The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  But the command in her voice seemed to get through to the claviger. Tunstell stuck his head under the rail and over the side of the dirigible and tried to retch.

  “I can’t,” he said finally.

  “You must try harder.”

  “Regurgitation is an involuntary action. You cannot simply order me to do it,” replied Tunstell in a small voice.

  “I most certainly can. Besides which, you are an actor.”

  Tunstell grimaced. “I’ve never had cause to vomit onstage.”

  “Well, if you do this, you shall know how if you need to in the future.”

  Tunstell tried again. Nothing.

  Madame Lefoux returned clutching a bottle of ipecac.

  Alexia made Tunstell take a large gulp.

  “Ivy, run and fetch a glass of water,” she ordered her friend, mostly to get her out of the way.

  In moments, the emetic took effect. As unsavory as the supper had been to eat, it was even less pleasant going the other direction. Lady Maccon tried not to look or listen.

  By the time Ivy returned with a goblet of water, the worst was over.

  Alexia made Tunstell drink the entirety of the glass. They waited a full quarter of an hour more while his color returned, and he was finally able to attain an upright position.

  Ivy was in a flutter over the whole incident, agitating about the recovering man with such vigor that Madame Lefoux was driven to desperate measures. She extracted a small flask from her waistcoat pocket.

  “Have a little nip of this, my dear. Calm your nerves.” She handed it to Ivy.

  Ivy nipped, blinked a couple times, nipped again, and then graduated from frantic to loopy. “Why, that burns all the way down!”

  “Let’s get Tunstell to his room.” Alexia hoisted the redhead to his feet.

  With Ivy walking backward before them and weaving side to side like an iced tea cake with delusions of shepherding, Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux managed to get Tunstell to his rooms and onto bed.

  By the time all the excitement had ended, Lady Maccon found she had lost her appetite entirely. Nevertheless, appearances must be kept up, so she returned to the dining cabin with Ivy and Madame Lefoux. She was in a mental quandary: why on earth, or in aether for that matter, would someone try to kill Tunstell?

  Ivy walked into one or two walls on their way back.

  “What did you give her?” Alexia hissed to the inventor.

  “Just a bit of cognac.” Madame Lefoux’s dimples flashed.

  “Very effective stuff.”

  The rest of the meal passed without incident, if one ignored Ivy’s evident inebriation, which occasioned two spills and one bout of hysterical giggling. Alexia was about to rise and excuse herself when Madame Lefoux, who had been silent throughout most of the postpurge meal, spoke to her.

  “Do you think you might take a little turn with me about the ship before bed, Lady Maccon? I should like a private word,” she asked politely, dimples safely stored away.

  Not entirely surprised, Alexia acquiesced, and the two left Felicity to sort out after-dinner activities on her own.

  As soon as they were alone, the inventor got straight to the point. “I do not think the poison was meant for Tunstell.”

  “No?”

  “No. I believe it was meant for you, secreted in the first dish that you turned away and Tunstell consumed in your stead.”

  “Ah, yes, I recall. You may be right.”

  “What a strange temperament you have, Lady Maccon, to accept near-death so easily as that.” Madame Lefoux tilted her head to one side.

  “Well, the whole episode does make far more sense that way.”

  “It does?”

  “Why, yes. I cannot imagine Tunstell has many enemies, but people are always trying to exterminate me.” Lady Maccon was relieved and strangely comfortable with this revelation, as though things were not right with the universe unless someone was actively trying to kill her.

  “Do you have a suspect?” the inventor wanted to know.

  “Aside from you?” Lady Maccon shot back.

  “Ah.”

  The Frenchwoman turned away, but not before Alexia spotted a little tinge of hurt in her eyes. Either she was a good actress or she was not guilty.

  “I am sorry to offend,” said Lady Maccon, not sorry in the least. She followed the inventor over to the rail, leaning on it next to her. The two women stared out into the evening aether.

  “I am not upset that you think me capable of poison, Lady Maccon. I am offended you should think I would be so ham-handed with it. Had I wished you dead, I have had ample opportunity and access to numerous techniques far less clumsy than the one employed this evening.” She pulled a gold watch out of the pocket of her vest and pressed a little catch on the back. A small injection needle sprang out of the bottom.

  Alexia did not ask what was in the needle.

  Madame Lefoux folded it back in and tucked the watch away once more.

  Alexia took a long assessing look at the amount and type of jewelry the Frenchwoman wore. Her two cravat pins were in place, one wood, one silver. And there was another chain leading to her other vest pocket. A different kind of watch, or some other gadget, perhaps? The buttoner pin seemed suddenly suspicious, as did the metal cigar case tucked into the band of her top hat. Come to think on it, Alexia had never seen the woman smoke a cigar.

  “True,” said Alexia, “but the primitive nature of the attempt could be to throw me off the scent.”

  “You are of a suspicious inclination, are you not, Lady Maccon?” The Frenchwoman still did not look at her but seemed to find the cold night sky infinitely fascinating.

  Lady Maccon came over philosophical. “Possibly that has something to do with having no soul. I prefer to think of it as pragmatism rather than paranoia.”

  Madame Lefoux laughed. She turned toward Alexia, dimples back.

  And just like that, something solid hit Alexia hard across the back at exactly the correct angle to tilt her forward and over the railing. She tumbled, ass over teakettle, right over the edge of the deck. She felt herself falling, and screaming, scrabbling with both hands for purchase on the side of the dirigible. Why was the darn thing so smooth? The carrier body of the dirigible was shaped like a huge duck, and the observation deck was at its fattest point. In falling down, she was also falling away.

  There was a horrible long moment when Alexia knew all was lost. She knew that all her future held in store was the long cold rush of aether and then air followed by a sad, wet thud. And then she was stopped with an abrupt jerk and flipped upside down, her head crashing hard into the side of the ship. The reinforced metal hem of her dress, designed to keep her copious skirts from floating about in the aether breezes, had wrapped fast around a spur that stuck out of the side of the ship two decks down, part of the docking mechanism.

  She hung, suspended, her back against the ship’s side. Carefully, cautiously, she twisted, climbing her own body with her hands, seeking out the spur of metal, until she could wrap her arms around it. She reflected that this was probably the first and last time in her life she would have cause to value the ridiculous fashions society foisted upon her sex. She realized she was still screaming and stopped, slightly embarrassed with herself. Her mind became a blur of worries. Could she trust in the security of the little metal spur to which she now clung? Was Madame Lefoux safe? Had her parasol fallen over the edge with her?

  She took several calming breaths and assessed the situation: not dead yet, but not precisely safe either. “Halooo,” she called out. “Anyone? A little assistance if you would be so kind.”

  The cold aether rushed past her, wrapping a loving chill about her legs, which were protected now only by her underdrawers and were unused to such exposure. No one answered her call.

  Only then did she realize that, despite the fact that she had stopped screaming, the screaming had not stopped. Above her, she could see the figure of Madame Lefoux struggling against a cloaked opponent
against the white backdrop of the blimp. Whoever had pushed Alexia over the edge obviously intended Madame Lefoux to follow. But the inventor was putting up a good deal of fight. She was struggling valiantly, arms pinwheeling, top hat tilting frantically from side to side.

  “Help!” Alexia cried, hoping someone might hear her above the racket.

  The struggling continued. First Madame Lefoux, then the covert enemy, leaned back over the railing, only to twist aside at the last moment and fight on. Then Madame Lefoux jerked away, fumbling with something. There came the sound of a loud burst of compressed air. The whole dirigible jerked suddenly to one side.

  Alexia’s grip loosened. She was distracted from the battle above by her own, more pressing, danger as she tried to reestablish her purchase on the helpful little spur.

  The sound of forced air rang forth again, and the cloaked villain vanished from sight, leaving Madame Lefoux slumped back against the railing above. The dirigible lurched again, and Alexia let out a little eep of distress.

  “Halloo! Madame Lefoux, a little assistance if you please!” she yelled up at the top of her voice. She had cause to appreciate her lung capacity and the vocal practice that living with a confrontational husband and a pack of unruly werewolves had given her.

  Madame Lefoux turned and looked down. “Why, Lady Maccon! I was convinced you had fallen to your death! How wonderful that you are still alive.”

  Alexia could barely make out what the Frenchwoman was saying. The inventor’s normally melodic voice was high and tinny, a helium-afflicted squeak. The inflation apparatus for the blimp must have developed a severe leak to be affecting voices all the way down to the observation deck.

  “Well, I am not going to be here much longer,” yelled back Alexia.

  The top hat nodded agreement. “Hold on, Lady Maccon, I shall fetch crewmen to collect you directly.”

  “What?” yelled Alexia. “I cannot make you out at all. You have come over all squeaky.”

  Madame Lefoux’s top hat and associated head disappeared from view.

  Alexia entertained herself by concentrating on holding on as hard as she could and yelling a bit more for form’s sake. She was indebted to those few puffy clouds floating below her, for they obscured the distant ground. She did not want to know exactly how far she had to fall.

  Eventually, a small porthole window popped open near one of her booted feet. A familiar ugly hat stuck out the tiny hole. The face wearing the hat tilted up and back and witnessed Alexia’s indecorous position.

  “Why, Alexia Maccon, what are you doing? You appear to be dangling.” The voice was a little slurred. Ivy was clearly still laboring under the effects of Madame Lefoux’s cognac. “How undignified of you. Stop it at once!”

  “Ivy. Assist me, would you?”

  “I hardly see what I can do,” replied Miss Hisselpenny. “Really, Alexia, what could have possessed you to attach yourself to the side of the ship in such a juvenile fashion? It is positively barnacle-like.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ivy, it is not like I intended to end up this way.” Ivy tended toward dense, it was true, but alcohol evidently caused her to attain new heights of fatheadedness.

  “Oh? Well, then. But honestly, Alexia, I do not mean to be boorish, but do you realize that your underdrawers are exposed to the night air, not to mention the public view?”

  “Ivy, I am hanging on for dear life to the side of a floating dirigible, leagues up in the aether. Even you must admit there are some instances wherein protocol should be relaxed.”

  “But why?”

  “Ivy, I fell, obviously.”

  Miss Hisselpenny blinked bleary dark eyes at her friend. “Oh, deary me, Alexia. Are you actually in real danger? Oh no!” Her head retreated.

  Alexia wondered what it said about her character that Ivy had genuinely believed she would intentionally go climbing about the side of a floating dirigible.

  Some sort of silky material was shoved out the window and up at her.

  “What is that?”

  “Why, my second-best cloak.”

  Lady Maccon gritted her teeth.

  “Ivy, did you miss the part where I am hanging, an inch from death? Do get help.”

  The cloak vanished, and Miss Hisselpenny’s head reappeared. “As bad as that, is it?”

  The dirigible lurched, and Alexia swayed to one side with a squeal of alarm.

  Ivy fainted, or possibly passed out from the alcohol.

  As was to be expected, it was Madame Lefoux who provided the rescue in the end. Mere moments after Ivy vanished from view, a long rope ladder flopped down next to Alexia. She was able, with some difficulty, to transfer her grip from the metal spur to the ladder and climb up. The steward, several worried crewmembers, and Madame Lefoux stood anxiously awaiting her ascent.

  Strangely, once Lady Maccon had attained the deck, her legs no longer seemed to function as nature intended. She slid gracelessly onto the wooden deck.

  “I think I might reside here for a moment,” she said after her third attempt to rise resulted only in wobbly knees and bones akin to jellyfish tentacles.

  The steward, an immaculate if portly man dressed in a uniform of yellow canvas and fur, hovered about her in great concern, wringing his hands. He was clearly most upset that such a thing as a Lady of Quality falling off his craft had occurred. What would the company say if word got out? “Is there anything I can get you, Lady Maccon? Some tea perhaps, or something a little stronger?”

  “Tea, I think, would be quite the restorative,” replied Alexia, mostly to get him to stop hovering about like a worried canary.

  Madame Lefoux crouched down next to her. Yet another reason to envy the Frenchwoman her mode of dress. “Are you certain you are in good health, my lady?” Her squeaky voice had gone, the helium leak having apparently been fixed while Lady Maccon was rescued.

  “I am finding myself less delighted by the height and notion of floating than I was at the onset of our journey,” replied Alexia. “But never mind that. Quickly now, before the steward returns, what happened after I fell? Did you see the attacker’s face, ascertain his purpose or intention?” She left off the “Were you in cahoots?” part of that question.

  Madame Lefoux shook her head, looking serious. “The miscreant wore a mask and a long cloak; I could not even say with certainty if it was a male or a female. I do apologize. We struggled for a time, and eventually I managed to disentangle myself and get off a shot with the dart emitter. The first one missed and cut a hole through one of the dirigible helium ports, but the second caught our enemy a glancing blow to the side. Apparently that was sufficient to instill fear, for the attacker took flight and managed to escape mostly unharmed.”

  “Bollix,” swore Lady Maccon succinctly. It was one of her husband’s favorite words, and she would normally never deign to use it, but current circumstances seemed to warrant its application. “And there are far too many crew and passengers on board to stage an inquest, even if I did not want to keep my preternatural state and role as muhjah a comparative secret.”

  The Frenchwoman nodded.

  “Well, I think I may be able to stand now.”

  Madame Lefoux bent to help her up.

  “Did I lose my parasol in the fall?”

  The inventor dimpled. “No, it tumbled to the floor of the observation deck. I believe it is still there. Shall I have one of the hands bring it to your room?”

  “Please.”

  Madame Lefoux signaled to a nearby deckhand and sent him off to find the missing accessory.

  Lady Maccon was feeling a little dizzy and was annoyed with herself for it. She had been through worse during the preceding summer and saw no reason to come over weak and floppy due to a mere dabbling with gravity. She allowed the inventor to assist her to her room but refused to call Angelique.

  She sat gratefully down on her bed. “A little sleep and I shall be right as rain tomorrow.”

  The Frenchwoman nodded and bent over her solicitously
. “You are certain you do not need assistance to disrobe? I would be happy to help in your maid’s stead.”

  Alexia blushed at the offer. Had she been wrong to doubt the inventor? Madame Lefoux did seem to be quite the best sort of ally to have. And, despite her masculine attire, she smelled amazing, like vanilla custard. Would it be so awful if this woman were to become a friend?

  Then she noticed that the cravat around Madame Lefoux’s neck was stained on one side with a small amount of blood.

  “You were injured while fighting off the attacker and said nothing!” she accused, worried. “Here, let me see.” Before the inventor could stop her, Lady Maccon pulled her down to sit on the bed and began untying the long length of Egyptian cotton wound about Madame Lefoux’s elegant neck.

  “It is of little consequence,” the Frenchwoman asserted, blushing.

  Lady Maccon ignored all protestations and tossed the cravat to the floor—it was ruined anyway. Then, with gentle fingers, she leaned in close to check the woman’s neck. The wound appeared to be nothing more than a scratch, already clotted.

  “It looks quite shallow,” she said in relief.

  “There, you see?” Self-consciously, Madame Lefoux shifted away from her.

  Alexia caught a glimpse of something else upon the woman’s neck. Something that the cravat had kept hidden: near the nape, partly covered by a few short curls of hair. Lady Maccon craned her head about to see what it might be.

  A mark of some kind, dark against the woman’s fine white skin, was inked in careful black lines. Alexia brushed the hair aside in a soft caress, startling the Frenchwoman, and leaned in, overcome with curiosity.

  It was a tattoo of an octopus.

  Lady Maccon frowned, oblivious to the fact that her hand still lay softly against the other woman’s skin. Where had she seen that image before? Abruptly, she remembered. Her hand twitched, and only through sheer strength of character did she stop herself from jerking away in horror. She had seen that octopus depicted in brass over and over again, all about the Hypocras Club just after Dr. Siemons kidnapped her.

  An awkward silence ensued. “Are you certain you are quite well, Madame Lefoux?” she inquired finally, for lack of anything better to say.