Professor Lyall gave him a dour look. “Something like.”
The Beta stood and stretched, looking down at Biffy. The rest was doing him good. He looked if not healthier, at least less emaciated. His hair was matted with muck from the Thames, and his face was streaked with dirt and tears, but he still managed an air of dandified gentility. Lyall respected that in a man. Lord Akeldama had done his work well. Lyall respected that, too.
Without further ado, he swung the blanket wrapped Biffy up into his arms and headed out into the busy London streets.
Floote was still out when Alexia pulled her panting horses to a stop at the door of the temple. Madame Lefoux was immediately whisked away to the infirmary, which left Alexia to make her way alone through the luxurious building. And, because she was Alexia, she made her way to the calm sanity of the library. Only in a library did she feel completely capable of collecting her finer feelings and recuperating from such a wearying day. It was also the only room she could remember how to get to.
In a desperate bid to cope with the violence of the attack, her discovery of Channing’s presence in Italy, and her own unanticipated affection for the infant inconvenience, Alexia extracted some of Ivy’s precious tea. Quite resourcefully, she felt, she managed to boil water over the hearth fire using an empty metal snuffbox. She had to do without milk, but it was a small price to pay under the circumstances. She had no idea if the preceptor had yet returned, or even if he had survived, for as usual, no one spoke to her. With nothing else to do for the moment, Alexia sat in the library and sipped.
It was foolish of her not to realize that the all pervading silence was not one of prayer but one of impending disaster. Her first warning came in the form of a volatile four legged duster that hurtled into the library, breaking the calm quiet with a bout of such crazed yipping that a lesser dog would have become ill at the effort.
“Poche? What are you doing here, you vile animal?” Alexia fiddled with her snuffbox of tea.
Apparently, Poche’s current and sole desire in life was to launch a vicious attack on Alexia’s chair leg, which he got his little teeth around and was gnawing on passionately.
Alexia contemplated whether she should attempt to shake him off, kick him with her foot, or simply disregard him entirely.
“Good evening, Female Specimen.”
“Why, Mr. German Specimen, what an unexpected surprise. I thought you had been excommunicated. They let you back into Italy?”
Mr. Lange Wilsdorf walked into the room, stroking his chin with the air of one who has suddenly acquired the upper hand and was reveling in the state of affairs. “I found myself in the possession of some, shall we call it, negotiating power, ya?”
“Ya?” Alexia was irritated enough to mimic him.
Mr. Lange Wilsdorf came to stand near her, looking down. Which must be a particularly unusual experience for him given his diminutive stature, Alexia thought nastily.
“The Templars will, with the information I provided, convince His Holiness Pope Blessed Pius IX to repeal my excommunication and accept me back into the fold.”
“Will they, indeed? I had no notion they possessed such influence.”
“They possess many things, Female Specimen, many things.”
“Well” Alexia was suddenly quite nervous “felicitations on your reintegration.”
“I have my laboratory back,” he continued proudly.
“Good, perhaps you can figure out how ”
The preceptor came into the library. Alexia stopped midsentence and looked him over, noticing bandages about his limbs and scrapes across his face. He was clearly a little worse for his encounter with the vampire and subsequent fall from the carriage.
“Ah, how are you feeling, Mr. Templar?”
Not bothering to answer, the preceptor came over, crossed his arms, and looked down at her as well. Eventually he spoke to her as though she were a recalcitrant child. “I am confused, My Soulless One.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. Why is it you chose not to inform us of your delicate condition? We would have taken far greater care of your person had we known of it.”
Oh, mercy me. Alexia shifted, wary. She put down the snuffbox and grabbed her parasol. “Would you, indeed? Do you imply that you would not have, for example, used me as bait in a vampire trap?”
The preceptor ignored her barb. “Mr. Lange Wilsdorf informs us that not only are you with child, but that the child’s father is a werewolf. Is this ”
Alexia held up a commanding hand. “Do not even begin that line of questioning with me. My husband is a werewolf, and despite any and all accusations to the contrary, he is undoubtedly the father. I will neither argue nor tolerate any insinuations against my integrity. I may be soulless, gentlemen, but I assure you I am faithful. Even Conall, blast him, has finally admitted that.”
The Templar snapped his mouth shut and nodded. She wasn’t convinced that he believed her, but frankly she didn’t care.
Mr. Lange Wilsdorf rubbed his hands together. “Indeed, in conjunction with your insistence, I have devised a new theory as to the nature of soul that I believe not only supports but indeed relies upon your avowal that the child has a supernatural father.”
“Are you saying the only way I could still be pregnant is if I were telling the truth?” Alexia felt her breath quicken in anticipation. Vindication at last!
“Well, ya, Female Specimen, precisely.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
The little German seemed a tad taken aback by her calm acceptance. He did not notice how one of Alexia’s hands was now delicately fiddling with the handle of her parasol. She was also watching the Templar almost as closely as she watched him.
“You are not angry with me for the telling to the Templars of your little secret?”
Alexia was, but she pretended to be blasé. “Well, it was all over the London papers. I suppose they would have found out eventually. Still, you are a bit of a repulsive weasel, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps. But if this theory is correct, I will also be a most famous weasel.”
The Templar had taken a fascinated interest in Alexia’s snuffbox full of tea and was examining it. Alexia gave him a narrow look, daring him to comment on her idiosyncratic solution to the fact that none of the temple staff would respond to any of her requests. He said nothing.
“Very well, tell me of this theory of yours. And would you mind, terribly, removing your dog from my chair?”
Mr. Lange Wilsdorf swooped down and scooped up his energetic little animal. The creature immediately relaxed into a floppy, partly comatose state in his master’s arms. Draping the dog over one arm as a footman would a dishtowel, Mr. Lange Wilsdorf proceeded to use the beastie as a teaching tool for his explanation.
“Let us assume that there are certain particles in the human body that bond to ambient aether.” He prodded at the dog with one finger unhelpfully. “I shall call these particles ‘pneuma.’ ” He raised his poking finger into the air dramatically. “Supernaturals have broken this bond, losing most of their pneuma. They become immortal by reconfiguring what trace amounts of pneuma they have left into a flexible bond with ambient aetheric particles.”