Alexia wasn’t really sure she enjoyed being referred to as a specimen. And the way the German looked at her was almost hungry.
Alexia prepared her parasol with her free hand. “I would not, young sir, if I were you,” she said to the dog. “My skirts have been through quite enough for one evening.” The dog appeared to think better of his attack and began jumping up and down in place, all four legs oddly straight.
“Come in, come in! The greatest marvel of the age, here, on my very doorstep. This is how do you say? fantastic, ya, fantastic!” The little man paused in his enthusiasm upon noticing Floote for the first time, silent and still to one side of the stoop.
“And who is this?”
“Uh, this is Mr. Floote, my personal secretary.” Alexia stopped staring ominously down at the dog in time to answer so Floote didn’t have to.
Mr. Lange Wilsdorf let go of Alexia and went to walk a slow turn around Floote. The German gentleman was still in his nightshirt, in the street, but he didn’t seem to notice the faux pas. Alexia figured that as she had just shown her bloomers to half of France, she didn’t have the right to be scandalized by this behavior.
“Is he, is he really? Nothing more evil than that? No? Are you certain?” Mr. Lange Wilsdorf reached out a crooked finger and yanked down Floote’s cravat and shirt, checking the neck area for marks.
Growling, the dog glommed onto Floote’s boot.
“Do you mind, sir?” Floote looked decidedly put upon. Alexia couldn’t tell if it was the man or his dog that irritated most; Floote could abide neither a wrinkled collar nor damp shoes.
Seeing nothing incriminating, the German left off torturing Floote with his vulgar behavior. Once again he grabbed Alexia by the hand and positively dragged her into his tiny house. He gestured for the other two to follow, giving Floote yet another dubious once over. The dog escorted them inside.
“Well, you realize, under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t. Not a man, not so late at night. Never can tell with the English. But I suppose, just this once. Though, I did hear some of the terrible, terrible rumors about you, young miss.” The German raised his chin and attempted to look down on Alexia, as though he were some kind of disapproving maiden aunt. It was a particularly unsuccessful look, as, aside from not being her aunt, he was a good head shorter than Alexia.
“Heard you had married a werewolf. Ya? What a thing for a preternatural to go and be doing. A most unfortunate choice for the Female Specimen.”
“Is it?” Alexia managed to get just those two words in before Mr. Lange Wilsdorf continued on without apparent pause or need for breath, shepherding them into a messy little parlor.
“Yes, well, we all make the mistakes.”
“You have no idea,” muttered Alexia, feeling a strange aching pain of loss.
Madame Lefoux began poking about the room with interest. Floote took up his customary station by the door.
The dog, exhausted by his own frenzy, went and curled in front of the cold fireplace, a posture that made him look, if possible, even more like a common household cleaning device.
There was a bell rope near the door, which the little man began to tug on, at first gently and then with such enthusiasm he was practically swinging from it. “You will be wanting tea, I am certain. English are always with the wanting of tea. Sit down, sit down.”
Madame Lefoux and Alexia sat. Floote did not.
Their host bustled over to a little side table and took a small box out of a drawer. “Snuff?” He flipped the lid and offered the leaf about.
Everyone declined. But the German seemed unwilling to accept Floote’s refusal. “No, no, I insist.”
“I do not partake, sir,” objected Floote.
“Really, I insist.” A sudden hardness entered Mr. Lange Wilsdorf’s eyes.
Floote shrugged, took a small portion, and inhaled delicately.
The German watched him closely the entire time. When Floote showed no abnormal reaction, the little man nodded to himself and put the snuffbox away.
A disheveled manservant entered the room.
The dog awoke and, despite a clearly extensive association with the domestic staff, launched himself at the boy as though he posed a grave threat to the safety of the world.
“Mignon, we have the guests. Bring up a pot of Earl Grey and some croissants at once. Earl Grey, mind you, and that basket of kumquats. Thank God for the kumquats.” He narrowed his eyes at Floote once more, in an “I’m not finished with you, young man” kind of way.
Floote, who was a good deal older than the German gentleman, remained utterly impassive.
“Well, this is delightful, ya, delightful. Alexia Tarabotti, here in my home.” He took off his nightcap to enact a twitchy little bow in Alexia’s direction. The action revealed a set of precariously large ears, which looked as though they rightly belonged to someone else.
“Never met your father, but I have studied much over his stock. First to breed a female soulless in seven generations, ya. It is a miracle, some have claimed, the Female Specimen.” He nodded to himself. “I have the theory, of course, to do with brood female mixing outside of Italy. Brilliant choice of your father’s, ya? A little of the fresh blood of English.”
Alexia could hardly believe the statement. As though she were the result of some kind of horse breeding program. “Now, I say !”
Madame Lefoux interjected at this juncture, “Mr. Lange Wilsdorf here has been studying the preternatural state for many years now.”
“It has been difficult, most difficult, indeed, ya, to find a live specimen. My little trouble with the church, you understand.”
“Come again?” Alexia checked her rage in favor of curiosity. Here was a scientist who might really know something.
The German blushed and worried his sleeping cap about with both hands. “A little how do you say? spot of bother. Had to move to France and leave much of my research behind. A travesty.”
Alexia looked to Madame Lefoux for an explanation.
“He was excommunicated,” said the inventor in a grave, hushed voice.
The little man blushed even redder. “Ah, you heard of it?”
Madame Lefoux shrugged. “You know how the Order gossips.”
A sigh met this statement. “Well, regardless, you have brought me this fine visitor. A living, breathing female preternatural. You will allow me to ask you questions, young lady, ya? Perhaps, a test or two?”
A tap came at the door, and the manservant entered bearing a tea tray.
Mr. Lange Wilsdorf accepted the tray and then waved the man away. He poured the tea, strong and redolent of the scent of bergamot. Alexia didn’t much like Earl Grey; it was well out of fashion in London and was never served in any of the establishments she frequented. Vampires were not fond of citrus. Which, she realized, must be why the little man was now pressing the tea and a small pile of kumquats on the austere Floote.
“The snuff!”
Everyone looked at her.
“Ah, you decided you wanted to try some, ya, Female Specimen?”
“Oh, no. I simply realized. You made Floote take snuff as a werewolf check. They hate snuff. And now you’re using the Earl Grey and the kumquats to see if he’s a vampire.”
Floote arched one eyebrow, took a kumquat, and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing methodically.
“You do realize, Mr. Lange Wilsdorf, that vampires are perfectly capable of consuming citrus? They just don’t like it.”
“Yes, of course, I’m well aware. But it is a good how do you say? initial check, until sun comes up.”
Floote sighed. “I assure you, sir, I am not of a supernatural inclination.”
Alexia snickered. Poor Floote looked extremely put upon.
The little German did not seem convinced by mere verbal guarantees. He kept a jaundiced eye on Floote and maintained proprietary control of the bowl of kumquats. For future use as projectile weaponry, perhaps?
“Of course, you could still be a claviger or drone type person.”
Floote huffed out a small puff of annoyed breath.
“You already checked him for bite marks,” pointed out Alexia.