Alexia finished her croissant using only her untainted hand and then waited patiently, hoping against hope that sometime soon they might be offered beds. It felt like a very long time since she’d slept. She was beginning to feel numb with tiredness. Madame Lefoux seemed to feel much the same, for she had nodded off. Her chin dipped down into the bow of her cravat. Her top hat, stil partial y wrapped with Monsieur Trouvé’s scarf, tipped forward on her head. Even Floote’s shoulders were sagging ever so slightly.
The first rays of the sun crept in over the windowsil and speared into the room. Mr.
Lange-Wilsdorf watched avidly as the light touched Floote’s trouser leg. When Floote did not immediately burst into flames or run screaming from the room, the little German relaxed for what Alexia suspected was the first time since they had knocked on his door.
With stil no offer of a sleeping chamber forthcoming, Alexia took a deep breath and faced her host squarely. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, why al this bother and testing? Are you a true believer? I would have thought that odd in a member of the Order of the Brass Octopus.”
Madame Lefoux cracked her eyelids at her friend’s direct speech and tipped her top hat back on her head with one elegant finger. She regarded the little German with interest.
“Perhaps, perhaps. My research is delicate, dangerous, even. If I am to trust you, or help you, it is important, vital, that none of you are—how do I put this?— undead. ”
Alexia winced. Madame Lefoux straightened out of her slouch, abruptly much less drowsy. “Undead” was not a word one used openly in polite society. The werewolves, vampires, and even newly minted ghosts found it understandably distasteful to be referred to as such. Much in the same way that Alexia objected when the vampires cal ed her a soul-sucker. It was, simply put, vulgar.
“That is a rather crude word, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is it? Ah, you English and your semantics.”
“But ‘undead,’ certainly, is not apt.”
The man’s eyes went hard and flinty. “I suspect that depends on what you define as living. Ya? Given my current studies, ‘undead’ suits very well .”
The French inventor grinned. Her dimples showed. Alexia wasn’t certain how they did it, but those dimples managed to look quite crafty. “Not for long it won’t.”
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf tilted his head, intrigued. “You know something of relevance to my research, do you, Madame Lefoux?”
“You are aware that Lady Maccon here married a werewolf?”
A nod.
“I think you should tel him what has happened, Alexia.”
Alexia grimaced. “He might be helpful?”
“He is the closest thing to an expert on the preternatural the Order of the Brass Octopus has. Templars might know more, but it’s difficult to say.”
Alexia nodded. She weighed her options and final y decided the risk was worth it. “I am pregnant, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.”
The German looked at Alexia with a distinct air of covetousness. “Felicitations and condolences. You wil not, of course, be able to—how do you say?—carry to term. No preternatural female has in recorded history. A great sadness to the Templars and their breeding program, of course, but…” He trailed off at Madame Lefoux’s continued grin.
“You are implying? No, it cannot be. She is pregnant by the werewolf?”
Alexia and Madame Lefoux both nodded.
The German turned away from the window and came to sit close to Alexia. Too close. His eyes were hard and greedy on her face.
“You would not be covering up for, how you English might say, a little indiscretion?”
Alexia was tired of al the games. She gave him a look that suggested the next person to even hint she was unfaithful would be receiving the worst her parasol had to offer. She had hoped he would know something that might result in a different reaction.
“How about,” she suggested in clipped tones, “you assume I am tel ing the truth in this matter and we leave you to theorize on the subject while we attend to some much-needed rest?”
“Of course, of course! You are with child; you must sleep. Imagine such a thing, a preternatural pregnant by a supernatural. I must do research. Has it ever been tried before? The Templars would not think to breed the werewolf with soul ess. The very idea.
Ya, amazing. You are, after al , scientific opposites, each other’s end. With rarity of females of either species, I can see a basis for absence of proper documentation. But if you speak truth, why, what a miracle, what a fabulous abomination!”
Alexia cleared her throat loudly, placing one hand to her stomach and the other on her parasol. She might think of this baby as inconvenient, even hate it sometimes, but far be it for some diminutive German with bad taste in pets to describe it as an abomination. “I do beg your pardon!”
Madame Lefoux recognized that tone in Alexia’s voice and jumped to her feet.
Grabbing Alexia by the hand, she attempted to pul her friend up and out of the room.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf had whipped out a notepad and, oblivious to Alexia’s anger, began scribbling away, al the while muttering to himself.
“We shal find guest rooms on our own, shal we?” suggested the Frenchwoman over Alexia’s angry sputtering.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf made a dismissive movement with his stylographic pen, not looking up from his ruminations.
Alexia found her voice. “Couldn’t I just whack him once? Just a little one, over the head? He would hardly notice.”
Floote raised one eyebrow and took hold of Alexia’s elbow, helping Madame Lefoux to remove her bodily from the room. “Bed, I think, madam.”
“Oh, very well ,” conceded Alexia, “if you insist.” She glared at Madame Lefoux. “But you had better be right about this character’s character.”
“Oh”—the dimples were back—“I believe he may surprise you.”
“Like being served wet toad on toast?”
“He could prove you’re right. That Lord Maccon fathered your child.”
“That’s the only possible way this could be worth it. ‘Female Specimen,’ indeed!
Sounds like he plans to dissect me with a clinkering-spud.”
When Alexia final y came down to breakfast the next morning, it was, in fact, no longer morning at al , but early afternoon. Madame Lefoux and Floote were already seated at the smal dining table, as was the little German scientist. He was entirely absorbed in some research while eating— deplorable behavior! He was positively vibrating in excitement, almost as much as his feather duster of a dog.
As it was now daytime, both the German and his dog were a tad more formal y attired. Alexia was a little surprised. She’d half expected Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf to stil be wearing his striped nightshirt. Instead, he looked perfectly respectable in a tweed coat and brown trousers. He wore no cravat, to Floote’s obvious dismay. Alexia was, perhaps, less shocked by the missing cravat than she should have been. After al , eccentricity of dress was to be expected in foreigners for whom neckwear and cravats were regarded with suspicion, as they made it difficult to identify drones. Poche also wore tweed; a length of it was tied in a waterfal knot about the dog’s neck. Aha, thought Alexia, the missing cravat! The creature greeted Alexia’s arrival with the expected vol ey of frenzied barking.
Alexia arranged herself at the table without direction from her host and, as he did not appear to care one way or the other, she began helping herself to the repast. Today the infant-inconvenience wasn’t objecting to food. Buggery thing couldn’t make up its mind.
Madame Lefoux greeted her with a fond smile and Floote with a little nod.
“Sir,” said Alexia to their host.
“Good afternoon, Female Specimen.” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf did not look up from the open book and companion notepad upon which he was scribbling some complex formula.
Alexia scowled.
Whatever else might be said about Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf—and after his use of the term “abomination,” Alexia could certainly think of a good deal that she might say about him—he provided a decent spread. The food laid out for luncheon was light but tasty: roasted winter vegetables, cold poultry, bread that managed to be both crispy and fluffy, and a selection of flaky pastries. Alexia had extracted from the depths of her dispatch case some of the precious tea that Ivy had given her. It had survived the journey far better than anything else. She had also, after a moment’s consideration, transferred a smal emergency amount into one of the pockets of her parasol, just in case. Fortunately, milk remained a cross-cultural universal, and the tea managed to taste just as delicious as it might have back in England. This resulted in a pang of homesickness so acute that Alexia actual y did not speak for a good few minutes after the initial sip.
Madame Lefoux noticed her uncharacteristic silence.
“Are you feeling well , my dear?” The inventor placed a soft hand on Alexia’s upper arm.
Alexia started slightly and experienced an unacceptable well ing of tears. Real y, at her age! It seemed to have been a very long while since anyone touched her with genuine fondness. Air kisses and three-fingered pats on the head comprised the bulk of affectionate action in the Loontwil household, and had done since she was a child. It wasn’t until Conal had come into her life that Alexia became accustomed to physical intimacy. He enjoyed it immensely and had engaged in it with her at every possible opportunity. Madame Lefoux was not quite so aggressive, but she was French, and seemed to feel that verbal comfort ought to be companioned by a soothing caress.
Alexia leaned into the embrace. The hand around her shoulder was not large and cal oused, and Madame Lefoux smel ed of vanil a and engine oil, not open fields, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Oh, it is nothing. I was reminded of home there for one moment.” Alexia took another sip of the tea.
The German looked up at her curiously. “He did not treat you well ? The werewolf husband?”
“Not as such in the end,” Alexia prevaricated, never one to talk about personal matters with strange little Germans.
“Werewolves, ya. Difficult creatures. What is left of the soul is al violence and emotion. It is a wonder you English have managed to integrate them into society.”
Alexia shrugged. “I am under the impression the vampires are more difficult to handle.”
“Real y?”
Alexia, feeling she may have been traitorously indiscreet, grappled for the right way of phrasing it. “You know how vampires get, al high-up-mucky-mucky and I’m-older-than-thou.” She paused. “No, I suppose you do not know how they get, do you?”
“Mmm. I should have thought werewolves more an issue. With the running about in armies and the marrying of normal humans.”
“Wel my particular werewolf did turn out a bit difficult. But, to be fair, he was perfectly suitable right up until the end.” Alexia was painful y conscious that “perfectly suitable” was a rather understated way of putting it. Conal had been a model husband in his massive grumpy way: tender, except when it wasn’t necessary, and then rough until gentleness was cal ed for once more. She shivered slightly at the memories. He had also been loud and gruff and overprotective, but he had adored her. It had taken her a good deal of time before she believed that she was worth al that fierce affection he lavished upon her. To have it stolen away unjustly was that much more cruel.