Heartless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Fourth (30 page)

“Not a hat. Nothing to do with hats.” Lady Maccon was getting impatient.

“Yes, certainly, if madam would simply wait. I shall be at your service momentarily.”

Alexia sighed. This was getting her nowhere. She moved away from the counter and took a slow turn about the room, utilizing her parasol as a kind of cane and exaggerating her limp so that sympathy drove those ladies out of her way who did not already know her face and rank. This maneuver garnered her more attention, rather than less, and she was left with a distinct feeling of inertia.

Madame Lefoux’s hats were of the latest style, a number of them too daring for any save Ivy and her ilk. Cabinets displayed other accessories as well—mob caps, sleeping caps, hair pins, and bands all decorated beautifully. There were reticules of varying shapes and sizes; gloves; and dirigible accessories such as velvet ear protectors, skirt ties, weighted hem inserts, and the finest in color-tinted glass goggles. There was even a line of masquerade goggles trimmed with feathers and flowers. And, last but not least, a rack displaying Ivy Tunstell’s hairmuffs, designed for the fashionable young lady who wished to keep her hair untangled and her ears warm while still sporting the latest ringlets. They had gone somewhat out of favor recently, having enjoyed a brief spate of popularity during the winter months, but were still on display in deference to Mrs. Tunstell’s finer feelings.

Alexia completed her circuit of the shop and came to a decision. Given that any kind of stealth was out of the question, she must opt for her only alternative—making a fuss.

“Pardon me, miss.”

The same shopgirl was still rummaging behind the counter. Really, how long did it take to find a hatbox?

“
Yes,
madam, I will be right with you.”

Lady Maccon reached down inside herself for her most regal, difficult, aristocratic nature. “I will
not be ignored,
young lady!”

That got the girl’s attention. She actually turned around to see who this interfering female was.

“Do you know who I am?”

The young woman gave her the full once-over. “Lady Maccon?” she hazarded a guess.

“Indeed.”

“I had been warned to keep an eye out for you.”

“Warned? Warned! Were you, indeed? Well, now I am here and . . . and . . . ” She floundered. It was terribly hard to be angry when one wasn’t. “I have a very grave matter to discuss with your patroness.”

“I told you, madam, and I do apologize, but she is not available this evening, even for you.”

“Unacceptable!” Alexia was rather pleased with both the word choice and her execution. Very commanding, indeed!
That’s what living with werewolves will do for a girl. Now where to go from here?
“I’ll have you know I have been swindled! Absolutely swindled. I will have none of it. I shall call on the constabulary. You see if I don’t.”

By this time, Lady Maccon and the now-trembling shopgirl had attracted the attention of the entire establishment, both patrons and hire.

“I came here looking for hairmuffs. I hear they are
the thing
for dirigible travel, and I desire a set that matches my hair, and what do I find? Not a single pair of the appropriate shade. Where are they all?”

“Well, you see, madam, we are currently out of the darker colors. If madam would like to put in an order—”

“No, madam would
not
like! Madam would like a set of the hairmuffs right this very moment!” At this juncture, Alexia contemplated stamping her foot, but that was probably excessively dramatic, even for this audience.

Instead, she waddled over to the muff display stand near the shop window. She grabbed a cluster of her own curls, artfully arranged over the shoulder of her blue and green plaid visiting dress, and waved them at the stand.
Then she backed off as though physically repulsed by the mismatch.

“You see?” She stood away and pointed with the tip of her parasol at the offending hairmuffs.

The shopgirl did see. So, in fact, did all the other ladies present. What they saw was that Lady Maccon, only a few days from her confinement, had still extricated herself from bed and the bosom of her husband’s affection in order to come to this very shop to buy hairmuffs. They must, perforce, be
back en mode.
Lady Maccon, wife to the Earl of Woolsey, was known to fraternize with the trendsetters and fashion leaders of the ton. She herself might prefer more practical garb, especially in her present state, but if she was buying hairmuffs, then Lord Akeldama approved the accessory. If Lord Akeldama approved, then the vampires approved, and if the vampires approved, well, that was simply it: hairmuffs must be
the living end.

Suddenly, every lady in that shop had to have a set of Mrs. Tunstells’
Hairmuffs for the Elevated Lady Traveler.
They all stopped admiring whatever hat they were fawning over and swarmed the little stand. Even those who had absolutely no intention of ever setting foot on board a dirigible suddenly were in a mad passion to own hairmuffs. For what became fashionable for floating descended to the ground—witness the craze for decorative goggles.

Lady Maccon was swarmed by a gaggle of bustled and trussed ladies, all grabbing for the muffs, squealing at each other while they tried desperately to snatch the colors that matched their own coiffures. There was even a little pushing and some shortness of breath. It was practically a rout.

The shopgirls obligingly descended into the milieu as
well, notepads out, trying to convince the ladies not to purchase right away but to place an order for the appropriate color and perhaps multiple styles and different-size ringlets as well.

In the resulting chaos, Lady Maccon extracted herself and lurched, as stealthily as was within her limited capacity, to the very back of the shop. Here, in a shadowed corner under an attractive display of gloves, was the handle to the entrance to the ascension chamber. She activated it, the hidden door swinging quietly open. Alexia noted with relief that the chamber was already at the upper level waiting for her. She clambered inside, drawing the door to the shop closed behind her.

After many months of friendship, not to mention parasol maintenance and aethographor repairs, Alexia was more than familiar with the operation of Madame Lefoux’s ascension chamber. What once had upset her stomach and frightened her was now standard procedure on her visiting rounds. She flipped the lever that operated the windlass machine and did not even stumble when the contraption landed with a jarring thud.

Lady Maccon waddled down the passageway and thumped loudly at the contrivance chamber door.

Silence.

Figuring that Madame Lefoux probably could not hear her knock, for inside the chamber was always a cacophony of mechanical noises, she let herself in.

It took her a long moment of scanning over all the piles of machinery, but she eventually became convinced that Madame Lefoux really was not in residence. Nor was her new contraption. The shopgirl had not lied in the interest of social niceties. Madame Lefoux was definitely unavailable.
Alexia pursed her lips. Genevieve had said something about relocating in order to put the finishing touches to the latest invention. Alexia debated trying to remember where and following her there or simply leaving the papers behind.
They’ll probably be safe enough.
She placed them on a nearby metal tabletop and was about to depart when she heard something.

Alexia had no werewolf’s hearing to be able to note some strange noise among the rattling, humming, hissing clatter. Even without the Frenchwoman in residence, some machines never ceased their activity. But she definitely heard another sound, an underlying keen to the rattles that might, or might not, be human in origin.

It might also be a very excited mouse.

Lady Maccon contemplated not getting involved. She also contemplated not using her parasol—after all, some of the machines in that chamber might be engaged in some delicate feat of manufacturing that could not afford to be paused midclatter. In Alexia’s case, contemplation was never signified by more than a pause before performing the action she would have taken, contemplation or no.

She took her parasol firmly in hand, raised it high above her head, and activated the magnetic disruption emitter by pulling down on the appropriate lotus leaf in the handle with her thumb.

Silence descended—the unnatural silence of work stilled midmotion. If Alexia had been a fanciful girl, she would have said it was like time freezing, but she wasn’t, so she didn’t. She merely listened for the one sound that didn’t stop.

It came, a low keening wail, and Alexia realized that
she was familiar with just such a noise. Not a sound made by the living, but still a sound
made
rather than a sound
manufactured.
It was the intermittent sharp cry of second-death, and Alexia had a pretty good guess as to who was suffering it.

F
ormerly Lefoux. Formerly Lefoux, is that you?” Alexia tried to make her voice gentle.

The silence stretched and then the faraway screaming came again.

There was something inexorably sad about the sound, as though it were that much worse to die a second time. It moved even Lady Maccon’s practical heart. “Formerly Lefoux, please, I will not harm you. I promise. I can bring you peace, if you would like, or simply be here with you. I promise, no soulless touch unless you request it. Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing I could do. I don’t even know where your body is kept.”

The magnetic disruption wore off at that juncture, and the contrivance chamber sprang back into humming, clanking motion. Right next to Alexia’s head, a contraption that looked like a tuba, a sleigh, and a mustache trimmer cobbled together let out the most amazing sound of
reverberating flatulence. Lady Maccon started in disgust and moved hurriedly away.

“Please, Formerly Lefoux, I should very much like to ask you something. I need your help.”

The ghost materialized into existence out of a massive glass valve to Alexia’s left. Or, more properly, she materialized as much as she was able into existence, which wasn’t all that much anymore. Bits of her were now drifting off in spiraling fuzzy tendrils. Her shape was no longer human, but more cloudlike, as little wisps of her noncorporeal form fought against the aether currents. Many of those currents were now centered in on Lady Maccon, so the ghostly parts were carried toward Alexia. The vampires called preternaturals
soul-suckers,
but science was coming around to thinking of them more as aether absorbers. This particular phenomenon of her physiology was only really visible when she shared the room with a dying ghost.

“Soulless!” screamed Formerly Lefoux once she had found her voice, or possibly, found her voice box. She spoke in French. “Why are you here? Where is my niece? What has she done? What have you done? Where is the octomaton? What. What? Who is that screaming? Is that me? How can that be me
and
this be me, talking to you? You. Soulless? What are you doing here? Where is my niece?”

It was like some broken symphony destined to repeat the same few lines of music over and over again. The ghost was caught up in a loop of reasoning. Periodically, Formerly Lefoux interrupted herself to cry out, a long low moan of agony to accompany the wail of second-death. Whether it was pain of the spirit or pain in truth was
difficult to tell, but it sounded to Alexia not unlike poor Biffy being forced into werewolf shift.

Alexia straightened her spine. Before her lay her preternatural duty, staring her in the face. That didn’t occur very often. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have asked Genevieve for permission, but the inventor was gone. She had abandoned her poor aunt in this state. The ghost was suffering.

“Formerly Lefoux,” she said politely, “I am in the unique position to offer you . . . that is, I could . . . Oh, dash it, would you like an exorcism?”

“Death? Death! Are you asking me if I want death, soulless? To not exist at all.” The ghost twirled like a child’s toy, spiraling all the way up to the beams of the contrivance chamber ceiling. The tendrils of her fleshless body swirled around like the feathers of one of Ivy’s more excitable hats. Floating far above, the ghost became contemplative. “I have served my time. I have taught. Not many get to say that. I have touched lives. I have finished them all. And I have done it after I died as well.” She paused and drifted back down. “Not that I like children all that much. What can a ghost do? When my niece, my lovely intelligent girl, became enamored of that awful woman. All I taught her was gone. Then the boy. Just like his mother. Devious. Who thought I should end up teaching a boy child? And now. Look what it has all come to. Death. My death, and a soulless offering me succor. Unnatural. All of it. Preternatural girl, what good are you to me?”