Gail Carriger

chapter THREE

Alexia Engages in Entomology

Someone was trying to kill Lady Alexia Maccon. It was most inconvenient, as she was in a dreadful hurry.

Given her previous familiarity with near-death experiences and their comparative frequency with regards to her good self, Alexia should probably have allowed extra time for such a predictable happenstance. Except that in this particular instance, the unpleasant event was occurring in broad daylight, while she was driving down Oxford Street—not, as a general rule, the expected time or location for such an event.

She wasn’t even in a rented hackney. She’d grown to anticipate regular attacks when hired transport was involved, but this time she was riding in a private conveyance. She had pinched Squire Loontwill’s carriage. As her dear stepfather was giving her the royal heave-ho, she figured he wouldn’t mind if she loaded his personal mode of transport with all her worldly goods and stole it for the day. As it turned out, he did mind, but she wasn’t there to witness his annoyance. He had ended up borrowing his wife’s pony and trap, a contraption decked in yellow tulle and pink rosettes, which was vastly ill suited to both his dignity and girth.

Her attackers didn’t appear willing to follow previously established patterns in the murder arena. For one thing, they weren’t supernatural. For another, they were ticking—quite loudly, in fact. Lastly, they were also skittering. They were undertaking the ticking because, so far as Alexia could determine, and she rather preferred not to get too close, they were clockwork, or some variety of windup mechanical. And they were undertaking the skittering because they were beetles—large, shiny red beetles with black spots and multifaceted crystal eyes, boasting nasty-looking syringes that poked upward in place of antennae.

Ladybugs were invading her carriage, a whole herd of them.

Each ladybug was about the size of Alexia’s hand. They were crawling all over the conveyance, trying to break inside. Unfortunately, this did not require much diligence, as the window above the door was open wide enough for any old killer ladybug to sneak right in.

Alexia lurched up, crushing her poor hat against the ceiling of the cab, and tried to slam the sash closed, but she was far too slow. They were remarkably fast for such tubby creatures. A closer view of those antennae revealed tiny beads of moisture oozing from the tips—probably some brand of poison. She reworked her assessment of her attackers: homicidal mechanical dripping ladybugs—ugh.

She grabbed for her trusty parasol and bashed the first one that she could with the heavy handle. The bug crashed into the opposite wall, fell onto the back-facing seat, and scuttled once more in her general direction. Another mechanical beetle crawled up the wall toward her, and a third pushed itself off of the window sash at her shoulder.

Alexia squealed, half in fear, half in irritation, and began hitting at the creatures as hard and as fast as she could within the confines of the carriage, at the same time trying to think of some part of her parasol’s armament that might help her in this particular situation. For some reason, Madame Lefoux had never specified ladybug protective measures in its anthroscopy. The toxic mist wouldn’t cover enough territory to catch them all, and there was no guarantee either the lapis solaris or the lapis lunearis solutions would have any effect on the creatures. Those liquids were designed to eliminate organics, not metals, and the red and black shell looked to be some kind of shielding enamel or lacquer.

She struck out and whacked at three more of the bugs crawling across the cabin floor, holding the parasol by its tip and wielding it as though it were a croquet mallet. The carriage seemed to be positively swarming with the creatures, all attempting to stick those dripping antennae into some part of Alexia’s anatomy. One of them got perilously close to her arm before she punched it away. Another climbed all the way to her stomach and struck, only to be thwarted by the leather belt of her traveling dress.

She yelled for help, hoping all the banging and clattering she was making would convince the driver to stop and come to her rescue, but he seemed oblivious. She continued to catalog her parasol options. The numbing dart was use-less, and the metal and wooden stakes equally so. It was then that she remembered the parasol was equipped with a magnetic disruption field emitter. Desperately, she flipped the accessory around to its normal position and groped along the handle for the one carved lotus petal that protruded slightly more than the others. Catching it with her thumbnail, she pulled it back, activating the emitter.

It appeared that the deadly ladybugs had iron parts, for the disruption field did as designed and seized up their magnetic components. The beetles, in deference to their nature, all stopped in their tracks and turned upside-down, little mechanical legs drawn up against their undersides just as ordinary dead beetles might. Alexia sent a grateful thank-you to Madame Lefoux for her forethought in including the emitter, and began hurriedly scooping up and throwing the ladybugs out the carriage window before the disruption field wore off, careful not to touch those sticky, dripping antennae. Her skin shivered in disgust.

The driver, finally discerning that something was not quite right with his passenger, drew up the carriage, jumped down from the box, and came around to the door, just in time to get bonked on the head with a discarded ladybug.

“All right there, Lady Maccon?” he asked, giving her a pained look and rubbing his forehead.

“Don’t just stand there waffling!” instructed her ladyship, as though she wasn’t bumping about the interior of the carriage, pausing only to throw enormous red bugs out of its windows. “Drive on, you cretin! Drive on!”

Best get myself into a public place, thought Alexia, until I’m certain I’m out of danger. And I need a moment to calm my nerves.

The driver turned to do her bidding, only to be forestalled by a “Wait! I’ve changed my mind. Take me to the nearest teahouse.”

The man returned to his post with an expression that spoke volumes on his feelings over how low the aristocracy had fallen. He clicked the horses into a trot and pulled the carriage back out into London traffic.

Showing worthy forethought, Alexia felt, under such trying circumstances, she trapped one of the bugs in a large pink hatbox, drawing the cords tight. In her agitation, she accidentally dumped the box’s previous occupant (a rather nice velvet riding topper with burgundy ribbon) out the window. Her precautionary measures were undertaken none too soon, for the disruption field wore off and the hatbox began to shake violently. The bug wasn’t sophisticated enough to escape, but it would keep skittering about inside its new prison.

Just to be certain, Lady Maccon stuck her head out the window to look behind and see if the other ladybugs continued their pursuit. They were trundling in confused circles in the middle of the street. So was her velvet hat, burgundy ribbons trailing behind. It must have landed on top of one of the bugs. With a sigh of relief, Alexia sat back, placing one hand firmly on top of the hatbox.



The Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square was a popular watering hole among ladies of quality, and midmorning was a popular time to be seen there. Alexia alighted at the curb, instructed the driver to meet her at Chapeau de Poupe in two hours’ time, and then dashed inside. The streets were not yet busy, so she would have to wait out the quietest part of the day until the real shopping began.

The inside of Lottapiggle was, however, quite as crowded as Alexia might want. No one would dare attack her further there. Unfortunately, while she had momentarily forgotten her ruined reputation, no one else in London had, and ladybugs weren’t the only kinds of ladies with vicious tendencies.

Lady Maccon was allowed in, seated, and served, but the twitching hats and excited chattering of the women assembled abruptly ceased upon sight of her. The hats craned about eagerly, and the chattering evolved into whispered commentary and very pointed looks. One or two matrons, accompanied by impressionable young daughters, stood and left in a rustle of deeply offended dignity. Most, however, were far too curious to see Lady Maccon and were quite giddy at being in her disgraced presence. They basked in the delectable shock of the latest and greatest scandal calmly sipping tea and eating dry toast among them!

Of course, such marked attention might be attributed to the fact that said lady was carrying with her a ticking, quivering hatbox, which she proceeded to place carefully on the seat next to her and then tie to the seat back with the strap of her reticule for security. As though the hatbox might try to escape. At that, all expressions indicated that the tea-swilling ladies felt Lady Maccon had lost her sense along with her reputation.

Alexia ignored them all and took a moment to put her finer feelings back in order and soothe her ladybug-addled nerves with the necessary application of a hot beverage. Feeling more the thing, she made several forthright decisions that resulted in her requesting pen and paper from the hostess. She dashed off three quick notes and then settled in to wait out the lazy part of the morning. Several hours passed thus agreeably, with nothing but an occasional lurch from the hatbox to disturb her reverie.



Upon entering Chapeau de Poupe, Professor Lyall thought that the proprietress was looking a little tired and substantially older than when he’d seen her last. This was peculiar, as on all their previous encounters, the lady inventor had possessed that indefatigably French air of agelessness. Of the kind, of course, that did not come from actually being ageless. She was dressed in her usual odd attire—that is to say, masculine clothing. Most of them considered this shockingly inappropriate, but some were coming to expect such eccentricities from artists, authors, and now milliners. That said, Madame Lefoux may have been dressed as a man, but that did not stop her from being stylish about it, employing perfect tailoring and pleasing subtle grays and blues. Professor Lyall approved.

Madame Lefoux glanced up from an emerald-green silk bonnet she was trimming with satin roses. “Ah, she wanted to see you as well? Very good. Sensible of her.”

The establishment was devoid of customers despite the excellent selection of headgear, probably because a polite little sign on the door indicated it was currently closed to visitors. The hats were beautifully arranged, displayed not on stands but dangling at the ends of gold chains attached to the arched ceiling far above. They fell to different heights so that one had to brush through them to cross the shop. The hats swayed slightly as Professor Lyall did so, simulating a pleasing undersea forest.

Professor Lyall took off his hat and bowed. “Sent a note a few hours ago. She has her moments, does our Lady Maccon.”

“And you brought Woolsey’s librarian with you?” Madame Lefoux’s perfectly tended eyebrows arched in surprise. “That is unexpected.”

Floote, having followed Professor Lyall in from the street, tipped his hat to the Frenchwoman in such a way as to indicate mild censure, which Lyall supposed stemmed from the fact that he did not approve of her choice of attire and never had.

“Lady Maccon’s missive indicated his presence might be acceptable.” Lyall set his hat carefully down on the edge of the sales counter, where it would not look as though it were part of the stock. It was a favorite hat. “You are aware that he was valet to Lady Maccon’s father? If we are going to discuss what I believe we are going to discuss, his input might prove invaluable.”

“Was he really? Of course, I knew he was butler to the Loontwills before Alexia’s marriage. I don’t recall her revealing anything further.” Madame Lefoux looked with renewed interest at Floote, who remained stoic under her pointed scrutiny.

“Everything that has happened, up to a point, probably has something to do with Alessandro Tarabotti.” Professor Lyall drew her attention back to himself.

“You believe so, do you? Including this impromptu clandestine meeting of Alexia’s?”

“Isn’t that always the way of things with preternaturals? Should we go somewhere more private?” The open airiness of the hat shop with its long front windows made the Beta feel uncomfortably exposed. He would feel more relaxed below the shop in Madame Lefoux’s secret underground contrivance chamber.

Madame Lefoux put down her work. “Yes, Alexia will know where to find us. If you would like to—”

She was cut off by a knock sounding at the shop door. Bells jingled charmingly as it was pushed open. A cheerful-looking ginger-haired young blunt entered the room wearing a tan top hat, slightly too-tight red plaid breeches, gaiters, and a wide smile that had the unmistakable air of the theater about it.

“Ah, Tunstell, of course.” Professor Lyall was not surprised at this addition to Lady Maccon’s little gathering.

Floote gave Lord Maccon’s former claviger a nod. Then he slipped past him to shut the shop door and check the CLOSED sign. He’d only lately been made Alexia’s personal secretary and librarian; before that he’d been a very good butler. Sometimes it was hard to take the butlering out of a fellow, especially where doors were concerned.

“What ho, Professor? Lady Maccon’s note didn’t say you’d be here. What a pleasure, indeed. How’s the old wolf?” Tunstell doffed his hat and gave the assembly a sweeping bow and an even wider grin.

“Floppy.”

“You don’t say? I should think, from what I read in the paper this morning, he’d be rampaging about the countryside, threatening to tear folk limb from limb. Why—” Tunstell was warming to his topic, striding around the room in the sentimental style, arms waving, crashing into hats. He had recently earned himself a reputation as an actor of some note, but even before his fame, his mannerisms had leaned markedly in the dramatic direction.

A humorless little smile crossed Madame Lefoux’s lips, and she cut the former claviger off midgesticulation. “Not taking the marital separation well, your Alpha? I am very glad to hear it.” It wasn’t exactly rude of her to interrupt Tunstell. The redhead was a well-meaning fellow, with a perpetually jovial disposition and an undeniable stage presence, but, it must be admitted, he was prone to hyperbole.

Professor Lyall sighed heavily. “He has been intoxicated these last three days.”

“Good gracious me! I wasn’t even aware of the fact that werewolves could become intoxicated.” The Frenchwoman’s scientific interest was piqued.

“It takes some considerable effort and real allocation of resources.”

“What was he drinking?”

“Formaldehyde, as it turns out. Just this morning I deduced his source. It is most wearisome. He worked his way through all of my reserves and then demolished half my specimen collection before I realized what he was up to. I keep a laboratory, you see, on Woolsey Castle grounds in a converted gamekeeper’s hut.”

“Are you saying that you actually are a legitimate professor?” Madame Lefoux tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in newfound respect.

“Not as such. Amateur ruminantologist, to be precise.”

“Oh.”

Professor Lyall looked modestly proud. “I am considered a bit of an expert on the procreative practices of Ovis orientalis aries.”

“Sheep?”

“Sheep.”

“Sheep!” Madame Lefoux’s voice came over suddenly high, as though she were suppressing an inclination to giggle.

“Yes, as in baaaa.” Professor Lyall frowned. Sheep were a serious business, and he failed to see the source of Madame Lefoux’s amusement.

“Let me understand this correctly. You are a werewolf with a keen interest in sheep breeding?” A little bit of a French accent trickled into Madame Lefoux’s speech in her glee.

Professor Lyall continued bravely on, ignoring her flippancy. “I preserve the nonviable embryo in formaldehyde for future study. Lord Maccon has been drinking my samples. When confronted, he admitted to enjoying both the refreshing beverage and the ‘crunchy pickled snack’ as well. I was not pleased.” At which, Professor Lyall felt that nothing more was required of him on this particular topic. “Shall we proceed?”

Taking the hint, Madame Lefoux made her way to the back of the shop. In the farthest corner was a pretty marble-topped stand with an attractive display of gloves spread atop it. Lifting one of the many glove boxes, the Frenchwoman revealed a lever. She pressed it sharply down and a door swung open from the wall before her.

“Oh, I say!” Tunstell was impressed, never having visited Madame Lefoux’s laboratory before. Floote, on the other hand, was untroubled by the almost magical appearance of the doorway. Very little ever seemed to ruffle the feathers of the unflappable Floote.

The hidden doorway led into neither a room nor a passageway, but instead a large cagelike contraption. They entered, Tunstell with much highly vocalized trepidation.

“I’m not certain about this, gents. Looks like one of those animal-collecting thingamabobs, used by my friend Yardley. You know Winston Yardley? Explorer of some renown. He was off down this engorged river, the Burhidihing I think it was, and came back with a ruddy great ship packed with cages just like this, full of the most messy kinds of animals. Not certain I approve of getting into one myself.”

“It is an ascension room,” explained Madame Lefoux to the worried redhead.

Floote pushed a lever, which closed the door to the shop, and then he pulled the small metal safety grate closed across the open side of the cage.

“Cables and guide rails allow the chamber to move up and down between levels, like so.” Madame Lefoux pulled a cord on one side of the cage. She continued explaining to Tunstell as the contraption dropped downward, raising her voice above the din that accompanied movement. “Above us is a steam-powered windlass. Do not worry; it is perfectly capable of sustaining our weight and lowering us at a respectable speed.”

So it proved to be the case as, with many ominous puffs of steam floating into the cage and some creaking and groaning that made Tunstell jump, they moved down. Madame Lefoux’s definition of a respectable speed might be questioned, however, as the contraption plummeted quickly, bumping when it hit the ground, causing everyone to stumble violently up against one side.

“At some point, I suppose I shall have to get around to fixing that.” The Frenchwoman gave an embarrassed little smile, showing small dimples. Straightening her cravat and top hat, she led the three men out. The passageway they walked into was lit by neither gas lamps nor candles, but instead by an orange-tinted gas that glowed faintly as it traveled through glass tubing set in one side of the ceiling. It was carried by an air current of some kind. The gas swirled constantly, resulting in patchy illumination and a shifting orange glow.

“Oooh,” commented Tunstell, and then, rather unguardedly, “What’s that?”

“Aetheromagnetic currents with a gaseous electromagnetic illuminatory crystalline particulate in suspension. I was interested, until recently, in devising a portable version, but, if not precisely regulated, the gas has a tendency to, well, explode.”

Tunstell didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, some questions are best left unasked, I take it?” He gave the tubing a wary look and moved to walk on the opposite side of the passageway.

“Probably wise,” agreed Professor Lyall.

Madame Lefoux gave a half shrug. “You did ask, no?” She led them through a door at the end of the passage and into her contrivance chamber.

Professor Lyall sensed that there was something different about the place. He could not determine exactly what it was. He was familiar with the laboratory, having visited it in order to acquire various necessary instruments, gadgets, and devices for the pack, for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), and sometimes for his own personal use. Madame Lefoux was generally thought to be one of the better young members of the mad-scientist set. She had a reputation for good, hard work and fair prices, her only idiosyncrasy of consequence, so far, being her mode of dress. All members of the Order of the Brass Octopus were notorious for their eccentricities, and Madame Lefoux stood comparatively low on the peculiarity scale. Of course, there was always the possibility she would go on to develop more offensive inclinations later. There were rumors, but, to date, Lyall had had no cause to complain. Her laboratory was everything that was to be expected from an inventor of her character and reputation—very large, very messy, and very, very interesting.

“Where is your son?” inquired Professor Lyall politely, looking around for Quesnel Lefoux’s mercurial little face.

“Boarding school.” The inventor dismissed her child with a faint headshake of disappointment. “He was becoming a liability, and then the muddle with Angelique last month made school the most logical choice. I anticipate his imminent expulsion.”

Professor Lyall nodded his understanding. Angelique, Quesnel’s biological mother and Alexia’s former lady’s maid, had been working undercover for a vampire hive when she fell to her death out of the window of an obscure castle in Scotland. Not that such information was common knowledge, nor likely to become so, but the hives were not above recrimination. Angelique had failed her masters, and Madame Lefoux had involved herself unnecessarily in the matter. It was probably safer for Quesnel to be out of town and away from society, but Professor Lyall had a soft spot for the little ragamuffin, and would miss seeing him around the place.

“Formerly Lefoux must be missing him.”

Madame Lefoux dimpled at that. “Oh, I doubt that. My aunt never did like children very much, even when she was a child.”

The ghost in question, Madame Lefoux’s dead aunt and fellow inventor, resided in the contrivance chamber and had been, until recently, responsible for Quesnel’s education—although, of course, not during the daytime.

Floote stood quietly while Professor Lyall and Madame Lefoux exchanged pleasantries. Tunstell did not. He began poking about the vast muddle, picking up containers and shaking them, examining the contents of large glass vials and winding up sets of gears. There were cords and wire coils draped over hat stands to investigate, vacuum tubes propped in umbrella stands to tip over, and large pieces of machinery to rap on experimentally.

“Do you think I should warn him off? Some of those are volatile.” Madame Lefoux crossed her arms, not particularly concerned.

Professor Lyall rolled his eyes. “Impossible pup.”

Floote went trailing after the curious Tunstell and began relieving him of his more dangerous distractions.

“I see there is a reason Lord Maccon never decided to bite him into metamorphosis.” Madame Lefoux watched the exchange with amusement.

“Aside from the fact that he ran away, got married, and left the pack?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

Tunstell paused to scoop up and put on a pair of glassicals as he walked. Since Madame Lefoux had entered the London market, the vision assistors were becoming ubiquitous. They were worn like spectacles but looked like the malformed offspring of a pair of binoculars and a set of opera glasses. More properly called “monocular cross-magnification lenses with spectra modifier attachments,” Alexia called them “glassicals,” and Professor Lyall was ashamed to admit even he had taken to referring to them as such. Tunstell blinked at them, one eyeball hideously magnified by the instrument.

“Very stylish,” commented Professor Lyall, who owned several pairs himself and was often to be seen wearing them in public.

Floote gave Professor Lyall a dirty look, removed the glassicals from Tunstell, and prodded him back to where Madame Lefoux leaned against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. Large diagrams drawn in black pencil on stiff yellow paper were haphazardly pinned behind her.

Professor Lyall finally realized what it was about the contrivance chamber that was so different from his last visit: it was quiet. Usually the laboratory was dominated by the hum of mechanicals in motion, steam puffing out of various orifices in little gasps and whistles, gears clanking, metal chains clicking, and valves squealing. Today everything was silent. Also, for all its messiness, the place had an air of being put away.

“Are you planning a trip, Madame Lefoux?”

The Frenchwoman looked at the Woolsey Beta. “That rather depends on what Alexia has summoned us together to discuss.”

“But it is a possibility?”

She nodded. “A probability at this juncture, if I know anything about Alexia.”

“Another reason to send Quesnel away to boarding school.”

“Just so.”

“You understand much of Lady Maccon’s character, for such a comparatively short acquaintance.”

“You were not with us in Scotland, Professor; it encouraged intimacy. In addition, I have made her a bit of a pet research venture.”

“Oh, have you, indeed?”

“Before Alexia arrives, I take it you all read the morning papers?” Madame Lefoux switched the subject, levered herself upright from the wall, and took up a peculiarly masculine stance: legs spread, like a boxer at White’s awaiting the first blow.

The men around her all nodded their affirmation.

“I am afraid they do not lie, for once. Alexia shows every sign of increasing, and we must presume that a physician has corroborated my initial diagnosis. Otherwise, Alexia would likely be back at Woolsey Castle, chewing Lord Maccon’s head off.”

“I never noticed any of the aforementioned signs,” protested Tunstell, who had also traveled to the north with Madame Lefoux and Lady Maccon.

“Do you think said signs are generally something you’re likely to observe?”

Tunstell blushed red at that. “No. You are perfectly correct, of course; most assuredly not.”

“So are we agreed that the child is Lord Maccon’s?” Madame Lefoux clearly wanted to find out where everyone stood on the matter.

No one said anything. The inventor looked from one man to the next. First Floote, then Tunstell, and then Lyall nodded their assent.

“I assumed as much, or none of you would have acquiesced to her request for this clandestine meeting, however desperate her circumstances. Still, it is curious that none of you challenges Alexia’s veracity.” The Frenchwoman gave Professor Lyall a sharp look. “I am aware of my own reasons, but you, Professor Lyall, are Lord Maccon’s Beta. Yet you believe it is possible for a werewolf to father a child?”

Professor Lyall had known this moment would come. “It is not that I know the answer as to how. It is simply that I know someone else who believes that this is possible. Several someones, in fact. And they are usually correct in these matters.”

“They? They who?”

“The vampires.” Never comfortable being the center of attention, he nevertheless attempted to explain himself further as all eyes turned to him. “Before she left for Scotland, two vampires tried to kidnap Lady Maccon. While she was on board the dirigible, her journal was stolen and someone tried to poison her. Most of the other incidents up north after that can be placed in Angelique’s hands.” Professor Lyall nodded to Madame Lefoux. “But those three episodes could not have been the maid. I believe the Westminster Hive was responsible for the attempted kidnapping and the theft of the journal, probably under Lord Ambrose’s orders. It seems like Ambrose; he always was ham-handed with his espionage. The kidnappers, whom I intercepted, said they were under orders not to harm Lady Maccon, but simply intended to test her—probably for signs of pregnancy. I believe they stole the journal for the same reason—they wanted to see if she was recording anything about her condition. Of course, she herself had not yet realized, so they wouldn’t have learned anything. The poisoning, on the other hand…”

Lyall looked at Tunstell, who’d been the inadvertent victim of that bungled attempt at murder. Then he continued. “Westminster would wait for confirmation before taking any action so final, especially against the wife of an Alpha werewolf. But those who are outside hive bonds are not so reticent.”

“There are very few rove vampires with the kind of social irreverence and political clout needed to risk killing an Alpha werewolf’s wife.” Madame Lefoux spoke softly, frowning worriedly.

“One of them is Lord Akeldama,” said Lyall.

“He wouldn’t! Would he?” Tunstell was looking less like an actor and more like the semiresponsible claviger he’d once been.

Professor Lyall tipped his head noncommittally. “Do you remember? Formal complaints were filed with the Crown when Miss Alexia Tarabotti’s engagement to Lord Maccon was first printed in the papers. We brushed them off at the time as a matter of vampire etiquette, but I am beginning to think some vampire suspected something like this might occur.”

“And with the morning gossip rags printing what they did…” Tunstell looked even more worried.

“Precisely,” said Professor Lyall. “The vampires have had all their worst fears confirmed—Lady Maccon is pregnant. And while the rest of the world sees this as proof of an infidelity, the bloodsuckers would appear to believe her.”

Madame Lefoux’s forehead creased with worry. “So the hives, originally inclined toward nonviolence, have had their fears confirmed, and Alexia has lost the protection of the Woolsey Pack.”

Floote’s normally dispassionate face showed concern.

Professor Lyall nodded. “All the vampires now want her dead.”