The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  “But why use such skill merely to create a pet?”

  Mabel Dair shrugged, an elegant little movement, refined so as not to disturb the fall of her gown. “The extermination mandate has been retracted. Your relocation and adoption agreement was quite a masterly maneuver in the great game. My mistress was impressed. Not that I am admitting to anything, of course, but those first porcupines were highly experimental. They were not as effective as we had hoped, so she has let me make a pet of one of the few we have left.”

  “Ingenious technology.” Lady Maccon continued her examination of the little creature. There were small clips behind each of its ears that, when pressed, popped open to reveal some of the inner workings in the brain area.

  “I supposed it would have been far more dangerous had it been a real African zombie.” She tapped at one of the faux bones. “Remarkable. I take it the hive has filed all the appropriate licensing with the patent office? Must be one of the countess’s pet scientists, since I haven’t read anything from the Royal Society on the subject. Is it designed specifically to withstand a magnetic disruption?” Then she noticed that the porcupine had ceramic and wooden moving parts held together with string and sinew, greased with some kind of dark waxy liquid. Alexia had misinterpreted this as blood, but closer inspection revealed it to be of exactly the same type as that found in the Hypocras Club’s automaton. “Oh, dear. Did you get hold of some of the Hypocras Club’s reports? I thought BUR put a lockdown on those.”

  “Only you, Lady Maccon, would draw such a connection.” Miss Dair was beginning to look a little nervous.

  At that juncture, it occurred to Lady Maccon to ask, “Why are you in my carriage, Miss Dair?”

  The actress recovered her poise. “Ah, yes, well, Lady Maccon, there has been a breach in social etiquette, and it was only when you accosted me in the street that I realized it. I know the countess would want me to rectify the situation. You must believe, we understood that on full-moon nights you were otherwise occupied or we should never have neglected you.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “This.” Miss Dair handed Alexia an embossed invitation to a full-moon party taking place later that night.

  The Maccons and the Nadasdys always invited each other to their respective festivities. The Westminster vampires, out of tether and hive bounds, had never been able to visit Woolsey Castle, and the countess herself, of course, could not leave her house. But Lord and Lady Maccon had visited her on several occasions, always staying exactly as long as was polite and no longer. Vampire hives were not comfortable places for werewolves to be, particularly Alpha werewolves, but the social niceties must be observed.

  Alexia took the invitation reluctantly. “Well, thank you, but I have a busy schedule, and at such late notice, please understand I will try to put in an appearance but—”

  Miss Dair continued making the excuses for her. “In your current condition, that would be difficult. I understand perfectly and the countess will as well. But I didn’t want you to think we were slighting you in any way. Case in point, I have been instructed by my mistress to inform you, should we encounter each other, that we are officially delighted with your new living arrangements and wish it to be known outright that there are no hard feelings. Or”—she paused delicately, her actress training becoming apparent—“consequences.”

  As if they were not the ones who had been actively trying to kill me! Lady Maccon, in a huff, said pointedly, “Likewise. Perhaps next time if your lot told me why they were trying to exterminate me from the start, much unnecessary chaos could be avoided. Not to mention loss of porcupine life.”

  “Yes, indeed. What did happen to them?”

  “Lime pit.”

  “Oh. Oh! Very good, Lady Maccon. I should never have thought of that.”

  “Is this little creature still armed with the projectile spines? Some kind of numbing agent, I assume.”

  “Yes, but not to worry—he’s quite tame. And it is for my protection and not any ulterior motive.”

  “I am very glad to hear it. Well, Miss Dair, can I take you to your destination, or would you prefer to walk? I can see you might wish to display your pet to advantage. Your mistress is looking to profit by the new technology, isn’t she?”

  “You know vampires.”

  Normally polite company wouldn’t mention pecuniary matters, but Miss Dair was only an actress, so Alexia said, “You’d think owning half the known world would be enough for them.”

  Mabel Dair smiled. “Control, Muhjah, comes in many different forms.”

  “Indeed it does, indeed it does. Well…,” Lady Maccon picked up the speaking tube and addressed her coachman. “Pull up here, please. My companion wishes to alight.”

  “Very good, my lady,” came the tinny reply.

  The carriage pulled to the side, allowing Miss Dair and her porcupine to disgorge themselves and continue their promenade.

  “Perhaps we will enjoy the pleasure of your company later tonight, Lady Maccon.”

  “Perhaps. Thank you for your scintillating conversation, Miss Dair. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  They parted, many a reveler now curious as to the relationship between a werewolf’s wife and a vampire drone. The rumors were out concerning Biffy. Was Lady Maccon trying to poach yet another key player from the vampire’s camp? New gossip was set in motion. And that, too, Alexia realized, might have been all part of Miss Dair’s scheme in visiting with her.

  She spoke once more into the tube. “Chapeau de Poupe, if you please.”

  It was early still, so far as the night’s festivities were concerned. No establishment of worth in all of London would dare be closed on such an evening. Thus Lady Maccon was unsurprised to find Madame Lefoux’s hat shop not only open but also occupied by multiple ladies of worth and their respective escorts. The hats, suspended on their long cords from the ceiling, swayed to and fro, but without imparting their usual aura of undersea calm. There was too much clatter and bustle (in both senses of the word) for that. Alexia was surprised to find that Madame Lefoux herself was not in residence. For all her more atypical pursuits, the inventor normally made a point of putting in an appearance in her shop on busy nights. Half the reason the ladies chose to frequent Chapeau de Poupe was on the off chance they might encounter the scandalous proprietress in all her top-hatted glory.

  In her absence, Lady Maccon trundled in and stood, confused. How was she to make her way to the contrivance chamber without someone seeing her? She respected Madame Lefoux’s wish to keep the chamber, its activities, and its entrance a secret from the general public. But with what seemed to be at least half said general public milling about in the shop, how was Alexia to return the papers and consult the inventor on the nature of the porcupines without being observed? Alexia Maccon was many things, but stealthy was not one of them.

  She made her way to the counter—an attractive high table painted white to add to the modern atmosphere that was a hallmark of Madame Lefoux’s refined taste.

  “Pardon me?” Lady Maccon used her best, most imperious tone.

  “I’ll be right with you, madam,” chirruped the girl who stood there. She was all bright chatter and false friendliness, but her back remained quite firmly presented. She was busy rustling through stacks of hatboxes.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt your work, young lady, but this is an urgent matter.”

  “Yes, madam, I am certain it is. I do apologize for the delay, but as you can see, we are a little understaffed this evening. If you wouldn’t mind waiting just one more moment.”

  “I must see Madame Lefoux.”

  “Yes, yes, madam, I know. Everyone wishes the personal attention of the madame, but she is unavailable this particular evening. Perhaps one of the other ladies might be of assistance?”

  “No, really, it must be Madame Lefoux. I have some important paperwork to return to her.”

  “Return? Oh, did the hat not suit madam’s needs? I am sorry.”


  “Not a hat. Nothing to do with hats.” Lady Maccon was getting impatient.

  “Yes, certainly, if madam would simply wait. I shall be at your service momentarily.”

  Alexia sighed. This was getting her nowhere. She moved away from the counter and took a slow turn about the room, utilizing her parasol as a kind of cane and exaggerating her limp so that sympathy drove those ladies out of her way who did not already know her face and rank. This maneuver garnered her more attention, rather than less, and she was left with a distinct feeling of inertia.

  Madame Lefoux’s hats were of the latest style, a number of them too daring for any save Ivy and her ilk. Cabinets displayed other accessories as well—mob caps, sleeping caps, hair pins, and bands all decorated beautifully. There were reticules of varying shapes and sizes; gloves; and dirigible accessories such as velvet ear protectors, skirt ties, weighted hem inserts, and the finest in color-tinted glass goggles. There was even a line of masquerade goggles trimmed with feathers and flowers. And, last but not least, a rack displaying Ivy Tunstell’s hairmuffs, designed for the fashionable young lady who wished to keep her hair untangled and her ears warm while still sporting the latest ringlets. They had gone somewhat out of favor recently, having enjoyed a brief spate of popularity during the winter months, but were still on display in deference to Mrs. Tunstell’s finer feelings.

  Alexia completed her circuit of the shop and came to a decision. Given that any kind of stealth was out of the question, she must opt for her only alternative—making a fuss.

  “Pardon me, miss.”

  The same shopgirl was still rummaging behind the counter. Really, how long did it take to find a hatbox?

  “Yes, madam, I will be right with you.”

  Lady Maccon reached down inside herself for her most regal, difficult, aristocratic nature. “I will not be ignored, young lady!”

  That got the girl’s attention. She actually turned around to see who this interfering female was.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  The young woman gave her the full once-over. “Lady Maccon?” she hazarded a guess.

  “Indeed.”

  “I had been warned to keep an eye out for you.”

  “Warned? Warned! Were you, indeed? Well, now I am here and… and…” She floundered. It was terribly hard to be angry when one wasn’t. “I have a very grave matter to discuss with your patroness.”

  “I told you, madam, and I do apologize, but she is not available this evening, even for you.”

  “Unacceptable!” Alexia was rather pleased with both the word choice and her execution. Very commanding, indeed! That’s what living with werewolves will do for a girl. Now where to go from here? “I’ll have you know I have been swindled! Absolutely swindled. I will have none of it. I shall call on the constabulary. You see if I don’t.”

  By this time, Lady Maccon and the now-trembling shopgirl had attracted the attention of the entire establishment, both patrons and hire.

  “I came here looking for hairmuffs. I hear they are the thing for dirigible travel, and I desire a set that matches my hair, and what do I find? Not a single pair of the appropriate shade. Where are they all?”

  “Well, you see, madam, we are currently out of the darker colors. If madam would like to put in an order—”

  “No, madam would not like! Madam would like a set of the hairmuffs right this very moment!” At this juncture, Alexia contemplated stamping her foot, but that was probably excessively dramatic, even for this audience.

  Instead, she waddled over to the muff display stand near the shop window. She grabbed a cluster of her own curls, artfully arranged over the shoulder of her blue and green plaid visiting dress, and waved them at the stand. Then she backed off as though physically repulsed by the mismatch.

  “You see?” She stood away and pointed with the tip of her parasol at the offending hairmuffs.

  The shopgirl did see. So, in fact, did all the other ladies present. What they saw was that Lady Maccon, only a few days from her confinement, had still extricated herself from bed and the bosom of her husband’s affection in order to come to this very shop to buy hairmuffs. They must, perforce, be back en mode. Lady Maccon, wife to the Earl of Woolsey, was known to fraternize with the trendsetters and fashion leaders of the ton. She herself might prefer more practical garb, especially in her present state, but if she was buying hairmuffs, then Lord Akeldama approved the accessory. If Lord Akeldama approved, then the vampires approved, and if the vampires approved, well, that was simply it: hairmuffs must be the living end.

  Suddenly, every lady in that shop had to have a set of Mrs. Tunstells’ Hairmuffs for the Elevated Lady Traveler. They all stopped admiring whatever hat they were fawning over and swarmed the little stand. Even those who had absolutely no intention of ever setting foot on board a dirigible suddenly were in a mad passion to own hairmuffs. For what became fashionable for floating descended to the ground—witness the craze for decorative goggles.

  Lady Maccon was swarmed by a gaggle of bustled and trussed ladies, all grabbing for the muffs, squealing at each other while they tried desperately to snatch the colors that matched their own coiffures. There was even a little pushing and some shortness of breath. It was practically a rout.

  The shopgirls obligingly descended into the milieu as well, notepads out, trying to convince the ladies not to purchase right away but to place an order for the appropriate color and perhaps multiple styles and different-size ringlets as well.

  In the resulting chaos, Lady Maccon extracted herself and lurched, as stealthily as was within her limited capacity, to the very back of the shop. Here, in a shadowed corner under an attractive display of gloves, was the handle to the entrance to the ascension chamber. She activated it, the hidden door swinging quietly open. Alexia noted with relief that the chamber was already at the upper level waiting for her. She clambered inside, drawing the door to the shop closed behind her.

  After many months of friendship, not to mention parasol maintenance and aethographor repairs, Alexia was more than familiar with the operation of Madame Lefoux’s ascension chamber. What once had upset her stomach and frightened her was now standard procedure on her visiting rounds. She flipped the lever that operated the windlass machine and did not even stumble when the contraption landed with a jarring thud.

  Lady Maccon waddled down the passageway and thumped loudly at the contrivance chamber door.

  Silence.

  Figuring that Madame Lefoux probably could not hear her knock, for inside the chamber was always a cacophony of mechanical noises, she let herself in.

  It took her a long moment of scanning over all the piles of machinery, but she eventually became convinced that Madame Lefoux really was not in residence. Nor was her new contraption. The shopgirl had not lied in the interest of social niceties. Madame Lefoux was definitely unavailable. Alexia pursed her lips. Genevieve had said something about relocating in order to put the finishing touches to the latest invention. Alexia debated trying to remember where and following her there or simply leaving the papers behind. They’ll probably be safe enough. She placed them on a nearby metal tabletop and was about to depart when she heard something.

  Alexia had no werewolf’s hearing to be able to note some strange noise among the rattling, humming, hissing clatter. Even without the Frenchwoman in residence, some machines never ceased their activity. But she definitely heard another sound, an underlying keen to the rattles that might, or might not, be human in origin.

  It might also be a very excited mouse.

  Lady Maccon contemplated not getting involved. She also contemplated not using her parasol—after all, some of the machines in that chamber might be engaged in some delicate feat of manufacturing that could not afford to be paused midclatter. In Alexia’s case, contemplation was never signified by more than a pause before performing the action she would have taken, contemplation or no.

  She took her parasol firmly in hand, raised it high above her head, a
nd activated the magnetic disruption emitter by pulling down on the appropriate lotus leaf in the handle with her thumb.

  Silence descended—the unnatural silence of work stilled midmotion. If Alexia had been a fanciful girl, she would have said it was like time freezing, but she wasn’t, so she didn’t. She merely listened for the one sound that didn’t stop.

  It came, a low keening wail, and Alexia realized that she was familiar with just such a noise. Not a sound made by the living, but still a sound made rather than a sound manufactured. It was the intermittent sharp cry of second-death, and Alexia had a pretty good guess as to who was suffering it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Formerly Beatrice Lefoux

  Formerly Lefoux. Formerly Lefoux, is that you?” Alexia tried to make her voice gentle.

  The silence stretched and then the faraway screaming came again.

  There was something inexorably sad about the sound, as though it were that much worse to die a second time. It moved even Lady Maccon’s practical heart. “Formerly Lefoux, please, I will not harm you. I promise. I can bring you peace, if you would like, or simply be here with you. I promise, no soulless touch unless you request it. Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing I could do. I don’t even know where your body is kept.”

  The magnetic disruption wore off at that juncture, and the contrivance chamber sprang back into humming, clanking motion. Right next to Alexia’s head, a contraption that looked like a tuba, a sleigh, and a mustache trimmer cobbled together let out the most amazing sound of reverberating flatulence. Lady Maccon started in disgust and moved hurriedly away.

  “Please, Formerly Lefoux, I should very much like to ask you something. I need your help.”

  The ghost materialized into existence out of a massive glass valve to Alexia’s left. Or, more properly, she materialized as much as she was able into existence, which wasn’t all that much anymore. Bits of her were now drifting off in spiraling fuzzy tendrils. Her shape was no longer human, but more cloudlike, as little wisps of her noncorporeal form fought against the aether currents. Many of those currents were now centered in on Lady Maccon, so the ghostly parts were carried toward Alexia. The vampires called preternaturals soul-suckers, but science was coming around to thinking of them more as aether absorbers. This particular phenomenon of her physiology was only really visible when she shared the room with a dying ghost.