Without further ado, the man placed the wand into his mouth, closing his lips about the rubber stopper. No change occurred. The machine continued to emit the same metal ic clicking noise.
“It is stil registering.”
The preceptor removed the wand. “Exactly!” He careful y wiped the wand down with a smal piece of cloth soaked in some kind of yel ow alcohol. “Now, My Soul ess One, if you would be so kind?”
Eyebrows arched with interest, Alexia took the wand and did as he had done, closing her lips about the end. The wand tasted pleasantly of some sweetened lemony liquor. Whatever the preceptor had used to clean it was mighty tasty. Distracted by the taste, it took Alexia a moment to notice that the clicking noise had entirely stopped.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Madame Lefoux, perhaps not so wary as she should have been over her use of religious language in the house of Christ’s most devout warriors.
“Merph!” said Alexia with feeling.
“Wel , then, it cannot possibly be registering aether. Aether is around and inside of everything, perhaps in more minor quantities groundside than it is up in the aether-atmospheric layer, but it is here. To silence it like that, Alexia would have to be dead.”
“Merph,” agreed Alexia.
“So we have previously thought.”
Alexia was moved by a need to speak and so removed the wand from her mouth.
The device began ticking again. “Are you saying the soul is composed of aether? That is practical y a sacrilegious concept.” She cleaned the end as the preceptor had done, with more of the yel ow alcohol, and passed it to Madame Lefoux.
Madame Lefoux turned the wand about, examining it with interest before popping it into her own mouth. It continued ticking. “Merfeaux” was her considered opinion.
The preceptor’s flat, blank eyes did not stop staring at Alexia. “Not exactly. More that the lack of a soul is characterized by increased absorption of ambient aetheric particles into the skin, much in the way that a vacuum sucks air in to fil its void. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf has theorized for years that preternatural abilities are the result of a lack of internal y produced aether, and to compensate, the preternatural body seeks to absorb ambient aether from the outside. He invented this machine to test the theory.”
Floote shifted slightly from his customary stance near the door, then stil ed.
“When it is in my mouth, it detects nothing because I have nothing to detect?
Because I am absorbing it al through my skin instead?”
“Precisely.”
Madame Lefoux asked brightly, “So could this device detect excess soul?”
“Sadly, no. Only the absence of soul. And since most preternaturals are registered with the local government, or are at least known, such an instrument is mainly useless except to confirm identity. As I have just done with you, My Soul ess One. I must say, your presence presents me with a bit of a conundrum.” He took the wand back from Madame Lefoux, cleaned it once more, and switched the machine off. It let out one little wheeze and then the metal ic clicking noise stopped.
Alexia stared at it while the preceptor capped the wand with the little glass jar and then covered the machine with the white linen cloth. It was odd to encounter an instrument that existed solely for one purpose—to tel the world that she was different.
“What do you Templars cal that little device?” Alexia was curious, for he had specified that “aether absorption counter” was Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s name for it.
The preceptor did not flinch. “A daemon detector, of course.”
Alexia was decidedly taken aback. “Is that what I am?” She turned to look accusingly at Madame Lefoux. “You would tel me if I suddenly developed a forked red tail, wouldn’t you?”
Madame Lefoux pursed her lips provocatively. “Would you like me to check under your skirts?”
Alexia backpedaled hurriedly. “On second thought, I think I should notice such a protuberance myself.”
Floote wrinkled one corner of his nose in a remarkably understated sneer. “You are a daemon to them, madam.”
“Now, gentlemen.” Madame Lefoux leaned back, crossed her arms, and dimpled at them al . “Be fair. The last I heard was that the church was referring to preternaturals as devil spawn.”
Alexia was confused. “But you gave me a bed… and this rather excitable nightgown… and a robe. That is hardly the way to treat devil spawn.”
“Yes, but you can see why none of the brothers would talk to you.” Madame Lefoux was clearly finding this part of the conversation amusing.
“And you understand the nature of our difficulty with your presence among us?” The preceptor seemed to think this fact obvious.
Floote interjected, his tone gruff. “You have found good use for her kind before, sir.”
“In the past,” the preceptor said to Floote, “we rarely had to deal with females, and we had the daemons control ed and isolated from the rest of the Order.”
Floote acted as though the Templar had inadvertently given up some vital piece of information. “In the past, sir? Have you given up your breeding program?”
The man looked thoughtful y at Alessandro Tarabotti’s former valet and bit his lip as if wishing he could retract the information. “You have been gone from Italy a long time, Mr.
Floote. I am under the impression that England’s Sir Francis Galton has some interest in expanding our initial research. ‘Eugenics,’ he is cal ing it. Presumably, he would need a method of measuring the soul first.”
Madame Lefoux sucked in her breath. “Galton is a purist? I thought he was a progressive.”
The Templar only blinked disdainful y at that. “Perhaps we should pause at this juncture. Would you like to see the city? Florence is very beautiful even at this time of year, if a trifle”—he glanced at Alexia—“orange. A little walk along the Arno, perhaps? Or would you prefer a nap? Tomorrow I have a smal jaunt planned for your entertainment. I think you wil enjoy it.”
Apparently their audience with the preceptor had ended.
Alexia and Madame Lefoux took the hint.
The Templar looked at Floote. “I trust you can find your way back to your rooms? You wil understand, it is impossible for me to ask a sanctified servant or brother to escort you.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, sir.” Floote led the way from the room in what might have been, for him, a huff.
They began the long trek back to their quarters. The Florentine Temple was indeed vast. Alexia would have gotten hopelessly lost, but Floote appeared to know where to go.
“Wel , he was certainly very chatty.”
Floote glanced at his mistress. “Too chatty, madam.” Floote’s walk was stiff—wel , stiffer than normal—which meant he was upset about something.
“And what does that mean?” Madame Lefoux, who had been distracted by a crude black onyx statue of a pig, trotted to catch up.
“He does not intend to let us go, madam.”
“But he just offered to al ow us to explore Florence on our own.” Alexia was getting ever more confused by the highly contrary nature of these Templars and by Floote’s opinion of them. “We would be fol owed, you believe?”
“Without question, madam.”
“But why would they have anything to do with me? If they see me as some kind of soul-sucking daemon of spiritual annihilation?”
“The Templars couple war with faith. They see you as incapable of salvation but stil useful to them. You are a weapon, madam.”
It was becoming evident that Floote had had far more exposure to the Templars than Alexia had previously thought. She had read many of her father’s journals, but clearly he had not written down everything.
“If it is dangerous for me here, why did you agree to the jaunt?”
Floote looked mildly disappointed with her. “Aside from not having a choice? You did insist on Italy. There are different kinds of danger, madam. After al , good warriors take particular care of their weapons. And the Templars are very good warriors.”
Alexia nodded. “Oh, I see. To stay alive, I must ensure they continue to think of me as such? I am beginning to wonder if proving to my bloody-minded husband that he is an imbecile is worth al this bother.”
They arrived at their rooms and paused in the hal way before dispersing.
“I do not mean to be cal ous, but I am finding I do not at al like this preceptor fel ow,”
declared Alexia firmly.
“Apart from the obvious, why is that?” Madame Lefoux asked.
“His eyes are peculiar. There is nothing in them, like an éclair without the cream fil ing. It’s wrong, lack of cream.”
“It is as good a reason as any not to like a person,” replied Madame Lefoux. “Are you quite certain you do not wish me to check for that tail?”
Alexia demurred. “Quite.” Sometimes she found the Frenchwoman’s flirtations unsettling.
“Spoilsport,” said the inventor wryly before retreating into her room. Before Alexia could go into her own, she heard a cry of anger emerge from her friend.
“Wel , this is unconscionable!”
Alexia and Floote exchanged startled looks.
A tirade of French outrage flowed out the stil partly open door.
Alexia knocked timidly. “Are you quite al right, Genevieve?”
“No, I am not! Imbeciles! Look what they have given me to wear!”
Alexia nosed her way in to find Madame Lefoux, a look of abject horror on her face, holding up a dress of pink gingham so covered in ruffles as to put Alexia’s nightgown to shame.
“It is an insult!”
Alexia decided her best move at this juncture was a retreat. “You’l let me know,” she said with a grin, pausing on the threshold, “if you need, perhaps, assistance with—oh, I don’t know—the bustle?”
Madame Lefoux gave her a dirty look, and Alexia departed in possession of the field, only to find, across her own bed, a dress of equal y layered outrageousness.
Really, she thought with a sigh as she pul ed it on, is this what they are wearing in Italy these days?
Her dress was orange.
Professor Randolph Lyal had been three nights and two days hunting with very little sleep. The only thing he’d gotten was a lead as to the whereabouts of Lord Akeldama’s stolen item, from a ghost agent in good standing assigned to tail the potentate—if one could use the word “tail” when referring to a vampire.
Professor Lyal had sent Lord Maccon off to explore the lead further, arranging it so that the Alpha thought it was his own idea, of course.
The Beta rubbed at his eyes and looked up from his desk. He wouldn’t be able to keep the earl in England much longer. He’d managed a series of investigative distractions and manipulations, but Alpha was Alpha, and Lord Maccon was restless knowing Alexia was out in the world being disappointed in him.
Keeping the earl active meant that Professor Lyal was stuck with the stationary work. He checked every day after sunset for a possible aethograph from Lady Maccon and spent much of the rest of his time reading through the oldest of BUR’s records. He’d had them extracted with much tribulation from the deep stacks, needing six forms signed in triplicate, a box of Turkish delights to bribe the clerk, and a direct order from Lord Maccon. The accounts stretched back to when Queen Elizabeth first formed BUR, but he’d been scanning through them most of the night, and there were few references to preternaturals, even less about any female examples of such, and nothing at al about their progeny.