Alexia helped herself to a bowl of stewed fruit, plum pudding, and custard. After some conversation with her husband on domestic matters, she turned his attention to her own recent investigations.
“You didn’t!”
“I most assuredly did. And now I have need of the carriage. I should like to visit Madame Lefoux before calling at BUR for the documentation Professor Lyall promised me.”
Lord Maccon gave his Beta a repressive look.
Professor Lyall shrugged, as though to say, You married her.
“Alexia,” Lord Maccon said in a drawn-out growl, “you know I am not comfortable with that particular incident resurfacing. I shouldn’t like you to be stirring up trouble over an event well and truly settled.”
Lady Maccon, perfectly understanding that the nature of his growl was not one of anger but of distress, put down her fork and placed her hand over his. “But you must acknowledge that if there is a connection, we should pursue all avenues of investigation. I promise to keep my attention focused on the relevant details and not be distracted by personal curiosity.”
Lord Maccon sighed.
Lady Maccon lowered her voice, although she was perfectly well aware that she was surrounded by beings with supernatural hearing who could discern every word she said. “I know this is a subject that pains you, my love, but if we are to get to the root of this matter, you must see that there may indeed be a correlation.”
He nodded. “But have a care, please, my heart? I fear you are messing with matters best left undisturbed.”
A stillness in the crinkling of Professor Lyall’s evening paper seemed to indicate the Beta was entirely in agreement with his Alpha on this point.
Alexia nodded and let go of her husband. She glanced up and across the table. “Biffy, would you be amenable to accompanying me this evening as I make my rounds? I should appreciate the companionship of one more mobile than myself.”
“Of course, my lady, delighted. What hat should I wear?”
“Oh, your town topper should suit us well enough. We shan’t be going into society.”
His face fell slightly at that. “Very good, my lady. Should I retrieve it now?”
“Oh, no, please finish your meal. No sense in wasting food in the pursuit of information. The one is far more vital than the other, despite what Lord Akeldama may think.”
Biffy smiled slightly and continued on with the consumption of his raw steak and fried egg.
Madame Genevieve Lefoux was a woman of style and understanding. If that style leaned toward gentlemen’s dress and mannerisms and if that understanding leaned toward scientific theory and practice, Lady Maccon was certainly not the kind of person so in want of sensibility that she would critique a friend for such eccentricities. Some considerable intimacy had left Alexia with the distinct feeling that Madame Lefoux liked her and that she liked Madame Lefoux, but not a great deal more. Trust, for example, seemed still in question. Between them existed a friendship quite different from the one she shared with Ivy Tunstell. There was no discussion of the latest fashions or societal events. If asked, Alexia might say that she could not recall precisely what it was she and the French inventor did discuss, but whatever it was, it always left Alexia feeling intellectually stretched and vaguely exhausted—rather like visiting a museum.
Madame Lefoux had a new, pretty, young shopgirl behind the counter when they arrived at Chapeau de Poupe. Madame Lefoux’s shopgirls were always young and pretty. This one seemed overset by the unexpected arrival of the grand Lady Maccon and was mightily relieved when her mistress, elegant and refined in gray tails and top hat, appeared to take over the management of such an august personage.
“My dear Lady Maccon!”
“Madame Lefoux, how do you do?”
The Frenchwoman grasped both of Alexia’s hands and kissed first one and then the other of Alexia’s cheeks. No air was left between lips and flesh, as was the custom among women of fashion, nor was this an extravagant gesture for fashion’s sake. No, for Madame Lefoux, such a greeting was as natural as a handshake among American businessmen. Her actions were tender and her smile dimpled with genuine affection.
“What an unexpected pleasure! But are you certain you should be in public in your condition?”
“My dear Genevieve, you have been so long away I began to suspect you might never return to us. Then what should London do when in need of a new hat?”
Madame Lefoux acknowledged both the compliment and rebuke of Alexia’s statement with a tilt of her dark head.
Lady Maccon noted, with some concern, that her friend was looking practically gaunt. Mostly composed of sharp angles, Madame Lefoux could never be described as full figured, but during her most recent travels, she had lost flesh she could not afford to lose. The inventor always had been more concerned with the pursuits of the mind than the body, but never before had her lovely green eyes sported such dark circles.
“Are you well?” asked Alexia. “Is it Quesnel? He is supposed to be home for the month, is he not? Is he being perfectly beastly?”
Madame Lefoux’s son was a cheerful towheaded creature with an unfortunate nose for mischief. There was no malice to his actions, but his mere presence resulted in a kind of microcosmic chaos that kept his mother on edge whenever he was in residence.
Madame Lefoux flinched slightly and shook her head. “He did not make it home this time.”
“Oh, dear! But then if not Quesnel, what could possibly be the matter? Truly, you do not look at all well.”
“Oh, pray, do not concern yourself, Alexia. Some trouble sleeping, nothing more. How are you? I understand you have taken a residence in town. You certainly look amplified. Have you been maintaining a tranquil environment? I read recently that it is terribly important for the baby to be surrounded by peace. Knowing your disposition, this has me worried.”
Alexia blinked at her.
Perceiving that her solicitude was unwelcome, the Frenchwoman moved hastily on. “Did you come to pick up Woolsey’s new glassical order, or is this merely a social call?”
Lady Maccon accepted the conversational redirection. She respected her friend’s need for privacy and her expertly cultivated aura of mystery. She also did not want to appear nosy. “Oh, is there an order? I suppose I could collect it. But, in actuality, there is a matter I should very much like to discuss with you.” Alexia noticed the curiosity in the eyes of the new shopgirl. “In seclusion, perhaps?” And then, as she was not certain as to the extent of the shopgirl’s knowledge, she confined her voice to a whisper. “Below?”
Madame Lefoux lowered her eyelashes and nodded gravely. “Of course, of course.”
Alexia looked to her escort. “Biffy, will you find yourself entertainment enough here for a quarter of an hour, or should you prefer to run along to the Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square?”
“Oh, I can abide a while among such loveliness as this.” The young werewolf waved a graceful gloved hand at the forest of dangling hats displayed all about him. He brushed his fingers along an exaggerated ostrich feather, much as a young girl would trail her fingertips through a fountain. “Beautiful brim rolling.”
“I shan’t be very long,” replied his mistress before following her friend toward the back of the shop, where a door in the wall led to an ascension room that took them down to a passageway, underneath Regent Street, and into the inventor’s much-vaunted contrivance chamber.
Madame Lefoux’s laboratory might have been a great wonder of the world, if only because it was a wonder the Frenchwoman could ever find anything inside it. The massive, cavelike laboratory was not only messy, but it was also noisy. Alexia often thought that the only reason it could not be heard in the street above was that Regent was one of the busiest thoroughfares in London. Then she wondered if that was why Madame Lefoux had chosen this particular spot.
As ever, Lady Maccon took in her surroundings with a kind of reverence that was part appreciation, part horror. There were engines and mysterious cons
tructs galore, some of them running, many of them disassembled into component parts. There were diagrams and sketches of larger projects strewn about, mostly aeronautical devices such as ornithopters, as aetheric travel was one of Madame Lefoux’s specialties. It smelled of oil.
“Oh, my, is that a new commission?” Alexia picked her way slowly through the clutter, holding her skirts well out of the way of any possible grease stains.
Dominating the chamber was a partly assembled transport contraption. Or Alexia assumed it was a transport—as yet, it had no apparent wheels, rails, or legs. It was shaped like a massive bowler hat without a brim, so she supposed it might be an underwater conveyance. Inside were levers and pull cords, an operator’s seat, and two small slits at the front for visibility. It was almost buglike and well outside of the Frenchwoman’s ordinary principles of subtlety. Alexia’s parasol with all its secret pockets and component parts was far more to Genevieve’s taste. Traditionally, she did not go in for big and flashy.
“Something I’ve been working on of late.”
“Is it armored?” Lady Maccon had an embarrassingly unladylike interest in modern technology.
“In part.” Something in Madame Lefoux’s tone warned Alexia off.
“Oh, dear, is it under contract from the War Office? I’m probably not supposed to know. I do apologize for asking. We shall say no more about it.”
“Thank you.” Madame Lefoux smiled in tired gratitude. Her dimples barely showed.
Government defense commissions were lucrative but not something one could speak of openly, even to the queen’s muhjah. The inventor moved to take Alexia’s hand, her own work-hardened by decades of tool use. Alexia could feel the roughness even through her gloves, along with a companion thrill she had grown to accept was part of the price of intimacy with this woman. Genevieve was so very intriguing.
“Was there something specific you wanted, my dear Alexia?”
Alexia hesitated and then, without subtlety, jumped right to the point. “Genevieve, do you know anything about the Kingair assassination attempt on Queen Victoria of twenty years ago? I mean, anything from the Order of the Brass Octopus?”
Madame Lefoux started in genuine surprise. “My goodness, what has brought you back around to that?”
“Let us say I made a contact recently who has led me into explorations of the past.”
Madame Lefoux crossed her arms and leaned back against a coiled roll of brass plating. “Hmm. I personally know nothing. I would have been no more than thirteen at the time, but we could ask my aunt. I’m not certain how useful she might be but the attempt can’t hurt.”
“Your aunt? Oh you mean . . . ?”
Madame Lefoux nodded, her face sad. “She’s finally undergoing diminished spectral cohesion. Even with all my preservation techniques and chemical expertise, it was inevitable. However, she does have her lucid moments.”
Alexia realized this must be the true source of Genevieve’s distress. She was losing a treasured family member. The woman who had raised her. Genevieve may have a well-developed mystique, but she was not emotionally reserved and she loved deeply. Alexia moved to her friend and stroked her upper arm where the muscles tensed. “Oh, Genevieve, I am so very sorry.”
The inventor’s face crumpled slightly at the sympathy. “I cannot help but think that this is to be my fate, too. First Angelique and now Beatrice.”
“Oh, surely not! You cannot be so confident you have excess soul.” Alexia would have offered to ensure exorcism, but Genevieve had been so angry when she performed the service for Angelique.
“No, you are correct. I have been traveling, researching, studying, trying to find a way to extend my aunt’s afterlife. But there is nothing.” Her tone was anguished, that of a scientist who sees a problem but no solution.
“Oh, but you have done your level best! You have given her years, far longer than any ghost has a right to expect.”
“Years for what? Humiliation and madness?” Genevieve took a breath, then placed her hand over Alexia’s where it stroked her arm, stilling the movement. “I do apologize, my lovely Alexia. This is not your burden. You still wish to speak to her?”
“Would she talk to me, do you think?”
“We can but try.”
Lady Maccon nodded and attempted to shrug herself out of her normally regal posture, trying to be less overbearing and physically threatening. She didn’t want to scare the ghost. Not that a woman in her corpulent condition boasted so fearsome a visage.
Madame Lefoux yelled, her normally melodious voice sharp, “Aunt, where are you? Aunt!”
Several moments later, a ghostly form shimmered into existence out of the side of a conveyer belt spool, looking grumpy.
“Yes, Niece, you summoned me?” Formerly Beatrice Lefoux had been in life an angular spinster of severe attitude and limited affection. She might once have been pretty but obviously never allowed herself, nor others, to enjoy that fact. There was much of her in Madame Lefoux, tempered by a level of good humor and mischief that the aunt had never bothered to cultivate. The specter was beginning to go fuzzy, not so badly as Alexia’s ghostly messenger but enough for it to be clear she wasn’t long for this world.
As soon as she spotted Lady Maccon, the ghost drew herself inward, appearing to wrap the drifting threads of her noncorporeal self closer, as a werewolf wraps his cloak around after shifting.
“Why, you have the soulless visiting you, Niece. Honestly, I don’t know why you persist in such an association.” The ghost’s voice was bitter, but more out of habit than any real offense. Then she seemed to lose track of what she was saying. “Where? What? Where am I? Genevieve, why, you are so old. Where is my little girl?” She swirled in a circle. “You have built an octomaton? I said never again. What could possibly be so dire?” As she spoke, the ghost shifted between French and heavily accented English. Luckily, Alexia was tolerably competent in both.
Madame Lefoux, her expression stiff in an attempt to hide distress, snapped her fingers in front of her deceased aunt’s face. “Now, Aunt, please pay attention. Lady Maccon here has something very serious to ask of you. Go on, Alexia.”
“Formerly Lefoux, are you familiar with the attempt on Queen Victoria’s life that took place in the winter of 1853? A Scottish werewolf pack was implicated. It was a matter of poison.”
The ghost bobbled up and down in surprise, losing some small measure of control over bits of herself. An eyebrow detached from her forehead. “Oh, why, yes. Although not intimately, of course. Not from the actual assassination perspective but more from the sidelines. I lost one of my students because of it.”
“Oh?”
“Why, yes. Lost her to the mist of the moor. Lost her to duty. So promising, so strong, so . . . wait. What were you asking? What are we discussing? Why must I forget things all the time?”
“The Kingair assassination attempt,” Alexia prompted.
“Silly dogfight. Poor girl. Imagine having to take on that kind of responsibility. At sixteen! And over werewolves. Werewolves who planned a poisoning. So many things wrong with the very idea. So many things out of character. Out of the supernatural order. Was it ever put right, I wonder?”
Alexia pulled a measure of this rambling together. “Sidheag Maccon was your student?”
The ghost’s head tilted. “Sidheag. That name is familiar. Oh, why, yes. So hard to finish in one way, so easy to finish in another. A strong girl, good at finishing. But then again, strength in girls is not so much valued as it ought to be.”
Lady Maccon, as interested as she was in anything to do with her husband’s great-great-great-granddaughter, now one of the only female werewolves in England and Alpha of the Kingair Pack, felt she must still steer the ghost back onto more relevant matters. “Did you happen to hear, at the time, whether there was a connection between the assassination attempt and the Order of the Brass Octopus?”
“Connection? Connection? Of course not.”
Alexia was
taken aback by the firm confidence in the ghost’s voice. “How can you be so certain?”
“How can I not? Imagine such a thing. No, no, not against the queen. Never against Queen Victoria. We would have known. I would have known. Someone would have told me.” Formerly Beatrice Lefoux swirled about in her distress, once more catching sight of Madame Lefoux’s latest project. She paused as though hypnotized by the imposing thing. “Oh, Genevieve, I can’t believe you would. I can’t. Not for anything. Why, child, why? I must tell. I must convince . . .” She ended up facing Alexia once more and, as though seeing her for the first time, said, “You! Soulless. You will stop everything in the end, won’t you? Even me.”
Madame Lefoux pressed her lips together, closed her eyes, and gave a sad sigh. “There she goes. We won’t get any more sense out of her this evening. I’m sorry, Alexia.”
“Oh, no, that’s quite all right. It wasn’t precisely what I was hoping for, but it has convinced me that I must contact Lady Kingair as soon as possible. I must convince my husband’s old pack to reveal the details of the original plot. Only they can fully unravel this mystery. I can’t believe that the OBO was not involved, but if your aunt says so with such conviction, only the source of the threat itself can reveal the truth of the matter.”
“And, of course, my aunt was never a member of the Order.”
“She wasn’t?” Alexia was genuinely surprised.
“Absolutely not. Women weren’t allowed to join back in her day. It’s difficult enough now.” The French inventor, one of the smartest people Alexia had ever met, reached behind her neck to finger the octopus tattoo that lay hidden there, just under the curls of her scandalously short hair. Alexia tried to imagine Genevieve without her secret underground world. Impossible.
Heartless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Fourth Page 10