The cold aether rushed past her, wrapping a loving chill about her legs, which were protected now only by her underdrawers and were unused to such exposure. No one answered her call.
Only then did she realize that, despite the fact that she had stopped screaming, the screaming had not stopped. Above her, she could see the figure of Madame Lefoux struggling against a cloaked opponent against the white backdrop of the blimp. Whoever had pushed Alexia over the edge obviously intended Madame Lefoux to follow. But the inventor was putting up a good deal of fight. She was struggling valiantly, arms pinwheeling, top hat tilting frantically from side to side.
“Help!” Alexia cried, hoping someone might hear her above the racket.
The struggling continued. First Madame Lefoux, then the covert enemy, leaned back over the railing, only to twist aside at the last moment and fight on. Then Madame Lefoux jerked away, fumbling with something. There came the sound of a loud burst of compressed air. The whole dirigible jerked suddenly to one side.
Alexia’s grip loosened. She was distracted from the battle above by her own, more pressing, danger as she tried to reestablish her purchase on the helpful little spur.
The sound of forced air rang forth again, and the cloaked villain vanished from sight, leaving Madame Lefoux slumped back against the railing above. The dirigible lurched again, and Alexia let out a little
“Halloo! Madame Lefoux, a little assistance if you please!” she yelled up at the top of her voice. She had cause to appreciate her lung capacity and the vocal practice that living with a confrontational husband and a pack of unruly werewolves had given her.
Madame Lefoux turned and looked down. “Why, Lady Maccon! I was convinced you had fallen to your death! How wonderful that you are still alive.”
Alexia could barely make out what the Frenchwoman was saying. The inventor’s normally melodic voice was high and tinny, a helium-afflicted squeak. The inflation apparatus for the blimp must have developed a severe leak to be affecting voices all the way down to the observation deck.
“Well, I am not going to be here much longer,” yelled back Alexia.
The top hat nodded agreement. “Hold on, Lady Maccon, I shall fetch crewmen to collect you directly.”
“What?” yelled Alexia. “I cannot make you out at all. You have come over all squeaky.”
Madame Lefoux’s top hat and associated head disappeared from view.
Alexia entertained herself by concentrating on holding on as hard as she could and yelling a bit more for form’s sake. She was indebted to those few puffy clouds floating below her, for they obscured the distant ground. She did not want to know exactly how far she had to fall.
Eventually, a small porthole window popped open near one of her booted feet. A familiar ugly hat stuck out the tiny hole. The face wearing the hat tilted up and back and witnessed Alexia’s indecorous position.
“Why, Alexia Maccon, what
“Ivy. Assist me, would you?”
“I hardly see what I can do,” replied Miss Hisselpenny. “Really, Alexia, what could have possessed you to attach yourself to the side of the ship in such a juvenile fashion? It is positively barnacle-like.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ivy, it is not like I intended to end up this way.” Ivy tended toward dense, it was true, but alcohol evidently caused her to attain new heights of fatheadedness.
“Oh? Well, then. But honestly, Alexia, I do not mean to be boorish, but do you realize that your underdrawers are exposed to the night air, not to mention the public view?”
“Ivy, I am hanging on for dear life to the side of a floating dirigible, leagues up in the aether. Even you must admit there are some instances wherein protocol should be relaxed.”
“But why?”
“Ivy, I fell, obviously.”
Miss Hisselpenny blinked bleary dark eyes at her friend. “Oh, deary me, Alexia. Are you actually in real danger? Oh no!” Her head retreated.
Alexia wondered what it said about her character that Ivy had genuinely believed she would intentionally go climbing about the side of a floating dirigible.
Some sort of silky material was shoved out the window and up at her.
“What is that?”
“Why, my second-best cloak.”
Lady Maccon gritted her teeth.
“Ivy, did you miss the part where I am hanging, an inch from death? Do get help.”
The cloak vanished, and Miss Hisselpenny’s head reappeared. “As bad as that, is it?”
The dirigible lurched, and Alexia swayed to one side with a squeal of alarm.
Ivy fainted, or possibly passed out from the alcohol.
As was to be expected, it was Madame Lefoux who provided the rescue in the end. Mere moments after Ivy vanished from view, a long rope ladder flopped down next to Alexia. She was able, with some difficulty, to transfer her grip from the metal spur to the ladder and climb up. The steward, several worried crewmembers, and Madame Lefoux stood anxiously awaiting her ascent.
Strangely, once Lady Maccon had attained the deck, her legs no longer seemed to function as nature intended. She slid gracelessly onto the wooden deck.
“I think I might reside here for a moment,” she said after her third attempt to rise resulted only in wobbly knees and bones akin to jellyfish tentacles.
The steward, an immaculate if portly man dressed in a uniform of yellow canvas and fur, hovered about her in great concern, wringing his hands. He was clearly most upset that such a thing as a Lady of Quality falling off his craft had occurred. What would the company say if word got out? “Is there anything I can get you, Lady Maccon? Some tea perhaps, or something a little stronger?”
“Tea, I think, would be quite the restorative,” replied Alexia, mostly to get him to stop hovering about like a worried canary.
Madame Lefoux crouched down next to her. Yet another reason to envy the Frenchwoman her mode of dress. “Are you certain you are in good health, my lady?” Her squeaky voice had gone, the helium leak having apparently been fixed while Lady Maccon was rescued.
“I am finding myself less delighted by the height and notion of floating than I was at the onset of our journey,” replied Alexia. “But never mind that. Quickly now, before the steward returns, what happened after I fell? Did you see the attacker’s face, ascertain his purpose or intention?” She left off the “Were you in cahoots?” part of that question.
Madame Lefoux shook her head, looking serious. “The miscreant wore a mask and a long cloak; I could not even say with certainty if it was a male or a female. I do apologize. We struggled for a time, and eventually I managed to disentangle myself and get off a shot with the dart emitter. The first one missed and cut a hole through one of the dirigible helium ports, but the second caught our enemy a glancing blow to the side. Apparently that was sufficient to instill fear, for the attacker took flight and managed to escape mostly unharmed.”
“Bollix,” swore Lady Maccon succinctly. It was one of her husband’s favorite words, and she would normally never deign to use it, but current circumstances seemed to warrant its application. “And there are far too many crew and passengers on board to stage an inquest, even if I did not want to keep my preternatural state and role as muhjah a comparative secret.”
The Frenchwoman nodded.
“Well, I think I may be able to stand now.”
Madame Lefoux bent to help her up.
“Did I lose my parasol in the fall?”
The inventor dimpled. “No, it tumbled to the floor of the observation deck. I believe it is still there. Shall I have one of the hands bring it to your room?”
“Please.”
Madame Lefoux signaled to a nearby deckhand and sent him off to find the missing accessory.
Lady Maccon was feeling a little dizzy and was annoyed with herself for it. She had been through worse during the preceding summer and saw no reason to come over weak and floppy due to a mere dabbling with gravity.
