

The drones regrouped, leaving only one still holding Alexia while two went back on the defensive, facing off against the new threat. Alexia liked these odds considerably better and did what any proper young lady ought to do: she pretended to faint, collapsing in a sudden dead weight against her captor. The man shifted to hold her with one hand, no doubt reaching for his own knife to slit her throat with the other. Sensing the opportunity, Alexia braced both feet and thrust sharply backward with all her might, knocking both herself and the drone to the floor. Once there, they proceeded to roll about gracelessly on the stone. Alexia had reason to be grateful for her husband’s fondness for rolling among the bedsheets, for it had given her some practice wrestling with a man twice this drone’s size.

Then, like the knights they had once been of old, the Templars were upon them. White nightgowns to the rescue, thought Alexia happily. The drones were forced, once more, to flee from the papal enforcers. Alexia had to admit Templar attire looked much less silly behind flashing, naked blades.

Alexia struggled to her feet in time to see their masked defender, clutching his bloody sword and dashing across the dirigible green in the opposite direction from the drones. In a whirl of dark cloak, he leapt over a row of topiary deer and disappeared into the gardens beyond. Clearly he liked being mysterious, or disliked the Templars, or both.

Alexia checked on Floote, who had not a hair out of place. He, in turn, wanted reassurances that neither she nor the infant-inconvenience had suffered any ill effects from the ordeal. Alexia did a quick internal assessment and discovered that they were both hungry, of which she informed Floote, and then bent to examine Madame Lefoux. The back of the inventor’s head was bloody, but her eyes were already blinking open.

“What happened?”

“We were saved by a masked gentleman.”

“Pull the other one.” Sometimes Madame Lefoux could be surprisingly British in her verbal mannerisms.

Alexia helped her to sit up. “No, really. We were.” While she explained what had occurred, she helped the inventor into the cart, and then they both watched with interest as the Templars dealt with the results of the altercation. It was almost like watching BUR at work cleaning up one of Alexia’s messes, only faster and with less paperwork. And, of course, there was no Conall marching around waving his massive hands in exasperation and growling at her.

Alexia found herself grinning foolishly. Conall had apologized!

The dirigible passengers were clearly uncomfortable with having to deal directly with the Templars and were willing to do anything they were told so long as the men in white left quickly.

Floote disappeared mysteriously and then returned only to offer Alexia a sandwich of what appeared to be some kind of ham on what appeared to be some kind of roll and that turned out to be quite delicious. Alexia had no earthly idea where he had acquired the foodstuff but would not put it past him to have managed to make it during the fight. Having delivered the expected daily miracle, Floote stood in his usual stance and warily watched the Templars work.

“The locals, they are terrified of them, aren’t they?” Alexia spoke softly, but she was reasonably certain that no one was paying them any mind. “And they must wield a considerable amount of clout for things to go so smoothly. No one has summoned the local constabulary, even though our little battle occurred in a public arena, in front of witnesses.”

“One country under God, madam.”

“It happens.” Alexia wrinkled her nose and looked about for a scrap of fabric for Madame Lefoux to press against the back of her head. Finding nothing of use, she shrugged and ripped one of the ruffles off her orange dress. The inventor took it gratefully.

“One cannot be too careful with a head wound. Are you certain you are quite the thing?” Alexia watched her with concern.

“Everything is fine, I assure you. Except, of course, for my pride. I tripped, you know. He didn’t overpower me. Really, I do not know how you ladies do it, run around dressed in long skirts all day every day.”

“Generally, not a whole lot of running is involved. Is that why you dress as a man, then, pure practicality?”

Madame Lefoux looked as though she would like to twirl her fake mustache in thought, although, of course, she wasn’t wearing it at the moment. “Partly.”

“You like to shock people—admit it.”

Madame Lefoux gave her an arch look. “As if you do not.”

“Touché. Although we approach the endeavor differently.”

The Templars, having concluded their activities, disappeared back into the foliage of Boboli Gardens with an air of hauteur. Even though violent action had been undertaken on Alexia’s behalf, they had neither addressed her, nor looked in her direction. Alexia was disgusted to find, once the Templars had gone, that the ordinary Italian folk, including the once affable clerk, now regarded her with suspicion and disdain.

“Persona non grata once more.” Alexia sighed. “Beautiful country, as you say, Floote, but the locals. The locals.” She climbed into the cart.

“Exactly so, madam.” With that, Floote took the driver’s seat and, with a steady hand to the reins, guided the pony and trap through Boboli Gardens and out into the city streets. He took the bumpy course slow and gentle in deference to Madame Lefoux’s head.

Floote stopped along the way at a small public eatery where, despite the presence of even more of the vile coffee and far too much tobacco, Alexia’s opinion of the Italians was greatly improved through the application of the best victuals she had ever eaten in her entire life.

“These little chubby puddings with the green sauce,” she declaimed, “must represent the food of the gods. I declare, the Templars may do what they like; I love this country.”

Madame Lefoux grinned. “So easily swayed?”

“Did you taste that green sauce? How did they refer to it? Pets-something-or-other. Sheer culinary genius.”

“Pesto, madam.”

“Yes, Floote, that! Brilliant. Full of garlic.” To illustrate her point, she took another mouthful before continuing. “Seems they put garlic in positively everything here. Absolutely fantastic.”

Floote shook his head faintly. “I beg to differ, madam. It is, in fact, the result of practicality. Vampires are allergic to garlic.”

“No wonder it is so rare back home.”

“Terrible sneezing fits, madam. Much in the manner that young Miss Evylin used to come over when faced with a feline.”

“And werewolves?”

“The basil, madam.”

“No? How intriguing. Same sort of sneezing?”

“I believe it makes the insides of the mouth and nose itch, madam.”

“So this pesto I enjoy so much is really an infamous Italian antisupernatural weapon?” Alexia turned accusing dark eyes on Madame Lefoux. “Yet there is no pesto in my parasol armament. I think we ought to rectify that immediately.”

Madame Lefoux did not point out that Alexia could hardly go traipsing around toting a parasol that smelled strongly of garlic and basil. She did not have to, as Alexia was distracted by the arrival of some variety of orange fruit—of course it was orange—wrapped in a thinly cut piece of pig meat that was almost, but not quite, bacon. Alexia was transported.

“I don’t suppose this is a weapon?”

“Not unless you have suddenly taken against the Jews, madam.”

It was fortunate that they ate, for no food awaited them upon their return. After a lengthy stop at the alchemist’s, which in Italy also stocked pharmaceuticals and fishing equipment, to purchase what Madame Lefoux referred to as “necessary supplies,” they returned to the temple. There they found that, despite the early hour—it was not yet six—the Templars were already retired for the evening, undertaking some form of extended silent prayer.

While Madame Lefoux fussed with refilling the parasol and Floote went to do mysterious butler-type duties, Alexia hunted down the library. When no one stopped her, she began reading various books and records with interest. She had Ivy’s little clipping with her and paused to reread it now and again. A printed admission of guilt, imagine that? She found herself humming from time to time. You see, infant-inconvenience, it’s not so bad.

She did not find the information she was chiefly interested in: anything pertaining to the preternatural breeding program or concerning Templar use of soulless agents. However, she did find enough entertaining reading matter to keep her occupied well into the night. It was far later than she thought when she finally looked up to find the temple utterly silent around her, and not in the way of an edifice filled with prayer and soft movements. No, this was the silence of sleeping brains that only ghosts were comfortable experiencing.

Alexia padded toward her room, but then, sensing a presence she was not quite certain she could name, she shifted in her purposeful tread and veered down a small hallway. It was undecorated: there were no crosses nor any other religious effigies, and it ended in a tight stairwell that she might have thought only used by servants, except that it was arched and mossy and had the feel of immense age about it.

Alexia decided to explore.

This was, it must be admitted, probably not the most intelligent decision of her life. But how often is one given the opportunity to investigate an ancient passageway in a sacred temple in Italy?

The stairs down were indeed steep and slightly wet, as the back ends of caves will get no matter the climate. Alexia steadied herself with one hand against the damp wall, trying not to think about whether said wall had been cleaned recently. The stairs seemed to go down a very, very long way, ejecting her at the end into another undecorated hallway that in turn ended in what was possibly the most disappointing little room imaginable.

She could see that it was a room because, and this was peculiar, the door to the room was glass. She walked up and peeked through.

A small chamber lay before her, walls and floors of dingy limestone, with no paint nor other form of decoration. The only piece of furniture was a small pedestal in the center of the room, on top of which stood a jar.

The door was locked, and Alexia, resourceful as she was, had not yet learned to pick locks, though she mentally added it to her list of useful skills she needed to acquire, along with hand-to-hand combat and the recipe for pesto. If her life were to continue on its present track, which, after twenty-six years of obscurity now seemed to mainly involve people trying to kill her, it would appear that acquiring a less savory skill set might be necessary. Although, she supposed, pesto-making ought to be termed more savory.

She squinted through the door. It was paned with small squares of old leaded glass that were warping and sagging in their frames. This meant that the room within shifted and wiggled, and she squirmed around trying to see. She just couldn’t quite make out what was inside the jar, and then finally she got the correct angle and was abruptly rather queasy to her stomach.

The jar held a severed human hand. It was floating in some liquid, probably formaldehyde.

A tactful little cough sounded behind her, just soft enough not to startle.

Alexia still jumped practically out of her frilly orange dress in surprise. Upon landing, she whirled around.

“Floote!”

“Good evening, madam.”

“Come look at this, Floote. They have a human hand in a jar in the middle of an empty room. Aren’t the Italians strange?”

“Yes, madam.” Floote didn’t come over, only nodded as though every house in Italy had such a thing. Alexia supposed this might be possible. Gruesome, but possible.

“But don’t you think, madam, it may be time for bed? It would not do for anyone to find us in the Inner Sanctum.”

“Oh, is that where we are?”

Floote nodded and extended a gracious arm for Alexia to precede him back up the tiny staircase.

Alexia took his advice, as there was apparently nothing else to see besides the random human body part. “Is it very common, in Italy, to keep a jar full of hand, just lying about?”

“For the Templars, madam.”

“Uh, why?”

“It is a relic, madam. Should the temple come under serious threat from the supernatural, the preceptor will break the jar and use the relic to defend the brotherhood.”

Alexia thought she might understand. She had heard of holy relics in connection with some Catholic cults. “Is it the body part of some saint?”

“They have those, too, of course, but in this case, it is an unholy relic, a weapon. The body part of a preternatural.”

Alexia shut her mouth on her next question with a snap. She was surprised she hadn’t been physically repulsed by the hand as she had been by the mummy. Then she remembered the daemon detector. She and the disembodied hand hadn’t been sharing the same air. She supposed that was why the jar had to be broken in case of emergency.

They proceeded the rest of the way to their rooms in silence, Alexia mulling over the implications of that hand and becoming more and more worried as a result.

Floote stopped Alexia before she retired. “Your father, madam, was fully cremated. I made absolutely certain.”

Alexia swallowed silently and then said fervently, “Thank you, Floote.”

He nodded once—his face, as always, impassive.