Gail Carriger

chapter SIX

Under the Name Tarabotti

It was early evening, the sun just setting, when three unlikely-looking companions boarded the last dirigible for Calais, leaving from its mooring atop the white cliffs of Dover. No reporters managed to capture the departure of the notorious Lady Maccon. This may have had something to do with the swiftness of her response to the publication of her alleged indiscretion, or it may have been the fact that the lady in question was traveling incognito by means of being outrageous in entirely new ways. Instead of her fashionable but severely practical garb, Alexia sported a black floating dress with chiffon ruffles, yellow modesty straps dangling about the skirt, and a hideous yellow hat. She bore, as a result, some passing resemblance to a self-important bumblebee. It was a truly ingenious disguise, for it made the dignified Lady Maccon look and act rather more like an aging opera singer than a societal grande dame. She was accompanied by a well-dressed young gentleman and his valet. Only one conclusion might be drawn from such a party—that it was an impropriety in action.

Madame Lefoux gave herself over to the portrayal of a boy paramour with enthusiasm, affecting many acts of sycophant-like solicitousness. She donned an extraordinarily realistic-looking mustache for the charade—a large black waxed affair that curled up at each side just over her dimples. It managed to disguise much of the femininity of her face through sheer magnitude, but the protuberance had the unfortunate side effect of causing Alexia fits of intermittent giggles whenever she had to look Madame Lefoux directly on. Floote had an easier time of it, sliding comfortably back into his old role of valet, dragging behind him Madame Lefoux’s boxes and his own battered portmanteau, which looked about as old as he was and much the worse for wear.

They were greeted with ill-disguised contempt by the float staff and with actively shocked avoidance by the rest of the passengers. Imagine, such a relationship openly flaunted on board! Disgusting. The resulting isolation suited Alexia perfectly. At Floote’s suggestion, she had purchased her ticket under her maiden name, Tarabotti, never having gotten around to commissioning new travel papers after her marriage.

Madame Lefoux had initially objected. “Is that wise, do you think, given your father’s reputation?”

“Wiser than traveling under the name of Lady Maccon, I suppose. Who wants to be associated with Conall?” Safely ensconced in her apartments, Alexia pulled off the bumblebee hat and flicked it, as though it were a poisonous snake, across the room.

While Floote puttered about seeing to the unpacking, Madame Lefoux came over and stroked Alexia’s hair, now freed from its confines, as though Alexia were a skittish animal. “Only among the supernatural set does the name Tarabotti carry much meaning. There are those who will make the connection eventually, of course. I am hoping we will move through France faster than the gossip does.”

Alexia did not object to the petting—it was comforting. She assumed Madame Lefoux was simply entering into the spirit of her role. Very enthusiastic about such things, the French.

They ate a private meal in their quarters, declining to join the rest of the passengers. Judging by the rapid appearance and freshness of the foodstuffs, the staff approved of this maneuver. Most of the offerings were cooked over the steam engine—a refreshing, if bland, method of preparation.

After supper they left their quarters and made their way up to the squeak deck for some air. Alexia was amused to find that those already relaxing in the evening aether breezes hurriedly departed as soon as she and her party arrived.

“Snobs.”

Madame Lefoux dimpled slightly from behind her preposterous mustache and leaned against Alexia as they both propped their elbows on the railing, looking down at the dark waters of the channel far below.

Floote watched. Alexia wondered if her father’s faithful valet mistrusted Madame Lefoux because she was French, because she was a scientist, or because she was so consistently inappropriately dressed. With Floote, all three qualities were likely to engender suspicion.

Alexia herself had no such reservations. Genevieve Lefoux had proved herself a most loyal friend over the past month, perhaps a little guarded in matters of the heart, but she was kind of word and more importantly, intelligent of action.

“You miss him?” The Frenchwoman did not need to specify further.

Alexia stuck out one gloved hand and let it ride the rushing aether currents.

“I don’t want to. I’m so blasted angry with him. I’ve come over all numb. Makes me feel slow and stupid.” She glanced sideways at the inventor. Genevieve, too, had experienced loss. “Does it get better?”

Madame Lefoux closed her eyes for a long moment. Probably thinking of Angelique. “It changes.”

Alexia looked up at the almost-full moon, not yet high enough in the sky to vanish behind the enormous balloon section of the ship. “It’s already changing. Tonight”—she gave a tiny shrug—“hurts differently. Now I’m thinking about full moon. It was the one night we remained close, touching, the entirety of the night. Other times, I tried to refrain from extended contact with him. He never cared, but I didn’t feel it worth the risk, to keep him mortal for longer than necessary.”

“Were you afraid you would age him?”

“I was afraid some loner wolf with madness in his eyes would savage him before I could let go.”

They were silent for a brief while.

Alexia pulled her hand back in and tucked it under her chin. It was numb. Familiar sensation. “Yes. I miss him.”

“Even after what he did?”

Unconsciously, Alexia slid her other hand down to her stomach. “He was always a bit of a jackass. To be smart, he should never have married me in the first place.”

“Well”—Madame Lefoux tried to lighten the mood by changing the subject—“at the very least, Italy should be interesting.”

Alexia gave her a suspicious look. “Are you quite certain you entirely understand what that word means? I understand English is not your native tongue, but really.”

The inventor’s fake mustache was wiggling dangerously in the breezes. She put one elegant finger up to her face to hold it in place. “It is a chance to find out how you got pregnant. Isn’t that interesting?”

Alexia widened her dark eyes. “I am perfectly well aware of how it happened. What it is, is a chance to force Conall to recant his accusations. Which is more useful than interesting.”

“You know what I mean.”

Alexia looked up into the night sky. “After marrying Conall, I assumed children were not possible. Now it’s like some exotic disease has happened to me. I cannot bring myself around to being pleased. I should like to know how, scientifically, such a pregnancy occurred. But thinking about the infant too much frightens me.”

“Perhaps you just do not want to become attached to it.”

Alexia frowned. Trying to understand one’s own emotions was a grueling business. Genevieve Lefoux had raised another woman’s child as her own. She must have lived constantly with the fear that Angelique would come and simply take Quesnel away from her.

“I could be doing it unintentionally. Preternaturals are supposed to be repelled by one another, and we are supposed to breed true. By rights, I ought to be allergic to my own child, unable even to be in the same room with it.”

“You believe you are going to miscarry?”

“I believe that, if I do not lose this child, I may be forced to attempt to rid myself of it, or go insane. That, even if, by some miracle, I manage to carry through my confinement, I will never be able to share the same air as my own baby, let alone touch it. And I am so angry that my great lout of a husband has left me to deal with this alone. Couldn’t he have, oh, I don’t know, talked to me about it? But, no, he gets to blunder about acting all put-upon and getting sloshed. While I—” Alexia interrupted herself. “That’s a fantastic idea! I should do something equally outrageous.”

At which statement Madame Lefoux leaned forward and kissed her, quite softly and gently on the mouth.

It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it also wasn’t quite the done thing in polite society, even among friends. Sometimes, Alexia felt, Madame Lefoux took that regretfully French aspect of her character a little too far.

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Got any cognac?”

The inventor only smiled. “I think, perhaps, it is time for bed.”

Alexia felt very worn about the edges, like an old carpet. “This is exhausting, talking about one’s feelings. I am not sure I approve.”

“Yes, but has it helped?”

“I still loathe Conall and want to prove him wrong. So, no, I don’t think it has.”

“But you’ve always felt that way about your husband, my dear.”

“True, true. Are you certain you don’t have any cognac?”



They set down in France the next morning with surprisingly little incident. Madam Lefoux brightened considerably once they landed. Her step was light and cheerful as they walked the gangplank down from the dirigible, leaving the colorful ship bobbing against its tethers behind them. The French, who, in addition to a marked preference for ridiculous mustaches, had a propensity for highly civilized mechanicals, were prepared for vast amounts of luggage. They loaded La Diva Tarabotti’s trunks, Mr. Lefoux’s cases, and Floote’s portmanteau onto a kind of platform that floated, kept aloft by four aether-inflated balloons and pulled along by a lackadaisical porter. Madame Lefoux engaged in several protracted arguments with various staff, arguments that seemed to be more the general formula of conversation than embodying any genuine vehemence. From what Alexia could follow, which wasn’t much given the rapidity of the tongue, there appeared to be some question concerning the bill, the gratuity, and the complexity of hiring transport at this time of the morning.

Madame Lefoux admitted the time of day to be unacceptably early but would brook no delay on their journey. She rousted up a youngish carriage driver, who had a particularly spectacular mustache and who met them rubbing sleepy eyes. With baggage in place and Alexia, Madame Lefoux, and Floote safely ensconced within, they drove some ten miles or so to a station where they caught the mail train on its six-hour journey to Paris, via Amiens. Madame Lefoux promised, in a low voice, there would be sustenance available on board. Sadly, the provisions on the rail turned out to be wretchedly inferior. Alexia was underwhelmed; she had heard such wondrous things about French cuisine.

They arrived in the late afternoon, and Alexia was perturbed to find, never having traveled to foreign climes, that Paris seemed just as dirty and crowded as London, only peopled by buildings more swooped and gentlemen more mustached. They did not go directly into town. Despite a most pressing need for tea, the possibility of pursuit remained uppermost in all their minds. They went to the city’s main train station, where Floote pretended to purchase train tickets, and they made a prodigious fuss over catching the next high-boil steamer to Madrid. They went loudly in on one side of the train, with luggage, and then quietly off the other, much to the annoyance of one long-suffering porter who was liberally rewarded for his pains. They then exited at the back end of the station, into a large but seedy carriage. Madame Lefoux directed the driver to a tiny, rickety little clockmaker’s shop nestled next to a bakery in what appeared, shockingly enough, to be the tradesmen’s quarter of Paris.

Mindful that she was a fugitive and could not afford to be particular, Alexia trailed her friend into the tiny shop. She spotted the small brass octopus above the door and could not quite prevent a lurch of apprehension. Once inside, however, her fears were quickly dissipated by curiosity. The interior was littered with clocks and companion devices of all shapes and sizes. Unfortunately, Madame Lefoux pressed on through rapidly into a back room and up a set of stairs. They arrived thus, with very little pomp or circumstance, in the tiny reception chamber of a set of residential apartments above the shop.

Alexia found herself surrounded and embraced by a room of such unmitigated welcome and personality that it was akin to being yelled at by plum pudding. All the furniture looked comfortable and worn, and the paintings on the walls and side tables were bright and cheerful. Even the wallpaper was equally amiable. Unlike in England, where courtesy to the supernatural set prevailed, resulting in interiors kept dark with heavy curtains, this room was bright and well lit. The windows, overlooking the street below, were thrown open and the sun allowed to stream in. But for Alexia, the most welcoming thing about the place was the myriad of gadgets and mechanical knickknacks strewn about. Unlike Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber, which had no other purpose but production, this was a home that also happened to be a work space. There were gears piled atop half-finished knitting and cranking mechanisms attached to coal scuttles. It was a marriage of domesticity and technology like none Alexia had witnessed before.

Madame Lefoux gave a funny little holler but did not go looking for the denizen of the abode. With the air of a regular visitor, she settled herself easily into a soft settee. Alexia, finding this familiar behavior highly irregular, resisted joining her at first, but due to the weariness of extended travel was eventually persuaded not to stand on ceremony. Floote, who seemed never to tire, laced his fingers behind his back and took up his favorite butler stance near the door.

“Why, Genevieve, my dear, what an unexpected pleasure!” The gentleman who entered the room matched the house perfectly—soft, friendly, and gadget-riddled. He wore a leather apron with many pockets, a pair of green spectacles rested upon his nose, a pair of brass glassicals perched atop his head, and a monocle hung about his neck. The clockmaker, no doubt. He spoke in French, but fortunately much less rapidly than others Alexia had met so far, allowing her to follow the conversation.

“There is something different about you?” The man adjusted his spectacles and contemplated Madame Lefoux for a moment through them. Apparently not pinpointing the enormous mustache draped atop the inventor’s upper lip as the culprit, he added, “Is that a new hat?”

“Gustave, you never do change, do you? I hope you do not mind such an unexpected visit.” Madame Lefoux addressed their host in the queen’s English, in deference to Alexia and Floote’s presence.

The gentleman in question switched smoothly into Alexia’s native language as though it were a tongue as familiar to him as his own. In the same instant, he seemed to notice Alexia and Floote for the first time. “Not at all, not at all, I assure you. I adore the company. Always welcome.” There was a tone to his voice and a twinkle to his blue-button eyes that suggested real truth to the social niceties. “And you have brought me guests! How marvelous. Delighted, delighted.”

Madame Lefoux made introductions. “Monsieur Floote and Madame Tarabotti, this is my dear cousin, Monsieur Trouvé.”

The clockmaker gave Floote a measured look and a small bow. Floote returned both in kind, after which Alexia found herself the object of bespectacled scrutiny.

“Not that Tarabotti?”

Alexia would not go so far as to describe Monsieur Trouvé as shocked, but he was certainly something more than complacent. It was difficult to see the exact nature of his expression as, in addition to the ubiquitous mustache, the clockmaker also wore a golden-brown beard of such epic proportions as might dwarf a mulberry bush. It was as though his mustache had become overly enthusiastic and, seized with the spirit of adventure, set out to conquer the southern reaches of his face in a take-no-prisoners kind of way.

“His daughter,” confirmed Madame Lefoux.

“In truth?” The Frenchman looked to Floote, of all people, for confirmation.

Floote nodded curtly—once.

“Is it so very bad a thing, to be my father’s daughter?” Alexia wondered.

Monsieur Trouvé raised both bushy eyebrows and smiled. It was a small, shy smile that barely made it through the shrubbery of his beard. “I take it you never met your father? No, of course, you wouldn’t have, would you? Not possible. Not if you are his daughter.” He looked at Madame Lefoux this time. “Is she really?”

Madame Lefoux dimpled at him. “Without question.”

The clockmaker brought his monocle up, peering through both it and his spectacles at Alexia. “Remarkable. A female preternatural. I never thought I would live to see the day. It is a true honor having you to visit, Madame Tarabotti. Genevieve, you always did bring me the most charming surprises. And trouble with them, of course, but we won’t talk about that now, will we?”

“Better than that, cousin—she is with child. And the father is a werewolf. How do you like that?”

Alexia gave Madame Lefoux a sharp stare. They had not discussed revealing the personal details of her embarrassing condition to a French clockmaker!

“I must sit down.” Monsieur Trouvé groped without looking for a nearby chair and collapsed into it. He took a deep breath and then examined Alexia with even more interest. She wondered if he might try to wear the glassicals as well as the spectacles and the monocle.

“You are certain?”

Alexia bristled. She was so very tired of having her word questioned. “I assure you. I am quite certain.”

“Amazing,” said the clockmaker, seeming to recover some of his equanimity. “No offense meant, no offense. You are, you must realize, a marvel of the modern age.” The monocle went back up. “Though, not so very much like your dear father.”

Alexia glanced tentatively at Floote and then asked Monsieur Trouvé, “Is there anyone who did not know my father?”

“Oh, most people didn’t. He preferred things that way. But he dabbled in my circle, or I should say, my father’s circle. I met him only the once, and I was six at the time. I remember it well, however.” The clockmaker smiled again. “He did have quite the habit of making an impression, your father, I must say.”

Alexia was unsure as to whether this comment had an underlying unsavory meaning or not. Then she realized it must. Given what little she knew of her father, a better question might be, to which form of unsavory meaning was the Frenchman alluding? Still, she was positively dying of curiosity. “Circle?”

“The Order.”

“My father was an inventor?” That surprised Alexia. She had never heard that about Alessandro Tarabotti. All his journal entries indicated he was more a destroyer than a creator. Besides, by all accounts, preternaturals couldn’t really invent anything. They lacked the necessary imagination and soul.

“Oh, no, no.” Monsieur Trouvé brushed two fingers through his beard thoughtfully. “More of an irregular customer. He always had the oddest requests. I remember, once, my uncle talking about how he actually asked for a—” The clockmaker looked up at the doorway, apparently noticing something that made him stop. “Ah, yes, never mind.”

Alexia glanced over to see what had caused this gregarious fellow to silence himself. But there was nothing there, only Floote, impassive as always, hands laced behind his back.

Alexia looked to Madame Lefoux in mute appeal.

The Frenchwoman was no help. Instead, she excused herself from the discussion. “Cousin, perhaps I could go find Cansuse for some tea?”

“Tea?” Monsieur Trouvé looked taken aback. “Well, if you must. Seems to me you have been in England too long, my dearest Genevieve. I should think such an occasion as this would require wine. Or perhaps brandy.” He turned to Alexia. “Should I get out the brandy? You look as though you might need a bit of a pick-me-up, my dear.”

“Oh, no, thank you. Tea would be perfectly suitable.” In truth, Alexia thought tea a brilliant idea. It had taken well over an hour to conduct their train subterfuge, and while she knew it was worth it, her stomach objected on principle. Ever since the onset of the infant-inconvenience, food was becoming an ever more pressing concern in some form or another. She had always pondered food overmuch for the safety of her waistline, but these days a good deal more of her attention was occupied with where it was, how soon she could get it, and, on the more embarrassing occasions, whether it would remain eaten or not. Yet another thing to blame on Conall. Who would have thought that anything could affect my eating habits?

Madame Lefoux vanished from the room. There was an awkward pause while the clockmaker continued to stare at Alexia.

“So,” Alexia began tentatively, “through which side of the family are you related to Genevieve?”

“Oh, we aren’t actually family. She and I went to school together—École des Arts et Métiers. You’ve heard of it? Of course you have. Naturally, at the time, she was a he—always did prefer to play the man, our Genevieve.” There was a pause while bushy eyebrows descended in thought. “Aha, that is what is different! She is wearing that ridiculous fake mustache again. It has been a long time. You must be traveling incognito. What fun!”

Alexia looked mildly panicked, unsure as to whether she should tell this affable man about danger of a vampiric persuasion heading in their direction.

“Not to worry, I wouldn’t dare to pry. Regardless, I taught Genevieve everything she knows about clockwork mechanisms. And mustache maintenance, come to think on it. And a few other things of note.” The clockmaker stroked his own impressive mustache with forefinger and thumb.

Alexia didn’t quite follow his meaning. She was saved from having to continue the conversation by the return of Madame Lefoux.

“Where is your wife?” the Frenchwoman demanded of their host.

“Ah, yes, about that. Hortense slightly, well, died last year.”

“Oh.” Madame Lefoux did not look particularly upset by this news, only surprised. “I am sorry.”

The clockmaker gave a small shrug. “Hortense never was one for making a fuss. She caught a tiny cold down the Riviera way, and the next thing I knew, she had just given up and expired.”

Alexia wasn’t sure what to think of such a blasé attitude.

“She was a bit of a turnip, my wife.”

Alexia decided to be mildly amused by his lack of sentiment. “How do you mean, turnip?”

The clockmaker smiled again. Clearly, he had been hoping for that question. “Bland, good as a side dish, but really only palatable when there is nothing better available.”

“Gustave, really!” Madame Lefoux pretended shock.

“But enough about me. Tell me more about yourself, Madame Tarabotti.” Monsieur Trouvé scooted toward her.

“What more should you like to know?” Alexia wanted to ask him more questions about her father but felt that the opportunity had passed.

“Do you function the same as a male soulless? Your ability to negate the supernatural, is it similar?”

“Having never met any other living preternaturals, I always assumed so.”

“So, you would say, physical touch or very near proximity with a rapid reaction time on the part of the victim?”

Alexia didn’t like the word “victim,” but his description of her abilities was accurate enough, so she nodded. “Do you make a study of us, then, Monsieur Trouvé?” Perhaps he could help with her pregnancy predicament.

The man shook his head, his eyes crinkling up at the edges in amusement. Alexia was finding she did not mind the copious facial hair, because so much of the clockmaker’s expressions were centered in his eyes. “Oh, no, no. Far outside of my sphere of particular interest.”

Madame Lefoux gave her old school chum an assessing look. “No, Gustave, you never have been one for the aetheric sciences—not enough gadgetry.”

“I’m an aetheric science?” Alexia was mystified. In her experience as a bluestocking, such studies focused on the niceties of aetheronautics and supra-oxygenic travel, not preternaturals.

A diminutive maid with a shy demeanor brought in the tea, or what Alexia supposed passed for tea in France. The maid was accompanied by a low tray of foodstuffs on wheels, which seemed to be somehow trailing her about the apartments. It made a familiar tinny skittering noise as it moved. When the maid bent to lift the tray up and place it on a table, Alexia emitted an involuntary squeak of alarm. Quite unaware of her own athletic abilities until that moment, she jumped over and behind the couch.

Acting the part of footman in tonight’s French farce, she thought with a bubble of panicked hilarity, we have a homicidal mechanical ladybug.

“Good lord, Madame Tarabotti, are you quite well?”

“Ladybug!” Alexia managed to squawk.

“Ah, yes, a prototype for a recent order.”

“You mean, it is not trying to kill me?”

“Madame Tarabotti, I assure you, in my own home, I should never be so uncouth as to kill someone with a ladybug.”

Alexia came cautiously back out from behind the couch and watched warily as the large mechanical beetle, all unconcerned for her palpitating heart, trundled after the maid and back out into the hall.

“Your artisanship, I take it?”

“Indeed.” The Frenchman looked proudly after the retreating bug.

“I have encountered it before.”

Madame Lefoux turned accusing eyes onto Monsieur Trouvé. “Cousin, I thought you preferred not to design weapons!”

“I do! And I must say I resent the implication.”

“Well, the vampires have turned them into such,” Alexia said. “I experienced a whole herd of homicidal ladybugs, sent to poke me in a carriage. Those very antennae that yours was using to carry the tea tray had been replaced with syringes.”

“And one exploded when I went to examine it,” added Madame Lefoux.

“How perfectly dreadful.” The clockmaker frowned. “Ingenious, of course, but not my modifications, I assure you. I must apologize to you, dear lady. These things always seem to happen when dealing with vampires. Although it is hard to refuse such consistent customers with such prompt accounting.”

“Can you reveal the name of your client, cousin?”

The clockmaker frowned. “American gentleman. A Mr. Beauregard. Ever heard of him?”

“Sounds like a pseudonym,” said Alexia.

Madame Lefoux nodded. “It is rather common to use handlers in this part of the world, I’m afraid. The trail will have gone quite cold by now.”

Alexia sighed regretfully. “Ah, well, deadly ladybugs will happen, Monsieur Trouvé. I understand. You can repair my finer feelings with some tea, perhaps?”

“Of course, Madame Tarabotti. Of course.”

To be certain there was tea, of indifferent quality, but Alexia’s attention was drawn to the food on offer. There were stacks of raw vegetables—raw!—and some sort of pressed gelatinous meat with tiny nutty-looking digestive biscuits. There was nothing sweet at all. Alexia was deeply suspicious of the whole arrangement. However, upon selection of a small mound of nibbles, she found the fare to be more than passing delicious, with the exception of the tea, which proved itself to be as indifferent in taste as it had appeared initially.

The clockmaker nibbled delicately at some of the foodstuffs but took no libations, commenting that he believed tea would make a superior beverage served cold over ice. Were ice, of course, to become a less expensive commodity. At which statement, Alexia utterly despaired of both him and his moral integrity.

He continued his conversation with Madame Lefoux, as though they had never been interrupted. “On the contrary, my dear Genevieve, I am interested enough in the aetheric phenomena to keep up with the current literature out of Italy. Contrary to the British and the American theories on volatile moral natures, blood derangements, and feverish humors, the Italian investigative societies now hold that souls are connected to the correct dermatological processing of ambient aether.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, how preposterous.” Alexia was not impressed. The infant-inconvenience appeared to feel equally unimpressed by raw vegetables. Alexia stopped eating and put a hand to her stomach. Damn and blast the annoying thing. Couldn’t it leave her in peace for one meal?

Floote, previously occupied with his own comestibles, immediately moved toward her in concern.

Alexia shook her head at him.

“Ah, you are a reader of scientific literature, Madame Tarabotti?”

Alexia inclined her head.

“Well it may seem absurd to you, but I believe their ideas have merit. Not the least of which being the fact that this particular theory has temporarily halted Templar-sanctioned vivisections of supernatural test subjects.”

“You are a progressive?” Alexia was surprised.

“I try to stay out of politics. However, England seems to be doing rather well having openly accepted the supernatural. That is not to say I approve. Making them hide, however, has its disadvantages. I should love to have access to some of the vampires’ scientific investigations for one; the things they know about clocks! I also do not believe the supernatural should be hunted down and treated like animals as in the Italian mode.”

The little room in which they sat turned a pretty shade of gold as the sun began to set over the Parisian rooftops.

The clockmaker paused upon noticing the change. “Well, well, we have chatted long enough, I suspect. You must be exhausted. You will be staying the night with me, of course?”

“If you don’t mind the imposition, cousin.”

“It’s no trouble at all. So long as you forgive the arrangements, for they will be quite cramped. I am afraid you ladies will have to bunk down together.”

Alexia gave Madame Lefoux an assessing look. The Frenchwoman had made her preferences, and her interest, clear. “I suspect my virtue is safe.”

Floote looked as though he would like to object.

Alexia gave him a funny look. There was no possible way her father’s ex-valet could be a prude in matters of the flesh. Was there? Floote had terribly rigid ideas about sensible dress and public behavior, but he had never batted a single eye at the entirely untoward private doings of Woolsey Castle’s rambunctious werewolf pack. On the other hand, he had never particularly liked Lord Akeldama, either. Alexia twitched a small frown in his direction.

Floote gave her a blank stare.

Perhaps he still mistrusted Madame Lefoux for some other reason?

Since puzzling over the matter would certainly yield no results, and talking to Floote—or, more precisely, at Floote—never did any good, Alexia swept by him and followed Monsieur Trouvé up the hallway to a tiny bedroom.



Alexia had changed into a claret-colored taffeta visiting dress and was just enjoying a little nap before supper when the most amazing racket awakened her. It seemed to be emanating from the downstairs clock shop.

“Oh, for the love of treacle, what now?”

Grabbing her parasol in one hand and her dispatch case in the other, she charged out into the hallway. It was very dark, as the lights in the apartment were not yet lit. A warm glow emanated up from the shop below.

Alexia bumped into Floote at the top of the stairs.

“Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé have been consulting on matters clock-related while you rested,” he informed her softly.

“That cannot possibly account for such a hullabaloo.”

Something crashed into the front door. Unlike London, the Paris shops did not stay open late in order to cater to werewolves and vampires. They shut down before sunset, locked firmly against any possible supernatural clientele.

Alexia and Floote bounded down the stairs—as much as a dignified butler-type personage and a pregnant woman of substance can be said to bound. There Alexia thought Paris’s closed-door policy might well have its merits. For just as she entered the clock shop, four large vampires did the same by way of the now-broken front door. Their fangs were extended, and they did not look in favor of formal introductions.