At which statement Madame Lefoux leaned forward and kissed her, quite softly and gently on the mouth.
It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it also wasn’t quite the done thing in polite society, even among friends. Sometimes, Alexia felt, Madame Lefoux took that regretful y French aspect of her character a little too far.
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Got any cognac?”
The inventor only smiled. “I think, perhaps, it is time for bed.”
Alexia felt very worn about the edges, like an old carpet. “This is exhausting, talking about one’s feelings. I am not sure I approve.”
“Yes, but has it helped?”
“I stil loathe Conal and want to prove him wrong. So, no, I don’t think it has.”
“But you’ve always felt that way about your husband, my dear.”
“True, true. Are you certain you don’t have any cognac?”
They set down in France the next morning with surprisingly little incident. Madam Lefoux brightened considerably once they landed. Her step was light and cheerful as they walked the gangplank down from the dirigible, leaving the colorful ship bobbing against its tethers behind them. The French, who, in addition to a marked preference for ridiculous mustaches, had a propensity for highly civilized mechanicals, were prepared for vast amounts of luggage. They loaded La Diva Tarabotti’s trunks, Mr. Lefoux’s cases, and Floote’s portmanteau onto a kind of platform that floated, kept aloft by four aether-inflated bal oons and pul ed along by a lackadaisical porter. Madame Lefoux engaged in several protracted arguments with various staff, arguments that seemed to be more the general formula of conversation than embodying any genuine vehemence. From what Alexia could fol ow, which wasn’t much given the rapidity of the tongue, there appeared to be some question concerning the bil , the gratuity, and the complexity of hiring transport at this time of the morning.
Madame Lefoux admitted the time of day to be unacceptably early but would brook no delay on their journey. She rousted up a youngish carriage driver, who had a particularly spectacular mustache and who met them rubbing sleepy eyes. With baggage in place and Alexia, Madame Lefoux, and Floote safely ensconced within, they drove some ten miles or so to a station where they caught the mail train on its six-hour journey to Paris, via Amiens. Madame Lefoux promised, in a low voice, there would be sustenance available on board. Sadly, the provisions on the rail turned out to be wretchedly inferior. Alexia was underwhelmed; she had heard such wondrous things about French cuisine.
They arrived in the late afternoon, and Alexia was perturbed to find, never having traveled to foreign climes, that Paris seemed just as dirty and crowded as London, only peopled by buildings more swooped and gentlemen more mustached. They did not go directly into town. Despite a most pressing need for tea, the possibility of pursuit remained uppermost in al their minds. They went to the city’s main train station, where Floote pretended to purchase train tickets, and they made a prodigious fuss over catching the next high-boil steamer to Madrid. They went loudly in on one side of the train, with luggage, and then quietly off the other, much to the annoyance of one long-suffering porter who was liberal y rewarded for his pains. They then exited at the back end of the station, into a large but seedy carriage. Madame Lefoux directed the driver to a tiny, rickety little clockmaker’s shop nestled next to a bakery in what appeared, shockingly enough, to be the tradesmen’s quarter of Paris.
Mindful that she was a fugitive and could not afford to be particular, Alexia trailed her friend into the tiny shop. She spotted the smal brass octopus above the door and could not quite prevent a lurch of apprehension. Once inside, however, her fears were quickly dissipated by curiosity. The interior was littered with clocks and companion devices of al shapes and sizes. Unfortunately, Madame Lefoux pressed on through rapidly into a back room and up a set of stairs. They arrived thus, with very little pomp or circumstance, in the tiny reception chamber of a set of residential apartments above the shop.
Alexia found herself surrounded and embraced by a room of such unmitigated welcome and personality that it was akin to being yel ed at by plum pudding. Al the furniture looked comfortable and worn, and the paintings on the wal s and side tables were bright and cheerful. Even the wal paper was equal y amiable. Unlike in England, where courtesy to the supernatural set prevailed, resulting in interiors kept dark with heavy curtains, this room was bright and well lit. The windows, overlooking the street below, were thrown open and the sun al owed to stream in. But for Alexia, the most welcoming thing about the place was the myriad of gadgets and mechanical knickknacks strewn about. Unlike Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber, which had no other purpose but production, this was a home that also happened to be a work space.
There were gears piled atop half-finished knitting and cranking mechanisms attached to coal scuttles. It was a marriage of domesticity and technology like none Alexia had witnessed before.
Madame Lefoux gave a funny little hol er but did not go looking for the denizen of the abode. With the air of a regular visitor, she settled herself easily into a soft settee. Alexia, finding this familiar behavior highly irregular, resisted joining her at first, but due to the weariness of extended travel was eventually persuaded not to stand on ceremony.
Floote, who seemed never to tire, laced his fingers behind his back and took up his favorite butler stance near the door.
“Why, Genevieve, my dear, what an unexpected pleasure!” The gentleman who entered the room matched the house perfectly—soft, friendly, and gadget-riddled. He wore a leather apron with many pockets, a pair of green spectacles rested upon his nose, a pair of brass glassicals perched atop his head, and a monocle hung about his neck. The clockmaker, no doubt. He spoke in French, but fortunately much less rapidly than others Alexia had met so far, al owing her to fol ow the conversation.
“There is something different about you?” The man adjusted his spectacles and contemplated Madame Lefoux for a moment through them. Apparently not pinpointing the enormous mustache draped atop the inventor’s upper lip as the culprit, he added, “Is that a new hat?”
“Gustave, you never do change, do you? I hope you do not mind such an unexpected visit.” Madame Lefoux addressed their host in the queen’s English, in deference to Alexia and Floote’s presence.
The gentleman in question switched smoothly into Alexia’s native language as though it were a tongue as familiar to him as his own. In the same instant, he seemed to notice Alexia and Floote for the first time. “Not at al , not at al , I assure you. I adore the company. Always welcome.” There was a tone to his voice and a twinkle to his blue-button eyes that suggested real truth to the social niceties. “And you have brought me guests! How marvelous. Delighted, delighted.”
Madame Lefoux made introductions. “Monsieur Floote and Madame Tarabotti, this is my dear cousin, Monsieur Trouvé.”
The clockmaker gave Floote a measured look and a smal bow. Floote returned both in kind, after which Alexia found herself the object of bespectacled scrutiny.
“Not that Tarabotti?”
Alexia would not go so far as to describe Monsieur Trouvé as shocked, but he was certainly something more than complacent. It was difficult to see the exact nature of his expression as, in addition to the ubiquitous mustache, the clockmaker also wore a golden-brown beard of such epic proportions as might dwarf a mulberry bush. It was as though his mustache had become overly enthusiastic and, seized with the spirit of adventure, set out to conquer the southern reaches of his face in a take-no-prisoners kind of way.
“His daughter,” confirmed Madame Lefoux.
“In truth?” The Frenchman looked to Floote, of al people, for confirmation.
Floote nodded curtly—once.
“Is it so very bad a thing, to be my father’s daughter?” Alexia wondered.
Monsieur Trouvé raised both bushy eyebrows and smiled. It was a smal , shy smile that barely made it through the shrubbery of his beard. “I take it you never met your father? No, of course, you wouldn’t have, would you? Not possible. Not if you are his daughter.” He looked at Madame Lefoux this time. “Is she real y?”
Madame Lefoux dimpled at him. “Without question.”
The clockmaker brought his monocle up, peering through both it and his spectacles at Alexia. “Remarkable. A female preternatural. I never thought I would live to see the day.
It is a true honor having you to visit, Madame Tarabotti. Genevieve, you always did bring me the most charming surprises. And trouble with them, of course, but we won’t talk about that now, wil we?”
“Better than that, cousin—she is with child. And the father is a werewolf. How do you like that?”
Alexia gave Madame Lefoux a sharp stare. They had not discussed revealing the personal details of her embarrassing condition to a French clockmaker!
“I must sit down.” Monsieur Trouvé groped without looking for a nearby chair and col apsed into it. He took a deep breath and then examined Alexia with even more interest. She wondered if he might try to wear the glassicals as well as the spectacles and the monocle.
“You are certain?”
Alexia bristled. She was so very tired of having her word questioned. “I assure you. I am quite certain.”
“Amazing,” said the clockmaker, seeming to recover some of his equanimity. “No offense meant, no offense. You are, you must realize, a marvel of the modern age.” The monocle went back up. “Though, not so very much like your dear father.”
Alexia glanced tentatively at Floote and then asked Monsieur Trouvé, “Is there anyone who did not know my father?”
“Oh, most people didn’t. He preferred things that way. But he dabbled in my circle, or I should say, my father’s circle. I met him only the once, and I was six at the time. I remember it well , however.” The clockmaker smiled again. “He did have quite the habit of making an impression, your father, I must say.”
Alexia was unsure as to whether this comment had an underlying unsavory meaning or not. Then she realized it must. Given what little she knew of her father, a better question might be, to which form of unsavory meaning was the Frenchman al uding? Stil , she was positively dying of curiosity. “Circle?”
“The Order.”
“My father was an inventor?” That surprised Alexia. She had never heard that about Alessandro Tarabotti. Al his journal entries indicated he was more a destroyer than a creator. Besides, by al accounts, preternaturals couldn’t real y invent anything. They lacked the necessary imagination and soul.
“Oh, no, no.” Monsieur Trouvé brushed two fingers through his beard thoughtful y.
“More of an irregular customer. He always had the oddest requests. I remember, once, my uncle talking about how he actual y asked for a—” The clockmaker looked up at the doorway, apparently noticing something that made him stop. “Ah, yes, never mind.”
Alexia glanced over to see what had caused this gregarious fel ow to silence himself. But there was nothing there, only Floote, impassive as always, hands laced behind his back.