At the end, vampire queen Ivy returned to werewolf Tunstell’s arms after much separation and anxiety, and all was sweetness and light. The torches were dimmed and then raised, and the servants brought in extras to fill the room with an orange glow.
Alexia and the actors waited with bated breath. And then, oh, and then, the assembled vampires and drones rose to their feet crying out in adoration, trilling their tongues in a great cacophony of vibratory sound that could only be utter appreciation. Alexia even observed one or two of the vampires wipe away sentiment, and the beautiful drone with the amazing dark eyes was weeping openly.
The lady drone stood and rushed forward to congratulate Ivy and Tunstell with open arms. “That was wonderful! Wonderful! We have never seen such a performance. So complex, so brilliant. That dance with the yellow and black stripes, so perfectly articulating the emotion of immortality. How can words even begin to describe… so moving. We have been honored. Truly honored.”
Tunstell and Ivy and the entire troupe looked quite overwhelmed by such an enthusiastic reception. Both Tunstells blushed deeply and Mr. Tumtrinkle began to blubber in an excess of emotion.
The drone wafted over to Ivy and embraced her warmly. Then she linked one arm with Ivy’s and the other with Tunstell’s and guided them gently from the room. “You simply must tell me the meaning of that interpretive piece in the middle? Was that an illustration of the soul’s perpetual struggle with infinity, or a social commentary on the supernatural state in continuing conflict with the natural world as both host and food supply?”
Tunstell replied jovially, “A bit of both, of course. And did you notice the series of tiny leaps I performed stage right? Each one a hop in the face of eternity.”
“I did, I did, I did indeed.”
Thus agreeably conversing, they wandered down the hallway. There was a brief rustle of activity, and Ivy came bustling back, having extracted herself from her escort. She hurried into the room and made for Lady Maccon.
“Alexia,” she said in a significantly hushed tone. “Have you your ruffled parasol?”
Alexia, did, in fact, have her parasol with her. She had found over the years it was always better to be on the safe side when visiting a hive. She gestured to her hip where it dangled off of a chatelaine at her waist.
Ivy tilted her head and winked significantly.
“Oh,” said Alexia, making the connection. “Pray do not concern yourself, Ivy. Do go enjoy a well-earned repast. The parasol is fine.”
Ivy nodded in a slow, suggestive way. Feeling that her secret society duties had been satisfactorily discharged, she went bustling after her husband.
After a moment’s hesitation, the rest of the drones moved forward and introduced themselves, those who spoke English at least, to the acting troupe. After an exchange of pleasantries, mention of coffee was made, and they, too, were guided expertly from the room. This left Lord and Lady Maccon behind with Prudence and the six vampires.
Chancellor Neshi stood. “Are you ready now, My Queen?” he asked of the curtained off area.
No verbal response emanated from within, but the draped cloth twitched slightly.
Chancellor Neshi said, “Of course, my queen.” He gestured for Lord and Lady Maccon to stand and come to face the front of the draped parasol. Then he pulled aside the curtains, tying them back with gold cords to each side.
Had Alexia not spent a good deal of time in Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber prior to it being repurposed as a werewolf dungeon, she might have been startled by the contraption revealed. But she had seen an octomaton rampage through London. She had been attacked and then rescued by mechanical ladybugs. She had flown in an ornithopter from Paris to Nice. This was nothing by comparison. And yet, it was probably the most grotesque invention of the modern age. Worse than the disembodied hand in a jar under that temple in Florence. Worse than a dead body in an afterlife extension tank. Worse even than the wax-face horror of the Hypocras automaton. Because those creatures had all been dead or manufactured. What sat in the raised dais behind that curtain was still alive or still undead—at least in part.
She, for Alexia assumed it must be a she, sat atop what could only be called a throne. It was mostly made of brass. Its base was some kind of tank housing two levels of liquid, the bottom a bubbling mess of yellow that heated the upper composed entirely of a viscous red fluid that could only be blood. The arms of the throne were fitted with levers, nozzles, and tubes, some under the emaciated hands of the occupant, others going into or coming out of her arms. It was as though the woman and the chair had become one and not been separated for generations. Some parts of the chair were bolted directly into her flesh, and there was a bronze half mask covering the lower part of her face from nose to throat, presumably providing a constant supply of blood.
Only Lady Maccon’s good breeding kept her from committing the vile act of involuntary purging right then and there on the reed mat. There was something particularly horrific about knowing that, because the queen was immortal, all those places where the chair speared into her flesh must be constantly trying to heal themselves.
Chancellor Neshi did a most humiliating thing. He knelt upon the floor and bowed forward all the way to the ground, touching his forehead to the reed mat. Then he stood and waved Alexia and Conall farther forward. “My Queen, may I present Lady Maccon, Lord Maccon, and Lady Prudence. Maccons, may I present Queen Matakara Kenemetamen of Alexandria, Ruler of the Ptolemy Hive ad Infinitum, Lady Horus of Fine Gold in Perpetuity, Daughter of Nut, Oldest of the Vampires.”
With the lower half of her head concealed, it was difficult to determine Matakara’s exact appearance. Her eyes were large and very brown, too large in that emaciated face. She had the dark complexion of most native Egyptians, grown darker as it shrunk in against the bone, like that of a mummy. She had a blue wig atop her head and a snake coronet made of gold set with turquoise eyes on top of that. Over the parts of her body not attached to the throne, she wore simple white cotton draped and pleated stiffly and a quantity of gold and lapis jewelry.
Despite the grotesqueness of the contraption and the pathetic appearance of the woman confined within it, Alexia was hypnotized by those huge eyes. Rimmed in black kohl, they stared fixedly at her. Alexia was convinced the queen was trying to communicate with her a message of great import. And she, Alexia Maccon, was too thick to comprehend it. The expression in those eyes was one of immeasurable desperation and eternal misery.
Lord Maccon made his bow, removing his hat in a wide, sweeping gesture and doing a creditable job of it. He did not look as surprised by the queen’s appearance as Alexia felt, which made her wonder if BUR had received some kind of prior warning. She believed that she made a decent effort at disguising her own shock as she curtsied. Prudence, standing quietly by her side, hand firmly gripped in Alexia’s, glanced back and forth from monstrosity to mother before performing her own version of a half bow, half curtsy.
A sound of disgust emanated from the queen and her contraption.
“She wants you to bow,” hissed the chancellor.
“We just did.”
“No, Lady Maccon, all the way.”
Alexia was quite shocked. “Like an Oriental?” Her gown would barely permit kneeling and her corset certainly would not permit her to bow forward.
The earl looked equally taken aback.
“You are in the presence of royalty!”
“Yes,” Alexia agreed in principle, “but to kneel on the ground?”
“Do you know how many strangers the queen has allowed into her presence over the last few centuries?”
Lady Maccon could hazard a guess. After all, if she looked as bad as Matakara did… “Not a lot?”
“None at all. It is a great honor. And you should bow, properly. She is a great woman, an ancient lady, and she deserves your respect.”
“She does?”
Conall sighed. “When in Rome.”
“That’s just it, dear, we aren’t. We are in Alexandria.”
But it was too late; her husband had already swept off his hat a second time, knelt, and bowed forward.
“Oh, Conall, the knees of your trousers! Don’t put your head all the way down. We don’t know where that floor has been! Oh, now, Prudence, you don’t have to follow Daddy’s example. Oop, there she goes.”
Prudence had nothing like her mother’s reticence. Frilly yellow frock notwithstanding, she pitched forward and put her head to the ground with alacrity.
Feeling she was the last holdout, Alexia glared at her husband. “You’ll have to help me back up. I can’t possibly manage on my own without ripping my dress.” So saying, she knelt slowly down and tilted herself forward as much as her foundation garments would allow, which wasn’t very much. She nearly overbalanced to her left. Her corset creaked under the strain. Conall hoisted her back up, turning human for that one moment.
Chancellor Neshi went to stand next to his queen, on a pedestal of just the right height to bring his ear to her mouth area but ensuring he was no higher than she. The vampire queen spoke to him in a whisper. Alexia looked at her husband inquiringly, wondering if his supernatural hearing picked up anything.
“No language I know,” he said unhelpfully.
“The queen says that Europeans do everything wrong, writing from left to right, uncovering the head to enter a room yet leaving the feet confined.” Chancellor Neshi stood stiff-backed to state this, like a town crier, acting the mouthpiece for his queen. Then, without waiting for an answer to these accusations of backward behavior, he turned to listen once more.
“My queen wishes to know why all foreign children look the same.”
Alexia gestured with her free hand at her daughter, who was standing in unusual docility by her side. “Well, this particular child is Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama.”
“No,” said Prudence. No one listened. Prudence was to find this all too common in her young life.
Chancellor Neshi continued to speak for his queen. “Daughter of a hellhound, named for a soul-sucker and a bloodsucker. The queen wishes to know if she works.”
“Pardon?” Alexia was confused.
“Is she a Follower of Set? A Stealer of Souls?”
Lady Maccon considered. It was a fair question, of course, but Alexia was too much a scientist to answer in the affirmative. Instead she said carefully, “She manifests the abilities of a supernatural creature after having touched him, if that is what you are asking.”
“A simple yes would have sufficed, soul-sucker,” said the chancellor.
Lady Maccon looked hard into Queen Matakara’s sad eyes. “Yes, but it would not be true. Your names for her are not my names for her. Have you called my daughter and me here, Venerable One, simply to insult us?”
Chancellor Neshi bent to listen and then seemed to engage in a brief argument. Finally he said, “My queen wishes to be shown the truth.”
“What truth, exactly?”
“Your daughter’s gifts.”
“Oh, now wait a moment there!” interjected Conall.
“It can be tricky,” hedged Alexia.