Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second

by Gail Carriger

  “Why are you here, wife?” he asked bluntly.

  Lady Maccon leaned back, exasperated. They were getting nowhere with this conversation. “Conall, answer me this: have you been able to change since we arrived at Kingair?”

  Lord Maccon frowned. “I had not thought to try.”

  She gave him an aggrieved look via the mirror, and he let go of her and stepped back. She watched him, his busy hands stilled. Nothing happened.

  He shook his head and came back. “Not possible. It feels a little as though I am in contact with you and trying for my wolf form. Not difficult, or even elusive, simply unavailable. That part of me, the werewolf part, has vanished.”

  She turned to him. “I came because I am muhjah, and this changelessness is connected to the Kingair Pack. I saw you sneak away and talk to the Beta. None of this pack has been able to shift in months, have they? For how long exactly has this been going on? Since boarding the Spanker and traveling home? Or before? Where did they find the weapon? India? Egypt? Or is it a plague they have brought back? What happened to them overseas?”

  Lord Maccon looked at his wife in the looking glass, his big hands on her shoulders. “They willna tell me. I am no longer Alpha here. They owe me no explanation.”

  “But you are BUR’s chief sundowner.”

  “This is Scotland; BUR’s authority is weak here. Besides, these people were my pack for generations. I may have no wish to lead them anymore, but I do not want to kill any of them either. They know that. I simply want to know what is happening here.”

  “You and I both, my love,” replied his wife. “You don’t mind if I wish to question your brethren on the matter?”

  “I dinna see how you will make over any better than I.” Conall was doubtful. “They do not know you are muhjah, and you’d be wise to keep it that way. Queen Victoria isna so loved in this part of the world.”

  “I’ll be discreet.” Her husband’s eyebrows reached for the sky at that. “Very well, as discreet as possible for me.”

  “It canna hurt,” he said, and then thought better of it. This was Alexia, after all. “So long as you refrain from using that parasol.”

  His lady wife grinned maliciously. “I shall be direct, but not that direct.”

  “Why do I doubt you? Well, watch out for Dubh; he can be difficult.”

  “Not up to Professor Lyall’s caliber as a Beta, shall we say?”

  “Um, that’s not for me to say. Dubh was never my Beta, not even my Gamma.”

  That was interesting news. “But this Niall, the one who was killed in battle over seas, he wasn’t your Beta either?”

  “Na. Mine died,” he replied shortly, in a tone of voice that said he did not want to discuss the matter further. “Your turn. This dirigible fall, wife?”

  Alexia stood, finished with her ablutions. “Someone else is on the scent: a spy of some kind or some other agent, a member of the Hypocras Club, perhaps. While Madame Lefoux and I were strolling the observation deck, someone tried to push us over the side. I fell and Madame Lefoux fought off whomever it was. I managed to stay my fall and climbed to safety. It was nothing, really, except that I nearly lost the parasol. And I am no longer partial to dirigible travel.”

  “I should think not. Well, wife, try not to get yourself killed for at least a few days?”

  “Are you going to tell me the real reason you came back to Scotland? Do not think you have thrown me off the scent so easily.”

  “I never doubted you, my sweet demure little Alexia.”

  Lady Maccon gave him her best, most fierce, battle-ax expression, and they went down to dinner.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In Which Meringues Are Annihilated

  Lady Maccon wore a dinner gown of black with white pleated trim and white satin ribbon about the neck and sleeves. It would have cast her in a suitably subdued and dignified tone except that, due to the protracted argument with her husband, she had entirely forgotten to stuff her hair under a cap. Her dark tresses rioted about her head, only partially confined by the morning’s updo, a heaven of frizz and feathering. Lord Maccon adored it. He thought she looked like some exotic gypsy and wondered if she might be amenable to donning gold earrings and dancing topless about their room in a loose red skirt. Everyone else was outraged—imagine the wife of an earl appearing at dinner with frizzy hair. Even in Scotland such things were simply not done.

  The rest of the company was already at dinner when they arrived. Ivy had rejected the blue gown for a more excitable puce monstrosity, with multiple poufs of ruffles like so many taffeta puffballs, and a wide belt of bright crimson tied in an enormous bow above the bustle. Felicity had chosen an uncharacteristic white and pale green lace affair, which made her look deceptively demure.

  Conversation was already in flow. Madame Lefoux was in deep consult with one of the Kingair clavigers, a bespectacled young man with high-arched eyebrows that gave him a perpetual expression of equal parts panic and curiosity. They appeared to be ruminating on the malfunction of the aethographor and formulating plans to investigate it after the meal.

  Kingair’s Beta, Gamma, and four other pack members all looked glum and uninterested in the world about them, but spoke comfortably enough to Ivy and Felicity on the inanities of life, such as the appalling Scottish weather and the appalling Scottish food. Both of which the ladies made a show of liking more than was the case and the gentlemen a show of liking less.

  Lady Kingair was in a fine fettle, waxing sharp and grumpy at the head of the table. She paused in the act of waving austere hands at the footmen to glower at her distant grandfather and his new wife for their unpardonable tardiness.

  Lord Maccon hesitated upon entering the room, as though unsure of where to sit. The last time he’d been in residence he would have sat at the foot of the table, a spot now ostentatiously vacant. As a guest in his old home, his precedence was unknown. An earl would sit in one chair, a family member in another, and a BUR representative in still another. There was a cast to his expression that said eating with his former pack at all was burden enough. What had they done, Alexia wondered, to earn his disgust and his neglect? Or was it something he had done?

  Lady Kingair noticed the hesitation. “Canna choose? Is that not just like you? May as well take Alpha position, Gramps, naught else for it.”

  The Kingair Beta paused in his discussion with Felicity (aye, Scotland was terribly green) and looked up at this.

  “He’s na Alpha here! Have you run mad?”

  The woman stood. “Shut your meat trap, Dubh. Someone’s gotta fight challengers, and you’d go belly-up to the first man capable of Anubis Form.”

  “I’m not a coward!”

  “Tell that to Niall.”

  “I had his back. He missed the signs and the scent. Shoulda known they’d ambush.”

  Conversation deteriorated at that point. Even Madame Lefoux and Mr. Querulous Brows paused in their pursuit of scientific superiority as tension spread about the supper table. Miss Loontwill stopped flirting with Mr. Tunstell. Mr. Tunstell stopped glancing hopefully in Miss Hisselpenny’s direction.

  In a desperate bid to reestablish civilized talk and decorum, Miss Hisselpenny said, quite loudly, “I see they are bringing in the fish course. What a pleasant surprise. I do so love fish. Don’t you Mr., uh, Dubh. It is so very, um, salty.”

  The Beta sat back down at that, bemused. Alexia sympathized. What could one say to such a statement? The gentleman, for he still was such despite a hot temper and lupine inclinations, replied to Ivy, as required by the standards of common decency, with a, “I, too, am mighty fond of fish, Miss Hisselpenny.”

  Some more daring scientific philosophers claimed that the manners of the modern age had partly developed in order to keep werewolves calm and well behaved in public. Essentially, the theory was that etiquette somehow turned high society into a kind of pack. Alexia had never given it much credence, but seeing Ivy, through the mere application of fish-riddled inanities, tame a man like that
was quite remarkable. Perhaps there was something to the hypothesis after all.

  “What is your very favorite kind?” persisted Miss Hisselpenny breathily. “The pink, the white, or the bigger sort of grayish fishes?”

  Lady Maccon exchanged a look with her husband and tried not to laugh. She took her own seat on his left-hand side, and with that, the fish in question was served and dinner continued.

  “I like fish,” chirruped Tunstell.

  Felicity drew his attention immediately back to herself. “Really, Mr. Tunstell? What is your preferred breed?”

  “Well”—Tunstell hesitated—“you know, the um, ones that”—he made a swooping motion with both hands—“uh, swim.”

  “Wife,” murmured the earl, “what is your sister up to?”

  “She only wants Tunstell because Ivy does.”

  “Why should Miss Hisselpenny have any interest whatsoever in my actor-cum-valet?”

  “Exactly!” replied his lady wife enthusiastically. “I am glad we are in agreement on this matter: a most unsuitable match.”

  “Women,” said her still-perplexed husband, reaching over and serving himself a portion of fish—the white kind.

  The conversation never did improve much after that. Alexia was too far away from Madame Lefoux and her scientifically inclined dinner companion to engage in any intellectual conversation, much to her regret. Not that she could have contributed: they had moved on to magnetic aether transmogrification, which was far beyond her own cursory knowledge. Nevertheless, it verbally surpassed her end of the table. Her husband concentrated on eating as though he had not fed in several days, which he probably hadn’t. Lady Kingair seemed incapable of multisyllabic sentences that were not crass or dictatorial in tone, and Ivy kept up a constant flow of fish-related commentary to a degree Alexia would never have countenanced had she been the intended target. The problem being, of course, that Miss Hisselpenny knew nothing on the subject of fish—a vital fact that seemed to have escaped her notice.

  Finally, in desperation, Alexia grasped the conversational reins and inquired rather casually as to how the pack was enjoying its vacation from the werewolf curse.

  Lord Maccon rolled his eyes heavenward. Hardly had he supposed even his indomitable wife would confront the pack so directly, en masse, and over dinner. He thought she would at least approach members individually. But then, subtlety never had been her style.

  Lady Maccon’s comment interrupted even Miss Hisselpenny’s talk of fish. “Oh dear, have you become afflicted too?” said the young lady, glancing sympathetically around the table at the six werewolves present. “I had heard members of the supernatural set were, well, indisposed, last week. My aunt said that all the vampires took to their hives, and most of the drones were called in. She was supposed to see a concert, but it was canceled due to the absence of a pianist belonging to the Westminster Hive. All of London was on its ear. Really, there are not all that many of”—she paused, having talked herself into a corner—“well, you know, the supernatural persuasion in London, but there certainly is a fuss when they cannot leave their homes. Of course, we knew werewolves must be affected, too, but Alexia never said anything to me about it, did you, Alexia? Why, I even saw you, just the next day, and you said not a word on the subject. Was Woolsey unaffected?”

  Lady Maccon did not bother to respond. Instead, she turned sharp brown eyes upon the Kingair Pack sitting about the table. Six large, guilty-looking Scotsman who apparently had nothing to say for themselves.

  The pack exchanged glances. Of course, they assumed Lord Maccon would have told his wife they were unable to change, but they did think it a tad injudicious of her, not to say overly direct, to bring the subject up publicly at supper.

  Finally, the Gamma said awkwardly, “It has been an interesting few months. Of course, Dubh and myself have been supernatural long enough to safely experience daylight with few of the, uh, associated difficulties, at least during new moon. But the others have rather enjoyed their vacation.”

  “I’ve only been a werewolf for a few decades, but I hadna realized how much I missed the sun,” commented one of the younger pack members, speaking for the first time.

  “Lachlan’s been singing again—hard to be mad about that.”

  “But now it’s beginning to annoy,” added a third. “The humanity, not the singing,” he added hastily.

  The first grinned. “Yeah, imagine, at first we missed the light; now we miss the curse. Once one is accustomed to being a wolf part of the time, it is hard to be denied it.”

  The Beta gave them all a warning look.

  “Being mortal is so inconvenient,” complained a third, ignoring the Beta.

  “These days, even the tiniest of cuts take forever to heal. And one is so verra weak without that supernatural strength. I used to be able to lift the back end of a carriage; now, carrying in Miss Hisselpenny’s hatboxes gave me heart palpitations.”

  Alexia snorted. “You should see the hats inside.”

  “I’d forgotten how to shave,” continued the first with a little laugh.

  Felicity gasped and Ivy blushed. Bringing up a gentleman’s toilette at the table—imagine being so indiscreet!

  “Cubs,” barked Lady Kingair, “that is by far enough of that.”

  “Aye, my lady,” bobbed the three gentlemen, who were all two or three times her age. They had probably seen her grow up.

  The table fell silent.

  “So, are you all aging?” Lady Maccon wanted to know. She was blunt, but then, that was part of her charm. The earl looked to his great-great-great-granddaughter. It must drive Sidheag batty that she could not order Alexia, a guest, to be silent.

  No one answered Lady Maccon. But the pack’s collective worried expression spoke volumes. They were back to being entirely human, or as human as creatures who had once partially died could get. Mortal was perhaps a better word for it. It meant they could finish dying now, just like any other daylight mundane. Of course, Lord Maccon was in the same situation.

  Lady Maccon chewed a small bite of hare. “I commend you for not panicking. But I am curious—why not ask for medical assistance while in London? Or perhaps seek out BUR to make inquiries? You did come through London with the rest of the regiments.”

  The pack looked to Lord Maccon to rescue them from his wife. Lord Maccon’s expression said it all: they were at her mercy, and he was enjoying witnessing the carnage. Still, she needn’t have asked. She was perfectly well aware of the fact that most supernatural creatures mistrusted modern doctors, and this pack would hardly seek out the London BUR offices with Lord Maccon in charge. Of course, they would want to get out of London as quickly as possible, retreat to the safety of their home den, hiding their shame with tails between their legs—proverbially, of course, as this was no longer literally possible. No tails to be seen.

  Much to the pack’s relief, the next course arrived, veal and ham pie with a side of beet and cauliflower mash. Lady Maccon waved her fork about expressively and asked, “So, how did it happen? Did you eat some polluted curry or something while you were over in India?”

  “You must excuse my wife,” said Lord Maccon with a grin. “She is a bit of a gesticulator, all that Italian blood.”

  Awkward silence persisted.

  “Are you all ill? My husband thinks you have a plague. Will you be infecting him in addition to yourselves?” Lady Maccon turned to look pointedly at the earl sitting next to her. “I am not entirely sure how I would feel about that.”

  “Thank you for your concern, wife.”

  The Gamma (what had her husband called him? Oh yes, Lachlan) said jokingly, “Come off it, Conall. You canna expect sympathy from a curse-breaker, even if you did wed her.”

  “I heard of this phenomenon,” piped up Madame Lefoux, turning her attention to their conversation. “It did not extend to my neighborhood, so I did not experience it firsthand; nevertheless, I am convinced there must be a logical scientific explanation.”

  “Sc
ientists!” muttered Dubh. Two of his fellow pack members nodded in agreement.

  “Why do you people keep calling Alexia a curse-breaker?” wondered Ivy.

  “Precisely. Isn’t she simply a curse?” said Felicity unhelpfully.

  “Sister, you say the sweetest things,” replied Lady Maccon.

  Felicity gave her a dour look.

  The pack Gamma seized this as an opportunity to change the subject. “Speaking of which, I was under the impression that Lady Maccon’s former name was Tarabotti. But you are a Miss Loontwill.”

  “Oh”—Felicity smiled charmingly—“we have different fathers.”

  “Ah, I see.” The Gamma frowned. “Oh, I see. That Tarabotti.”

  He looked at Alexia with newfound interest. “I should never have thought he would marry.”

  The Beta also looked at Lady Maccon curiously. “Indeed, and to produce offspring. Civic duty, I suppose.”

  “You knew my father?” Lady Maccon was suddenly intrigued, and, it must be admitted, distracted from her course of inquiry.

  The two werewolves exchanged a look. “Not personally. We knew of him, of course. Quite the traveler.”

  Felicity said with a sniff, “Mama always said she could never remember why she leg-shackled herself to an Italian. She claimed it was a marriage of convenience, although I understand he was very good-looking. It did not last, of course. He died, just after Alexia was born. Such a terribly embarrassing thing to do, simply to up and die like that. Goes to show, Italians cannot be trusted. Mama was well rid of him. She married Papa shortly thereafter.”

  Lady Maccon turned to look hard at her husband. “Did you know my father too?” she asked him in a low voice to keep things private.

  “Not as such.”

  “At some point, husband of mine, we must have a discussion, you and I, about the proper methods of fully transferring information. I am tired of feeling consistently behind the times.”

  “Except that, wife, I have two centuries on you. I can hardly tell you everything I have learned and about everyone I have met during all those years.”