The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  Biffy was aghast. “Certainly not, my lord!”

  “Good to know where I stand from the start.” Conall grinned amiably at the boy.

  Rumpet stuck his head in. Rumpet had been brought out of retirement to take over for Floote as pack butler. He’d set up as an innkeeper in Pickering after the vampires took over Woolsey but jumped at the chance to return to his old position. Pickering and innkeeping, as it turned out, were not all he had hoped.

  “Lady Maccon, there’s a gentleman to see you.” The butler had a certain curl to his lip that in Alexia’s experience could only mean one man.

  “Ah, show him into the front parlor. If you will excuse me, husband, Biffy, I’m certain you have much to discuss. There is Channing to consider, if nothing else.”

  “Oh, blast it. Channing,” muttered Lord Maccon.

  Alexia let herself out.

  Lord Akeldama sat waiting for her in the front parlor, one silken leg crossed over the other, blue eyes bright and slightly accusatory. He was wearing pea green and salmon this evening, a pleasant swirl of spring colors to counteract the gray weather they’d been experiencing of late.

  “Alexia, my darling toggle button!”

  “My lord, how are you?”

  “I am here to reclaim my dearest little daughter.”

  “Of course, of course. Rumpet, fetch Prudence for his lordship, would you? She’s sleeping in the back parlor. Did you miss her, my lord?”

  “Like a hat misses a feather, darling! The droney poos and I have been bereft, quite bereft I tell you!”

  “Well, she was very useful, in her way.”

  “Of course she was. And Matakara—are the rumors true?”

  “Where do you think Ivy acquired her new hive?”

  “Yes, Alexia, pigeon, I mean to discuss that little incident with you. Did you have to bring them all?”

  “A new queen, plus five Egyptian vampires and assorted drones? You object to my bringing souvenirs back from Egypt? Everyone brings back souvenirs from their travels abroad, my lord. It is the done thing.”

  “Well, dewdrop, I don’t object as such, but…”

  Alexia smiled craftily. “Ivy has chosen somewhere in Wimbledon for her hive’s location. A little too close for comfort, my lord?”

  The vampire arched a blond eyebrow at her haughtily. “Countess Nadasdy is not amused.”

  “She wouldn’t be. Someone is essentially taking on her old role in society.”

  “Ivy Tunstell, no less.” Lord Akeldama frowned, one perfect crease marring the white smoothness of his forehead. “She is terribly interested in fashion, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, dear.” Alexia hid a smile. “That, too, is your territory. I see.”

  “An actress, my little blueberry. I mean, really. Have you seen her hats?”

  “You paid a call?”

  “Of course I paid a call! She is a new queen, after all. Etiquette must be observed. But really”—he shuddered delicately—“those hats.”

  Alexia thought of Professor Lyall’s letter. “It is the modern age, my dear Lord Akeldama. I think we must learn to accept such things as a consequence of shifting times.”

  “Shifting times, indeed. What a very werewolf way of putting it.”

  Rumpet opened the door and Prudence toddled sleepily into the room.

  “Ah, puggle precious, how is my darling girl?”

  Alexia grabbed her daughter’s arm before she could launch herself at the vampire. “Dama!”

  At Lady Maccon’s nod, the vampire bent to embrace his adopted child, Alexia maintaining a firm grip the entire time.

  “Welcome home, poppet!”

  “Dama, Dama!”

  Alexia looked on affectionately. “We’ve learned a few things about our girl here, haven’t we, Prudence dear?”

  “No,” said Prudence.

  “One of them is that she doesn’t like her name.”

  “No?” Lord Akeldama looked very thoughtful. “Well, there you have it. I couldn’t sympathize more, puggle. I don’t approve of most people’s names either.”

  Alexia laughed.

  Prudence took sudden interest in Alexia’s parasol, sitting next to her on the settee.

  “Mine?” suggested Prudence.

  “Perhaps someday,” said her mother.

  Looking at his adopted daughter thoughtfully, Lord Akeldama said, “Shifting times, my dear Ruffled Parasol?”

  Alexia did not bother to ask how he might know her secret code name. She only looked him straight on, forthright as always. “Shifting times, Goldenrod.”

  Meet the Author

  New York Times bestselling author Gail Carriger writes to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in Higher Learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported from London.

  The Parasol Protectorate books are: Soulless, Changeless, Blameless, Heartless, and Timeless. Soulless won the ALA’s Alex Award. A manga adaptation released in Spring 2012 and a young adult series set in the same universe—the Finishing School series—launched in Spring 2013. Gail is soon to begin writing a new adult series, The Parasol Protectorate Abroad (2015).

  Vanessa Applegate

  Also by Gail Carriger

  THE PARASOL PROTECTORATE

  Soulless

  Changeless

  Blameless

  Heartless

  Timeless

  THE SPOTTED CRUMPET

  Prudence

  Imprudence

  FINISHING SCHOOL

  Etiquette & Espionage

  Curtsies & Conspiracy

  Waistcoats & Weaponry

  Manners & Mutiny

  If you enjoyed

  THE PARASOL PROTECTORATE: THE COMPLETE SERIES,

  look out for

  ETIQUETTE & ESPIONAGE

  Finishing School: Book the First

  by Gail Carriger

  It’s one thing to learn to curtsy properly. It’s quite another to learn to curtsy and throw a knife at the same time. Welcome to Finishing School.

  Fourteen-year-old Sophronia is a great trial to her poor mother. Sophronia is more interested in dismantling clocks and climbing trees than proper manners—and the family can only hope that company never sees her atrocious curtsy. Mrs. Temminnick is desperate for her daughter to become a proper lady. So she enrolls Sophronia in Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality.

  But Sophronia soon realizes the school is not quite what her mother might have hoped. At Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, young ladies learn to finish… everything. Certainly, they learn the fine arts of dance, dress, and etiquette, but the also learn to deal out death, diversion, and espionage—in the politest possible ways, of course. Sophronia and her friends are in for a rousing first year’s education.

  LESSON 1

  The Start of Being Finished

  Sophronia intended to pull the dumbwaiter up from the kitchen to outside the front parlor on the ground floor, where Mrs. Barnaclegoose was taking tea. Mrs. Barnaclegoose had arrived with a stranger in tow. Meddling old battle-ax. With the hallways patrolled by siblings and household mechanicals, eavesdropping was out of the question. The only way of overhearing her mother, Mrs. Barnaclegoose, and the stranger was from inside the dumbwaiter. Mrs. Barnaclegoose had decided opinions on reforming other women’s daughters. Sophronia did not want to be reformed. So she had pressed the dumbwaiter into the service of espionage.

  The dumbwaiter disagreed with the whole idea of stopping at the ground floor, and instead kept on going—up all four stories. Sophronia examined the windlass machine at the top. Several lengths of india-rubber strapping made up part of the drive mechanism. Perhaps, once the strapping was removed, the dumbwaiter might shake loose?

  The dumbwaiter had n
o ceiling; it was simply a bit of platform with a support cable on the inside and a pulling cable on the outside. Sophronia reached up and liberated the strapping. Nothing happened, so she took more.

  It was while she wrapped the india rubber protectively around her boots—her mother had been complaining about the state of Sophronia’s shoes of late—that the dumbwaiter started shaking.

  Sophronia squirmed over to the pulling cable, but before she had a chance to grab it, the dumbwaiter began to descend—fast. Very fast. Too fast. The loading door on the third floor sped past, and then the one on the second. Perhaps removing the rubber was not such a brilliant plan.

  As the top of the next loading door appeared, Sophronia dove forward, tumbling through it and into the family’s front parlor. The top skirt of her dress caught on the lip of the door and made an ominous ripping sound.

  Unfortunately, Sophronia’s grand escape coincided with one of the maids loading a half-eaten trifle into the dumbwaiter.

  Sophronia hit the pudding on her dismount. The maid screamed. The trifle arched up into the air, scattering custard, cake, and strawberries all over the blue brocade and cream furnishings of the well-appointed parlor.

  The bowl landed, in glorious perfection, atop the head of Mrs. Barnaclegoose, who was not the kind of woman to appreciate the finer points of being crowned by trifle. Nevertheless, it made for quite the spectacle as the bowl upended the last of its contents over that good lady’s bonnet. Until that moment, the bonnet had been rather smart—red with black velvet ribbons and crimson ostrich feathers. The addition of a trifle, it must be admitted, made it less smart. Sophronia, with great restraint, held back a triumphant giggle. That’ll teach her to meddle.

  Mrs. Barnaclegoose was a large woman of progressive inclinations—which is to say she supported vampire and werewolf social reform, played a good deal of whist, kept a ghost in her country cottage, and even wore the occasional French gown. She accepted that dirigibles would be the next great means of transportation and that soon people might fly through the aether. She was not, however, so progressive as to accept flying food. She squealed in horror.

  One of Sophronia’s older sisters, Petunia, was playing at hostess. White with mortification, Petunia rushed to the aid of the older woman, assisting her in the removal of the trifle bowl. Mother was nowhere to be seen. This made Sophronia more nervous than the fact that she had just assaulted an aristocrat with a trifle.

  Mrs. Barnaclegoose stood, with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances, and looked down at Sophronia, sprawled on the plush rug. Most of Sophronia’s top skirt had ripped off. Sophronia was mortified to realize she was in public with her underskirt on display!

  “Your mother is occupied in an important private audience. I was going to await her leisure. But for this, I shall disturb her. It is 1851, and I believed we lived in a civilized world! Yet you are as bad as a rampaging werewolf, young miss, and someone must take action.” Mrs. Barnaclegoose made it sound as though Sophronia alone were responsible for the disreputable state of the entire British Empire. Without allowing Sophronia a rebuttal, the lady waddled from the room, a plop of custard trailing down her fluffy skirts.

  Sophronia flopped over onto her back with a sigh. She should check herself for injuries, or see to finding the rest of her dress, but flopping was more dramatic. She closed her eyes and contemplated the possible recriminations soon to emanate from her upset mother.

  Her musings were interrupted. “Sophronia Angelina Temminnick!”

  Uh-oh. She cracked a cautious eyelid. “Yes, Petunia?”

  “How could you? Poor Mrs. Barnaclegoose!” Stepping in as understudy mother today, we have elder sister. Fantastic.

  “As if I could plan such a thing.” Sophronia was annoyed by the childish petulance in her own voice. She was unable to control it when around her sisters.

  “I daresay you would if you could. What were you doing inside the dumbwaiter? And why are you lying there in your petticoats with india rubber wrapped around your feet?”

  Sophronia hedged. “Uh, um, well, you see…”

  Petunia looked inside the open cavity of the dumbwaiter, where the remains of Sophronia’s skirt dangled merrily. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sophronia. You’ve been climbing again! What are you, a ten-year-old apple boy?”

  “Actually, I’m right in the middle of a recovery period. So if you wouldn’t mind shoving off until I’m finished, I’d appreciate it.”

  Petunia, who, at sixteen, considered herself all grown up, was having none of it. “Look at this mess you’ve created. Poor Eliza.”

  Eliza, the now trifle-less maid, was trying to put some order to the chaos that had resulted from finding an unexpected Sophronia departing the dumbwaiter.

  Sophronia crawled over to help with the strawberries and cake that now covered the room. “Sorry, Eliza. I didn’t mean it.”

  “You never do, miss.”

  Petunia was not to be distracted. “Sophronia!”

  “Well, sister, to be perfectly correct, I did nothing.”

  “Tell that to the poor woman’s lovely bonnet.”

  “The trifle did it.”

  Petunia’s perfect rosebud pout twisted into a grimace that might have been an attempt to hide a smile. “Really, Sophronia, you’re fourteen years old and simply unfit for public consumption. I refuse to have you at my coming-out ball. You’ll do something dreadful, like spill the punch on the only nice-looking boy there.”

  “I would never!”

  “Oh, yes, you would.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. We don’t happen to be acquainted with any nice-looking boys.”

  Petunia ignored that jibe. “Must you be so tiresome? It’s always something.” She looked smug. “Although I believe Mumsy has finally determined what to do with you.”

  “She has? Do? Do what? What’s going on?”

  “Mumsy is indenturing you to vampires for a proper education. You’re old enough now for them to actually want you. Soon you’ll be putting your hair up—what else are we to do with you? You are even starting to get décolletage.”

  Sophronia blushed with embarrassment at the very mention of such a thing, but managed a sputtered protest of, “She never!”

  “Oh, yes! Who do you think she’s talking to right now? Why do you think it’s such a secret meeting? Vampires are like that.”

  Mumsy had, of course, made the threat when any of the Temminnick children were being particularly wayward. But never could Sophronia believe such a thing actually possible. “But it’s tea! Vampires can’t be here. They can’t go out in daylight. Everyone knows that.”

  Petunia, in her Petunia-ish way, dismissed this defense with a careless flap of one hand. “You think they would send a real vampire for the likes of you? Oh, no, that’s a drone Mumsy is talking with. I wager they’re drawing up the papers of servitude right now.”

  “But I don’t want to be a vampire drone.” Sophronia winced. “They’ll suck my blood and make me wear only the very latest fashions.”

  Petunia nodded in an I-know-more-than-you manner that was highly aggravating. “Yes. Yes, they will.”

  Frowbritcher, the butler, appeared in the doorway. He paused on the threshold while his rollers transferred to the parlor tracks. He was the very latest in domestic mechanicals, about the size and shape of a daphne bush. He trundled over and looked down his beaky nasal protuberance at Sophronia. His eyes were jet-colored circles of perpetual disapproval.

  “Miss Sophronia, your mother wishes to see you immediately.” His voice, emanating from a music-box device deep inside his metal body, was tinny and grainy.

  Sophronia sighed. “Is she sending me to the vampires?”

  Petunia wrinkled her nose. “I suppose there is a possibility they won’t take you. I mean to say, Sophronia, the way you dress!”

  The butler only repeated, without any inflection whatsoever, “Immediately, miss.”

  “Should I make for the stable?” Sophronia asked.
>
  “Oh, do grow up!” said Petunia in disgust.

  “So I can be a puffed-up poodle-faker like you?” As though growing up were something one could do contagiously, caught through associating with officious older sisters. Sophronia trailed after Frowbritcher, nervously brushing her custard-covered hands against her apron. She hoped the pinafore would hide the disreputable—well, absent—state of her skirt.

  The butler rolled down the hall, leading her to her father’s library. An elaborate tea service was arranged there, including lace tablecloths, sponge cake, and the family’s very best china. This was far more effort than was ever spent on Mrs. Barnaclegoose.

  Across from Sophronia’s mother, sipping tea, sat an elegant lady wearing a sour expression and a large hat. She looked like exactly the kind of woman one would expect to be a vampire drone.

  “Here is Miss Sophronia, madam,” said Frowbritcher from the doorway, not bothering to transfer tracks. He glided off, probably to marshal forces to clean the parlor.

  “Sophronia! What did you do to poor Mrs. Barnaclegoose? She left here in a dreadful huff and—oh, simply look at you! Mademoiselle, please excuse my daughter’s appearance. I’d tell you it was an aberration, but, sadly, it’s all too common. Such a troublesome child.”

  The stranger gave Sophronia a prim look that made her feel about six years old. She was painfully conscious of her custardy state. No one would ever describe Sophronia as elegant, whereas this woman was every inch a lady. Sophronia had never before considered how powerful that could be. The strange woman was also offensively beautiful, with pale skin and dark hair streaked with gray. It was impossible to discern her age, for, despite the gray, her face was young. She was perfectly dressed in a sort of spiky lace traveling gown with a massive skirt and velvet trim that was much more elegant than anything Sophronia had ever seen in her life. Her mother was more a follower of trends than a purveyor of fine taste. This woman was truly stylish.

  Despite her beauty, she looks, thought Sophronia, a little like a crow. She stared down at her feet and tried to come up with an excuse for her behavior, other than spying on people. “Well, I simply wanted to see how it worked, and then there was this—”