Changeless

Alexia helped Tunstell to turn over so he was on his knees. She pointed a finger over the side of the dirigible autocratically. She made her voice as low and as tough as possible. “Tunstell, this is your Alpha speaking. Do as I tell you. You must regurgitate now.” Never in all her time had Alexia supposed she would someday be ordering someone to throw up their supper.

But the command in her voice seemed to get through to the claviger. Tunstell stuck his head under the rail and over the side of the dirigible and tried to retch.

“I can’t,” he said finally.

“You must try harder.”

“Regurgitation is an involuntary action. You cannot simply order me to do it,” replied Tunstell in a small voice.

“I most certainly can. Besides which, you are an actor.”

Tunstell grimaced. “I’ve never had cause to vomit onstage.”

“Well, if you do this, you shall know how if you need to in the future.”

Tunstell tried again. Nothing.

Madame Lefoux returned clutching a bottle of ipecac.

Alexia made Tunstell take a large gulp.

“Ivy, run and fetch a glass of water,” she ordered her friend, mostly to get her out of the way.

In moments, the emetic took effect. As unsavory as the supper had been to eat, it was even less pleasant going the other direction. Lady Maccon tried not to look or listen.

By the time Ivy returned with a goblet of water, the worst was over.

Alexia made Tunstell drink the entirety of the glass. They waited a full quarter of an hour more while his color returned, and he was finally able to attain an upright position.

Ivy was in a flutter over the whole incident, agitating about the recovering man with such vigor that Madame Lefoux was driven to desperate measures. She extracted a small flask from her waistcoat pocket.

“Have a little nip of this, my dear. Calm your nerves.” She handed it to Ivy.

Ivy nipped, blinked a couple times, nipped again, and then graduated from frantic to loopy. “Why, that burns all the way down!”

“Let’s get Tunstell to his room.” Alexia hoisted the redhead to his feet.

With Ivy walking backward before them and weaving side to side like an iced tea cake with delusions of shepherding, Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux managed to get Tunstell to his rooms and onto bed.

By the time all the excitement had ended, Lady Maccon found she had lost her appetite entirely. Nevertheless, appearances must be kept up, so she returned to the dining cabin with Ivy and Madame Lefoux. She was in a mental quandary: why on earth, or in aether for that matter, would someone try to kill Tunstell?

Ivy walked into one or two walls on their way back.

“What did you give her?” Alexia hissed to the inventor.

“Just a bit of cognac.” Madame Lefoux’s dimples flashed.

“Very effective stuff.”

The rest of the meal passed without incident, if one ignored Ivy’s evident inebriation, which occasioned two spills and one bout of hysterical giggling. Alexia was about to rise and excuse herself when Madame Lefoux, who had been silent throughout most of the postpurge meal, spoke to her.

“Do you think you might take a little turn with me about the ship before bed, Lady Maccon? I should like a private word,” she asked politely, dimples safely stored away.

Not entirely surprised, Alexia acquiesced, and the two left Felicity to sort out after-dinner activities on her own.

As soon as they were alone, the inventor got straight to the point. “I do not think the poison was meant for Tunstell.”

“No?”

“No. I believe it was meant for you, secreted in the first dish that you turned away and Tunstell consumed in your stead.”

“Ah, yes, I recall. You may be right.”

“What a strange temperament you have, Lady Maccon, to accept near-death so easily as that.” Madame Lefoux tilted her head to one side.

“Well, the whole episode does make far more sense that way.”

“It does?”

“Why, yes. I cannot imagine Tunstell has many enemies, but people are always trying to exterminate me.” Lady Maccon was relieved and strangely comfortable with this revelation, as though things were not right with the universe unless someone was actively trying to kill her.

“Do you have a suspect?” the inventor wanted to know.

“Aside from you?” Lady Maccon shot back.

“Ah.”

The Frenchwoman turned away, but not before Alexia spotted a little tinge of hurt in her eyes. Either she was a good actress or she was not guilty.

“I am sorry to offend,” said Lady Maccon, not sorry in the least. She followed the inventor over to the rail, leaning on it next to her. The two women stared out into the evening aether.

“I am not upset that you think me capable of poison, Lady Maccon. I am offended you should think I would be so ham-handed with it. Had I wished you dead, I have had ample opportunity and access to numerous techniques far less clumsy than the one employed this evening.” She pulled a gold watch out of the pocket of her vest and pressed a little catch on the back. A small injection needle sprang out of the bottom.

Alexia did not ask what was in the needle.

Madame Lefoux folded it back in and tucked the watch away once more.

Alexia took a long assessing look at the amount and type of jewelry the Frenchwoman wore. Her two cravat pins were in place, one wood, one silver. And there was another chain leading to her other vest pocket. A different kind of watch, or some other gadget, perhaps? The buttoner pin seemed suddenly suspicious, as did the metal cigar case tucked into the band of her top hat. Come to think on it, Alexia had never seen the woman smoke a cigar.

“True,” said Alexia, “but the primitive nature of the attempt could be to throw me off the scent.”

“You are of a suspicious inclination, are you not, Lady Maccon?” The Frenchwoman still did not look at her but seemed to find the cold night sky infinitely fascinating.

Lady Maccon came over philosophical. “Possibly that has something to do with having no soul. I prefer to think of it as pragmatism rather than paranoia.”

Madame Lefoux laughed. She turned toward Alexia, dimples back.

And just like that, something solid hit Alexia hard across the back at exactly the correct angle to tilt her forward and over the railing. She tumbled, ass over teakettle, right over the edge of the deck. She felt herself falling, and screaming, scrabbling with both hands for purchase on the side of the dirigible. Why was the darn thing so smooth? The carrier body of the dirigible was shaped like a huge duck, and the observation deck was at its fattest point. In falling down, she was also falling away.

There was a horrible long moment when Alexia knew all was lost. She knew that all her future held in store was the long cold rush of aether and then air followed by a sad, wet thud. And then she was stopped with an abrupt jerk and flipped upside down, her head crashing hard into the side of the ship. The reinforced metal hem of her dress, designed to keep her copious skirts from floating about in the aether breezes, had wrapped fast around a spur that stuck out of the side of the ship two decks down, part of the docking mechanism.

She hung, suspended, her back against the ship’s side. Carefully, cautiously, she twisted, climbing her own body with her hands, seeking out the spur of metal, until she could wrap her arms around it. She reflected that this was probably the first and last time in her life she would have cause to value the ridiculous fashions society foisted upon her sex. She realized she was still screaming and stopped, slightly embarrassed with herself. Her mind became a blur of worries. Could she trust in the security of the little metal spur to which she now clung? Was Madame Lefoux safe? Had her parasol fallen over the edge with her?

She took several calming breaths and assessed the situation: not dead yet, but not precisely safe either. “Halooo,” she called out. “Anyone? A little assistance if you would be so kind.”