Blameless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Third

by Gail Carriger

  Nice proved itself smaller than Paris, characterized by a casual seaside attitude. Madame Lefoux, however, hinted darkly that the city’s “Italian troubles” of ten years ago remained, hidden but unabated, and that this upsetting situation gave Nice a restless undertone not always sensed by strangers.

  “Imagine! Trying to contend that Nice is really Italian. Pah.” Madame Lefoux flicked one hand dismissively and glared at Alexia, as though Alexia might side with the Italians in this matter.

  Alexia tried to think of something reassuring to say. “I am certain there is hardly any pasta in the whole city,” was the best rejoinder she could come up with on such short notice.

  Madame Lefoux only increased the pace of their skulking, leading them around a pile of discarded rags into a dingy little alleyway.

  “I do hope the ornithopter will be safe where we left it.” Alexia tried to change the subject as she followed her friend, lifting her skirts away from the rags. There was hardly any point in the effort at this juncture, but instinct dictated one’s skirts be lifted.

  “Should be. It’s out of gunpowder charges, and very few, apart from Gustave and myself, know how to fly it. I shall send him a note as to its location. I do apologize for that unfortunate landing.”

  “You mean that unfortunate crash?”

  “At least I chose a soft bit of ground.”

  “Duck ponds usually are soft. You do realize, ornithopter only means bird? You don’t actually have to treat it as such.”

  “At least it didn’t explode.”

  Alexia paused in her skulking. “Oh, do you believe it ought to have done so?”

  Madame Lefoux gave one of her annoying little French shrugs.

  “Well I think your ornithopter has earned its name.”

  “Oh, yes?” The inventor looked resigned.

  “Yes. The Muddy Duck.”

  “Le Canard Boueux? Very funny.”

  Floote gave a tiny snort of amusement. Alexia glared at him. How had he managed to entirely avoid the mud?

  Madame Lefoux led them to a small door that once might have been colored blue, and then yellow, and then green, a history it displayed proudly in crumbling strips of paint all down the front. The Frenchwoman knocked softly at first, and then more and more loudly until she was banging quite violently on the poor door.

  The only reaction the racket caused was the immediate commencement of an unending bout of hysterical barking from some species of diminutive canine in possession of the other side of the door.

  Floote gestured with his head at the doorknob. Alexia looked closely at it under the flickering torchlight; Nice apparently was not sophisticated enough for gas streetlamps. It was brass, and mostly unassuming, except that there was a very faint etched symbol on its surface, almost smoothed away by hundreds of hands—a chubby little octopus.

  After a good deal more banging and barking, the door cautiously opened a crack to reveal a mercurial little man wearing a red and white striped nightshirt and cap, and a half-frightened, half-sleepy expression. A dirty feather duster on four legs bounced feverishly about his bare ankles. Much to Alexia’s surprise, given her recent experience with Frenchmen, the man had no mustache. The feather duster did. Perhaps in Nice mustaches were more common on canines?

  Her surprise was abated, however, when the little man spoke, not in French, but in German.

  When his staccato sentence was met only by three blank expressions, he evaluated their manners and dress and switched to heavily accented English.

  “Ya?”

  The duster ejected itself through the partly opened door and attacked Madame Lefoux, gnawing at the hem of her trouser leg. What Madame Lefoux’s excellent woolen trousers had done to insult the creature, Alexia could not begin to fathom.

  “Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf?” Madame Lefoux tried tactfully to shake off the animal with her foot.

  “Who would be wishing to know?”

  “I am Lefoux. We have been in correspondence these last few months. Mr. Algonquin Shrimpdittle recommended the introduction.”

  “I thought you were of the, uh, persuasion of the feminine.” The gentleman squinted at Madame Lefoux suspiciously.

  Madame Lefoux winked at him and doffed her top hat. “I am.”

  “Leave off, Poche!” barked the German at the tiny dog. “Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf,” Madame Lefoux explained to Alexia and Floote, “is a biological analytical technician of some note. He has a particular expertise that you may find rather interesting, Alexia.”

  The German opened his door farther and craned his neck to see around Madame Lefoux to where Alexia stood shivering.

  “Alexia?” He scanned her face in the faint light of the street torch. “Not the Alexia Tarabotti, the Female Specimen?”

  “Would it be good or bad if I were?” The lady in question was a little distressed to be engaging in a protracted doorstep conversation in the nighttime cold with a man garbed in red and white striped flannel.

  Madame Lefoux said, with a flourish, “Yes, the Alexia Tarabotti.”

  “I cannot believe it! The Female Specimen, at my door? Really?” The little man thrust said door wide and nipped out and around Madame Lefoux to grab Alexia warmly by the hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically in the American style of greeting. The dog, perceiving a new threat, let go of Madame Lefoux’s trouser and began yipping again, heading in Alexia’s direction.

  Alexia wasn’t really sure she enjoyed being referred to as a specimen. And the way the German looked at her was almost hungry.

  Alexia prepared her parasol with her free hand. “I would not, young sir, if I were you,” she said to the dog. “My skirts have been through quite enough for one evening.” The dog appeared to think better of his attack and began jumping up and down in place, all four legs oddly straight.

  “Come in, come in! The greatest marvel of the age, here, on my very doorstep. This is—how do you say?—fantastic, ya, fantastic!” The little man paused in his enthusiasm upon noticing Floote for the first time, silent and still to one side of the stoop.

  “And who is this?”

  “Uh, this is Mr. Floote, my personal secretary.” Alexia stopped staring ominously down at the dog in time to answer so Floote didn’t have to.

  Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf let go of Alexia and went to walk a slow turn around Floote. The German gentleman was still in his nightshirt, in the street, but he didn’t seem to notice the faux pas. Alexia figured that as she had just shown her bloomers to half of France, she didn’t have the right to be scandalized by this behavior.

  “Is he, is he really? Nothing more evil than that? No? Are you certain?” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf reached out a crooked finger and yanked down Floote’s cravat and shirt, checking the neck area for marks.

  Growling, the dog glommed onto Floote’s boot.

  “Do you mind, sir?” Floote looked decidedly put-upon. Alexia couldn’t tell if it was the man or his dog that irritated most; Floote could abide neither a wrinkled collar nor damp shoes.

  Seeing nothing incriminating, the German left off torturing Floote with his vulgar behavior. Once again he grabbed Alexia by the hand and positively dragged her into his tiny house. He gestured for the other two to follow, giving Floote yet another dubious once-over. The dog escorted them inside.

  “Well, you realize, under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t. Not a man, not so late at night. Never can tell with the English. But I suppose, just this once. Though, I did hear some of the terrible, terrible rumors about you, young miss.” The German raised his chin and attempted to look down on Alexia, as though he were some kind of disapproving maiden aunt. It was a particularly unsuccessful look, as, aside from not being her aunt, he was a good head shorter than Alexia.

  “Heard you had married a werewolf. Ya? What a thing for a preternatural to go and be doing. A most unfortunate choice for the Female Specimen.”

  “Is it?” Alexia managed to get just those two words in before Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf continued on without apparen
t pause or need for breath, shepherding them into a messy little parlor.

  “Yes, well, we all make the mistakes.”

  “You have no idea,” muttered Alexia, feeling a strange aching pain of loss.

  Madame Lefoux began poking about the room with interest. Floote took up his customary station by the door.

  The dog, exhausted by his own frenzy, went and curled in front of the cold fireplace, a posture that made him look, if possible, even more like a common household cleaning device.

  There was a bell rope near the door, which the little man began to tug on, at first gently and then with such enthusiasm he was practically swinging from it. “You will be wanting tea, I am certain. English are always with the wanting of tea. Sit down, sit down.”

  Madame Lefoux and Alexia sat. Floote did not.

  Their host bustled over to a little side table and took a small box out of a drawer. “Snuff?” He flipped the lid and offered the leaf about.

  Everyone declined. But the German seemed unwilling to accept Floote’s refusal. “No, no, I insist.”

  “I do not partake, sir,” objected Floote.

  “Really, I insist.” A sudden hardness entered Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s eyes.

  Floote shrugged, took a small portion, and inhaled delicately.

  The German watched him closely the entire time. When Floote showed no abnormal reaction, the little man nodded to himself and put the snuffbox away.

  A disheveled manservant entered the room.

  The dog awoke and, despite a clearly extensive association with the domestic staff, launched himself at the boy as though he posed a grave threat to the safety of the world.

  “Mignon, we have the guests. Bring up a pot of Earl Grey and some croissants at once. Earl Grey, mind you, and that basket of kumquats. Thank God for the kumquats.” He narrowed his eyes at Floote once more, in an “I’m not finished with you, young man” kind of way.

  Floote, who was a good deal older than the German gentleman, remained utterly impassive.

  “Well, this is delightful, ya, delightful. Alexia Tarabotti, here in my home.” He took off his nightcap to enact a twitchy little bow in Alexia’s direction. The action revealed a set of precariously large ears, which looked as though they rightly belonged to someone else.

  “Never met your father, but I have studied much over his stock. First to breed a female soulless in seven generations, ya. It is a miracle, some have claimed, the Female Specimen.” He nodded to himself. “I have the theory, of course, to do with brood female mixing outside of Italy. Brilliant choice of your father’s, ya? A little of the fresh blood of English.”

  Alexia could hardly believe the statement. As though she were the result of some kind of horse-breeding program. “Now, I say—!”

  Madame Lefoux interjected at this juncture, “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf here has been studying the preternatural state for many years now.”

  “It has been difficult, most difficult, indeed, ya, to find a live specimen. My little trouble with the church, you understand.”

  “Come again?” Alexia checked her rage in favor of curiosity. Here was a scientist who might really know something.

  The German blushed and worried his sleeping cap about with both hands. “A little—how do you say?—spot of bother. Had to move to France and leave much of my research behind. A travesty.”

  Alexia looked to Madame Lefoux for an explanation.

  “He was excommunicated,” said the inventor in a grave, hushed voice.

  The little man blushed even redder. “Ah, you heard of it?”

  Madame Lefoux shrugged. “You know how the Order gossips.”

  A sigh met this statement. “Well, regardless, you have brought me this fine visitor. A living, breathing female preternatural. You will allow me to ask you questions, young lady, ya? Perhaps, a test or two?”

  A tap came at the door, and the manservant entered bearing a tea tray.

  Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf accepted the tray and then waved the man away. He poured the tea, strong and redolent of the scent of bergamot. Alexia didn’t much like Earl Grey; it was well out of fashion in London and was never served in any of the establishments she frequented. Vampires were not fond of citrus. Which, she realized, must be why the little man was now pressing the tea and a small pile of kumquats on the austere Floote.

  “The snuff!”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “Ah, you decided you wanted to try some, ya, Female Specimen?”

  “Oh, no. I simply realized. You made Floote take snuff as a werewolf check. They hate snuff. And now you’re using the Earl Grey and the kumquats to see if he’s a vampire.”

  Floote arched one eyebrow, took a kumquat, and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing methodically.

  “You do realize, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, that vampires are perfectly capable of consuming citrus? They just don’t like it.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m well aware. But it is a good—how do you say?—initial check, until sun comes up.”

  Floote sighed. “I assure you, sir, I am not of a supernatural inclination.”

  Alexia snickered. Poor Floote looked extremely put-upon.

  The little German did not seem convinced by mere verbal guarantees. He kept a jaundiced eye on Floote and maintained proprietary control of the bowl of kumquats. For future use as projectile weaponry, perhaps?

  “Of course, you could still be a claviger or drone-type person.”

  Floote huffed out a small puff of annoyed breath.

  “You already checked him for bite marks,” pointed out Alexia.

  “Absence of the marks is not absolute proof, especially as he may be a claviger. You did marry a werewolf, after all.”

  Floote looked as though he had never been more insulted in his life. Alexia, still smarting over the “Female Specimen” moniker, sympathized.

  In a lightning change of mood that seemed to characterize the little man’s paranoia, the German looked with sudden new suspicion at Alexia. “The verification.” He muttered to himself. “You understand, ya? Of course you do. Must verify you as well. Ah, if only I had my counter. Have this little poltergeist problem. Perhaps you could see your way to an exorcism? Should not be hard for the Female Specimen.” He glanced at a small window to one side of the room, curtains thrown wide to let in the rapidly brightening dawn. “Before sunrise?”

  Alexia sighed. “This could not possibly wait until tomorrow evening? I have been traveling most of the night. I suppose you could call it traveling.”

  The little man grimaced at her but did not take the hint, as any good host would have.

  “Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, we have only just arrived,” Madame Lefoux protested.

  “Oh, very well.” Alexia put down her tea, which wasn’t very good, anyway, and half a croissant, which was buttery and delicious. If it was necessary for this odd little man to trust them in order to get some answers out of him, she was equal to the task. Alexia sighed, angry once more at her husband’s rejection. She wasn’t entirely certain how just yet, but she intended to blame this latest nuisance on Lord Conall Maccon as well as everything else.

  The dog, Poche, led the way down several flights of stairs and into a tiny cellar, barking with unwarranted enthusiasm the entire time. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf apparently did not notice the racket. Alexia resigned herself to the fact that it was the creature’s normal mode of operation—when its eyes were open, so, too, was its mouth.

  “You must think me the terrible host, ya.” The German said this with an air of one attending to the requirements of society rather than one experiencing actual remorse.

  Alexia could think of nothing to say in response, as, so far as it went, it was perfectly true. Any host worth his blood would have seen them decently abed by now, supernatural or not. No gentleman would insist his guest perform an exorcism without providing accommodations first, let alone a decent meal. So Alexia simply clutched her parasol and followed the German and his frenzied canine down into the bowels of his c
ramped and dirty house. Madame Lefoux and Floote seemed to feel their presence was not required on this jaunt and remained upstairs in the parlor, sipping at the vile tea and consuming, very probably, all of the excellent croissants. Traitors.

  The cellar was gloomy in all the ways cellars ought to be and included, just as the man had said, a ghost in the final throes of poltergeist phase.

  Above the little dog’s barking came the intermittent keening wail of second-death. As if that were not bad enough, the poltergeist had gone to pieces. Alexia could not abide clutter, and, having lost almost all of its capacity for cohesion, this ghost was very messy, indeed. It was flitting about the dark musty interior as pale wisps of body parts, entirely dismembered—an elbow here, an eyebrow there. Alexia started and let out a little squeak upon encountering a single eyeball, all intelligence gone from its depths, staring at her from the top of a wine rack. The cellar also smelled badly of formaldehyde and rotten flesh.

  “Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.” Alexia’s voice was cold with disapproval. “You ought to have seen to the unfortunate soul weeks ago and never let it get this bad.”

  The man rolled his eyes dismissively. “On the contrary, Female Specimen, I rented this house because of the ghost. I have long been interested in recording exact stages of homo animus disanimation. And since my trouble with the Vatican, I switched the focus of my studies onto ghosts. I have managed three papers on this one alone. Now, I must admit, she has become much less. The staff refuses to come down here. I keep having to fetch wine myself.”

  Alexia narrowly avoided walking through a floating ear. “Which must be very vexing.”

  “But it has been useful. I theorize that remnant animus is carried on aether eddies as weakening of tether commences. I believe my work here has proved this hypothesis.”

  “You mean to say that the soul rides the aether air, and as the body decomposes, its hold on the soul disintegrates? Like a sugar lump in tea?”