Changeless

some sort of ill-designed and asymmetrical quilt. The two were whispering to each other heatedly.

Lady Maccon cursed the wind of air travel, for it carried their words away before reaching her, and she would have dearly loved to know what was being said. She thought of her dispatch case. Had Floote packed any listening mechanicals?

Deciding there was nothing else for it but a direct frontal attack, Alexia moved as quietly as possible across the deck, hoping to catch some part of the conversation before they noticed her presence. She was in luck.

“… assume proper responsibility,” Madame Lefoux was saying in French.

“Cannot happen, not yet.” Angelique moved closer to the other woman, placing small, pleading hands on the inventor’s arm. “Please do not ask it of me.”

“Better happen soon or I’ll tell. You know I will.” Madame Lefoux tossed her head, top hat tilting dangerously but staying in place, as it was tied on for travel. She shrugged off the blond woman’s grip.

“Soon, I promise.” Angelique pressed herself against the inventor’s side and nested her head on the other woman’s shoulder.

Again Madame Lefoux shrugged her off. “Games, Angelique. Games and fancying up a lady’s hair. That is all you have now, isn’t it?”

“It is better than selling hats.”

Madame Lefoux rounded on the maid at that, gripping the woman’s chin in her hand, one set of goggle- covered eyes meeting another. “Did she really kick you out?” Her tone was both vicious and disbelieving.

Lady Maccon was close enough by then to meet her maid’s big violet eyes behind the plain brass goggles when the girl looked away. Angelique started at the appearance of her mistress, and her eyes filled with tears. With a little sob, she cast herself at Lady Maccon so that Alexia had no choice but to catch her.

Alexia was disturbed. Even though she was French, Angelique was rarely given to displays of emotion. Angelique composed herself, hurriedly withdrew from her mistress’s arms, bobbed a curtsy, and rushed away.

Alexia had liked Madame Lefoux, but she could hardly condone her distressing the domestic staff. “The vampires rejected her, you know. It is a sensitive subject. She does not like to talk about the hive giving her up to me.”

“I wager she doesn’t.”

Lady Maccon bristled. “Any more than you would tell me the real reason you are on board this dirigible.” The Frenchwoman would have to learn: a pack protected its own. Alexia might only be pack by proxy, but Angelique was still in its service.

Green eyes met her brown ones for a long moment. Two sets of goggles were no impediment, but Lady Maccon could not interpret that expression. Then the inventor reached up and stroked the back of her hand down the side of Alexia’s face. Alexia wondered why the French were so much more physically affectionate than the English.

“Did you and my maid have some kind of association in the past, Madame Lefoux?” Alexia asked, not responding to the touch, although it made her face feel hot even in the cold aether wind.

The inventor dimpled. “We did once, but I assure you I am currently free of all such entanglements.” Was she being purposefully obtuse? She moved closer.

Alexia, always blunt, cocked her head to one side and asked, “Who are you working for, Madame Lefoux? The French government? The Templars?”

The inventor backed away slightly, strangely upset by the question. “You misconstrue my presence here, Lady Maccon. I assure you, I work only for myself.”

“I would not trust her if I were you, my lady,” said Angelique, fixing Alexia’s hair before supper that evening. The maid was ironing it straight with a specially provided steam iron, much to both their disgust. Straight and loose was Ivy’s idea. Miss Hisselpenny had insisted Alexia be the one to try the fancy iron invention out, because Alexia was married and could suffer the burden of risky hair.

“Is there something I should know, Angelique?” Lady Maccon asked gently. The maid so rarely offered up an opinion that was not fashion related.

Angelique paused in her ministrations, her hand fluttering a moment about her face as only the French could flutter. “Only zat I knew her before I became drone, in Paris.”

“And?”

“And we did not part with ze friendly terms. A matter, how do you say, personal.”

“Then I would not dream of prying further,” replied Alexia, dearly wishing to pry.

“She did not say anything about me to you, my lady?” the maid asked. Her hand went up to stroke the high collar about her neck.

“Nothing of consequence,” replied Lady Maccon.

Angelique did not look convinced. “You do not trust me, do you, my lady?”

Alexia looked up in surprise, meeting Angelique’s eyes in the looking glass. “You were drone to a rove, but you also served the Westminster Hive. Trust is a strong word, Angelique. I trust that you will do my hair to the height of fashion and that your taste should govern my own disinterest in the matter. But you cannot ask me for more than that.”

Angelique nodded. “I see. So it iz not something Genevieve said?”

“Genevieve?”

“Madame Lefoux.”

“No. Should it be?”

Angelique lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“You will tell me nothing more about your previous relationship?”

Angelique remained silent but her face seemed to indicate that she thought this inquiry excessively personal.

Lady Maccon excused her maid and went to find her little leather journal, the better to collect her thoughts and make a few notations. If she suspected Madame Lefoux of being a spy, she ought to jot this down, along with her reasoning. Part of the purpose of the notebook was to leave adequate record should anything untoward happen to her. She had commenced the practice upon assuming her position as muhjah, though she used the journal for personal notes, not state secrets. Her father’s journals had proved helpful on more than one occasion. She would like to think her own might be of equal assistance to future generations. Although probably not in quite the same way as Alessandro Tarabotti’s. She didn’t go in for recording that type of information.

The stylographic pen was where she had left it, on the nightstand, but her notebook had vanished. She checked all about—under the bed, behind the furniture—but could find it nowhere. With a sinking feeling, she went looking for her dispatch case.

A knock came at her door, and before she could come up with some excuse to keep the visitor at bay, Ivy trotted into the room. She looked flushed and nervous, her hat of the day a floof of black lace draped over masses of dark side curls, the earmuffs underneath only visible because Ivy was tugging at them.

Alexia paused in her hunt. “Ivy, what is wrong? You look like a perturbed terrier with an ear mite problem.”

Miss Hisselpenny cast herself dramatically facedown on Alexia’s small bed, clearly in some emotional distress. She mumbled into the pillow. Her voice was suspiciously high.

“Ivy, what is wrong with your voice? Have you been up in engineering, on the Squeak Deck?” Since the dirigible maintained buoyancy through the application of helium, it was a legitimate assumption for any vocal abnormalities.

“No,” squeaked Ivy. “Well, maybe for a short while.”

Lady Maccon stifled a laugh. Really, it was too absurd-sounding. “Who were you up there with?” she inquired archly, although she could very well hazard a guess.

“No one,” squeak, squeak. “Well, in actuality, I mean to say, I might have been with… uh… Mr. Tunstell.”

Lady Maccon snickered. “I wager he sounded pretty funny too.”

“A slight leak occurred while we were up there. But there was grave need for a small moment of privacy.”

“How romantic.”