The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  “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.

  Alexia said, “I shall have to send someone to Scotland. I don’t suppose…?”

  Madame Lefoux looked even more unhappy. “Oh, no. I am sorry, my dearest Alexia, but I cannot afford the time. Not right now. I have this”—she waved a hand at the monstrous thing she was building—“to finish. And my aunt to think of. I should be with her, now that the end is near.”

  Lady Maccon turned to the inventor and, because she seemed to need it more than anything else, embraced her gently. It was awkward given Alexia’s belly but worth it for the slight lessening Alexia could feel in Genevieve’s stiffened shoulders. “Would you like me to send her on?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “No, thank you. I am not yet ready to let her go. You understand?”

  Alexia sighed and released her friend. “Well, worry not on this particular matter. I will get to the bottom of it. Even if I have to send Ivy Tunstell to Scotland for me!”

  Fated words that, as is often the case with frivolous speech, Alexia was going to come to regret.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In Which Mrs. Tunstell Proves Useful

  Were they not recently moved into new accommodations, Lady Maccon might have made a different choice—one of Woolsey’s older clavigers, perhaps. But the pack was in chaos over the relocation. They were nowhere near as tethered to a place as vampires, but werewolves were, in simple terms, tethered to each other and were creatures of profound habit. Such arbitrary reorganization ruffled the fur. Solidarity and proximity became ever more necessary for the pack’s continued cohesion. Were BUR not occupied with its own investigation as to the current threat against Queen Victoria, Alexia might have tapped Haverbink or another experienced investigator. And, finally, were the Shadow Council supplied with its own agents, the muhjah would have had manpower to call upon. However, with none of these options readily available, Lady Maccon cast about herself and found that she had only one possible choice—as unlikely and as addlepated as that choice might be.

  Mrs. Tunstell ran a tight household, despite overseeing her rented accommodations with a floppy hand and absentminded disposition. Her abode was clean and neat, and callers could be assured of a decent cup of tea or candy dish of raw meat, depending upon taste and inclination. Despite an interior resplendent in every shade of pastel, Ivy’s home was a popular watering hole. As a result, the Tunstells had developed a name for themselves among the more esoteric members of the West End as agreeable hosts interested in a wide range of topics and ever willing to open their door to the friendly visitor. This meant that, at any given time, one was practically guaranteed to find some breed of indifferent poet or insipid sculptor in residence.

  So it was that when Lady Maccon called around teatime that summer afternoon, a delighted Mrs. Tunstell welcomed her inside with assurances that while they had indeed adopted a stray poet, that versifier was quite firmly asleep and had been for the better part of three days.

  Ivy’s good-humored little face fell. “He drinks, poor man, to forget the pain of the embittered universe that subsumes his soul. Or do I mean sublimes his soul? Anyhoo, we’ve had to remove the tea quite forcibly from his grasp on more than one occasion. Barley water, says Tunny, is the only thing one should take when suffering such ailments of the emotional humors.”

  “Oh, dear,” commiserated Alexia. “I suppose one might recover one’s spirits out of desperation if all one had to drink was barley water.”

  “Exactly so!” Ivy nodded over her husband’s evident sagacity on the application of revolting beverages to despondent poets. She motioned her friend into her front parlor, a diminutive room that boasted all the elegance of iced Nesselrode pudding.

  Lady Maccon deposited her parasol into the small umbrella stand and made her way gingerly toward a wingback chair, careful not to upset any of the decorative objects strewn about. Her visiting dress was of flowing blue paisley with a stiffened quilted skirt. Designed to accommodate her increasing girth, it was much wider—and thus more dangerous to Ivy’s receiving room—than the current trends dictated.

  She sat heavily in the chair, sighing at the relief of getting the weight off her poor feet, which seemed to have swollen to near twice their original proportions. “Ivy, my dear, I was wondering if I might prevail upon you for a very great favor.”

  “Oh, Alexia, of course. You have only to ask and I shall do whatever.”

  Lady Maccon hesitated, wondering exactly how much to reveal. Ivy was a dear little soul, but was she reliable? She decided to buck up and take the plunge. “Ivy, have you ever wondered if there might, just possibly, be something slightly unusual about me?”

  “Well, Alexia my dear, I never liked to say, but I have always wondered about your hat preferences. They have struck me as mighty plain.”

  Lady Maccon shook her head. The long blue ostrich feather of her not-at-all-plain hat wafted back and forth behind her. “No, not that, I mean… Well, dash it, Ivy, there’s nothing for it.”

  Mrs. Tunstell gasped in enchanted shock at Lady Maccon’s lowbrow language. “Alexia, you have been fraternizing with werewolves overmuch! Military men can be terribly bad for one’s verbal concatenation.”

  Alexia took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I’m preternatural.”

  Ivy’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no! Is it catching?”

  Alexia blinked at her.

  Ivy donned a sympathetic expression. “Is it a terribly painful condition?”

  Lady Maccon continued to blink.

  Ivy put a hand to her throat. “Is it the baby? Will you both be well? Should I send for barley water?”

  Alexia finally found her voice. “No, preternatural. You might know the term, as in soulless? Or curse-breaker. I have no soul. None at all. As a matter of fact, I can cancel it out in supernatural creatures given half a chance.”

  Ivy relaxed. “Oh, that. Yes, I knew. I shouldn’t let it concern you, my dear. I doubt anybody minds.”

  “Yes, but… Wait, you knew?”

  Ivy tut-tutted and shook dark ringlets at her friend in mock amusement. “Of course I knew—have done for simply ages.”

  “But you never mentioned a thing to me on the subject.” Alexia was not often flummoxed. She found it an usual sensation and wondered if this was what Ivy felt like most of the time. Her friend’s revelation did, however, give her some degree of confidence in her next move. Despite all her frivolities, Ivy could clearly keep a secret and, it turned out, was more observant than Alexia had previously given her credit for.

  “Now, Alexia, I thought you were embarrassed about it. I didn’t want to bring up an uncomfortable personal disability. I have more sensitivity and care for the feelings of others than that!”

  “Ah, oh, well. Of course you do. Regardless, as a preternatural, I am currently engaged in some investigations. I was hoping to enlist your aid. It has to do with my husband’s work.” Alexia didn’t want to tell Ivy absolutely everything, but she didn’t want to fib outright either.

  “For BUR? Espionage! Oh, really? How terribly glamorous.” Ivy clasped yellow-gloved hands together in delight.

  “To which end I was hoping to, well, induct you into a kind of secret society.”

  Ivy looked as though she had not heard anything so thrilling in all her life. “Me?” she squeaked. “Really? How marvelous. What’s it called, this secret society?”

  Alexia hesitated and then, recalling a phrase her husband had once offered up in the heat of annoyance, suggested tentatively, “The Parasol Protectorate?”


  “Oooh, what a perfectly splendid name. So full of ornamentation!” Ivy practically bounced up and down on the lavender settee in her excitement. “Must I make a pledge, or memorize a sacred code of conduct, or engage in some pagan ritual or other?” Ivy had an expectant look on her face that suggested she would be very disappointed if this were not the case.

  “Well, yes, of course.” Lady Maccon floundered, trying to come up with something appropriate to the occasion. She couldn’t make Ivy kneel, not in that dress—a periwinkle muslin day gown with an extremely long, tight bodice of the style favored by actresses.

  After a moment’s thought, Alexia stood laboriously and waddled over to the umbrella stand to retrieve her parasol. This she opened and placed point downward in the center of the room. Since the room was so very small, this did manage to take up most of the free space. Motioning Ivy to stand, Alexia handed her the handle and said, “Spin the parasol three times and repeat after me: I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

  Ivy did as she was told, face serious and concentrated. “I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

  “Now pick the parasol up and raise it, open, to the ceiling. Yes, just like that.”

  “Is that all? Shouldn’t the vow be sealed in blood or something like?”

  “Oh, do you think?”

  Ivy nodded enthusiastically.

  Alexia shrugged. “If you insist.” She took back her parasol, snapped it closed, and twisted the handle. Two wickedly sharp spikes projected out of the tip, one of silver, the other of wood.

  Ivy inhaled in appreciation.

  Lady Maccon flipped the parasol about. Then she took off one of her gloves. After a moment’s hesitation, Ivy did the same. Alexia nicked the pad of her thumb with the silver spike and then did the same for Ivy, who gave a little squeak of alarm. Then Alexia pressed their two thumbs together.

  “May the blood of the soulless keep your own soul safe,” intoned Alexia, feeling appallingly melodramatic but knowing Ivy would love this better than anything.

  Ivy did. “Oh, Alexia, this is so very stirring! It should be part of a play.”

  “I shall have a special parasol made up for you, similar to mine.”

  “Oh, no, but thank you for the thought, Alexia. I couldn’t possibly carry an accessory that emitted things all willy-nilly like that. Really, I’m much obliged, but I simply couldn’t bear it. You, of course, manage to carry it off with aplomb, but it would be too vulgar on someone like me.”

  Lady Maccon frowned, but knowing her friend’s true weakness, she made another suggestion. “A special hat, perhaps?”

  Ivy hesitated.

  “Madame Lefoux designed my parasol.”

  “Well, perhaps a small hat. One that isn’t too oozy?”

  Alexia smiled. “I am convinced that could be arranged.”

  Ivy bit her lip on a smile. “Oh, Alexia, a secret society. How marvelous of you. Who else is a member? Do we have regular meetings? Is there a covert signal so we should know one another at social gatherings?”

  “Um, well, as to that, so far you are my first inductee, so to speak. I anticipate future members, though.”

  Ivy looked quite crestfallen.

  Lady Maccon continued on hastily. “But you will have to operate and report in under a cipher, of course—for aetherograms and other secret messages.”

  Ivy brightened at that. “Oh, of course. What shall my cipher be? Something romantic yet subtle, I hope?”

  Lady Maccon contemplated her friend while a series of rather silly names suggested themselves. Finally, she settled on one she knew Ivy would like, because it represented a style of headdress to which she was rather devoted but that Alexia might remember because it struck her as particularly Ivyish. “How about Puff Bonnet?”

  Ivy’s pretty face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, fabulous. Perfectly modish. And what’s yours?”

  Again, Alexia was ill prepared for the question. She cast about helplessly. “Uh. Oh, let me think.” She grappled, running through her mind several of Lord Akeldama’s epithets and some of her husband’s more affectionate endearments. Nothing quite suited a secret society, at least not that she could admit openly to Ivy. Finally, she settled on the simplest she could think of. “You may refer to me as the Ruffled Parasol. That should do well enough.”

  Ivy clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent. Alexia, this is superb fun.”

  Lady Maccon sat back down. “Do you think we might have tea now?” she asked plaintively.

  Ivy immediately rang the bell rope, and in short order a nervous young maid brought in a laden tea tray.

  “Marvelous,” said Lady Maccon in evident relief.

  Ivy poured. “And now that I have been properly inducted into the Protectorate, what is my first assignment?”

  “Ah, yes, the reason I came to visit in the first place. You see, there is a matter of national delicacy concerning an assassination attempt on Queen Victoria. Some twenty years ago, members of the Kingair Pack tried to eliminate Her Majesty.”

  “Oh, no, really? Not those nice Scotsmen? They couldn’t possibly do anything so treasonous. Well, except trot around displaying their knees for all to see, but nothing so calamitous as attempted regicide.”

  “I assure you, Ivy, this is the honest truth, universally acknowledged by those in a position to know such details.” Lady Maccon sipped her tea and then nodded wisely. “Fact—my husband’s previous pack tried to kill Queen Victoria by means of a poison. I need you to float back to Castle Kingair and ascertain the particulars.”

  Ivy grinned. She had developed, since her first trip with Alexia to Scotland, a most unladylike fondness for dirigible travel. Her current position in life did not allow her to indulge, but now…

  Lady Maccon grinned back. “All I know is that the previous Beta spearheaded the plot and was killed. My husband left the pack as a result. Any further information could be invaluable to my current investigation. Do you think you are up to this task, even in your present condition?”

  Ivy blushed at the very mention. “I am barely along, and you certainly cannot go.”

  Alexia patted her belly. “My difficulty exactly.”

  “Can I take Tunny with me?”

  “I should hope you would. And you may tell him of your mission, although not your new position.”

  Ivy nodded. More pleased, Alexia suspected, by the need to keep one secret from her husband than by permission to reveal another.

  “Now, Ivy, please pay particular attention to any information on the poison that was going to be used. I believe that may be key. I shall give you a crystalline valve frequensor for aetheric transmission to my personal transponder at Woolsey. At sunset you are to report in, even if you have uncovered nothing of interest. I should like to know you are safe.”

  “Oh, but, Alexia, you know how clumsy I am with gadgetry.”

  “You will do fine, Ivy. How soon can you leave? Naturally your expenses will be covered.”

  Ivy blushed at the mention of such unseemly matters as fiscal settlements.

  Alexia brushed her friend’s embarrassment aside. “I know one doesn’t ordinarily talk of such matters, but you are operating under the umbrella of the Parasol Protectorate now, and you must be free to act in accordance with the needs of the organization, regardless of expense. Is that clear, Ivy?”

  Mrs. Tunstell nodded, cheeks still hot. “Yes, of course, Alexia, but—”

  “It is a good thing I am to be patroness of your acting troupe, as it is the perfect way to hide pecuniary advancements.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, Alexia. But I wish you didn’t insist on mentioning such things while we are eating—”

  “We shall say nothing more on the subject. Can you leave directly?”

  “Tunny has no performances on at the moment.”

  “Then I sha
ll send Floote tomorrow with the necessary papers.” Lady Maccon finished the last of her tea and stood. She was suddenly tired. It was as though she had been out and about most of the night, sorting out the problems of the entire empire. Which, in her way, she had.

  Mrs. Tunstell stood as well. “To Scotland I go, investigating assignation attempts of the past!”

  “Assassination,” corrected Lady Maccon.

  “Yes, that. I must find my extra special hairmuffs for dirigible travel. I had them made to match my own curls. They are rather stunning, if I do say so myself.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  Lady Maccon returned to her new house and then made her way across to Lord Akeldama’s. Floote’s builders produced exemplary work. They had constructed a small secret drawbridge between the two balconies that operated by way of a hydraulic lever. It flipped downward. At the same time an elaborate spring mechanism caused the railing on each balcony to fold away. This allowed Alexia to easily traverse from one building to the next despite encumbrances.

  She retired to her closet with alacrity. She had been keeping remarkably odd hours recently, what with having to consult daylight folk yet living with the supernatural set. It was of little consequence, as the infant-inconvenience was making it increasingly arduous to sleep for any length of time without some part of her body going numb or some unmentionable function driving her out of bed. Really, pregnancy was the most undignified thing she had ever had to endure in all her life, and for several years Alexia Tarabotti had been a confirmed spinster living with the Loontwills—a most undignified state—so that was saying something.

  She slept restlessly, shifting aside when her husband joined her only to be awakened fully just after sunset by someone banging on the closet door.

  “Conall, there is someone at the door to our bedroom!” She shook her massive husband where he lay in a boneless pile next to her.