Changeless

not bring a member of the pack.”

“Better not to anyway, seeing as this is someone else’s territory.”

A polite clearing of the throat occurred at that juncture, and the Maccons turned about to find Madame Lefoux hovering nearby.

“Ah, yes,” said Lady Maccon. “Madame Lefoux was also on board the dirigible with us. Quite unexpectedly.” She emphasized the last word for her husband’s benefit so that he might understand her concern over the inventor’s presence. “I believe you and my husband are already acquainted, Madame Lefoux?”

Madame Lefoux nodded. “How do you do, Lord Maccon?”

The earl bowed slightly and then shook Madame Lefoux’s hand, as he would a man. Lord Maccon’s opinion appeared to be that if Madame Lefoux dressed as a male, she should be treated as such. Interesting approach. Or perhaps he knew something Alexia did not.

Lady Maccon said to her husband, “Thank you for the lovely parasol, by the way. I shall put it to good use.”

“I never doubted that. I am a little surprised you have not already.”

“Who says I have not?”

“That’s my sweet, biddable little wife.”

Ivy said, surprised, “Oh, but Alexia is not sweet.”

Lady Maccon only grinned.

The earl seemed genuinely pleased to see the Frenchwoman. “Delighted, Madame Lefoux. You have business in Glasgow?”

The inventor inclined her head.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to visit Kingair? I just heard in town that the pack is experiencing some technical difficulties with its aethographic transmitter, newly purchased, secondhand.”

“Good Lord, husband. Does everyone have one but us?” his wife wanted to know.

The earl turned sharp eyes on her. “Why? Who else acquired one recently?”

“Lord Akeldama, of all people, and he has the latest model. Would you be very cross if I said I rather covet one myself?”

Lord Maccon reflected upon the state of his life wherein he had somehow gained a spouse who could not give a pig’s foot for the latest dresses out of Paris but who whined about not owning an aethographic transmitter. Well, at least the two were comparable obsessions so far as expense was concerned.

“Well, my little bluestocking bride, someone has a birthday coming up.”

Alexia’s eyes shone. “Oh, splendid!”

Lord Maccon kissed her softly on the forehead and then turned back to Madame Lefoux. “Well, can I persuade you to stop over at Kingair for a few days and ascertain if there is anything you can do to help?”

Alexia pinched her husband in annoyance. When would he learn to ask her about these things first?

Lord Maccon captured his wife’s hand in one big paw and shook his head ever so slightly at her.

The inventor frowned, a little crease in her creamy forehead. Then, as though the crease had never been, the dimples appeared, and she accepted the invitation.

Alexia managed only a brief, private word with her husband as they piled their luggage into two hired carriages.

“Channing says the werewolves couldn’t change all the boat ride over.”

Her husband blinked at her, startled. “Really?”

“Oh, and Lyall says the plague is moving northward. He thinks it beat us to Scotland.”

Lord Maccon frowned. “He thinks it’s something to do with the Kingair Pack, doesn’t he?”

Alexia nodded.

Strangely, her husband grinned. “Good, that gives me an excuse.”

“Excuse for what?”

“Showing up on their doorstep; they’d never let me in otherwise.”

“What?” Alexia hissed at him. “Why?” But they were interrupted by Tunstell’s return and unparalleled excitement at seeing Lord Maccon.

The rented carriages rattled down the track to Kingair in ever-growing darkness. Alexia was bound to either silence or inanities by the presence of Ivy and Madame Lefoux in their carriage. It was too dark and rainy to see much outside the window, a fact that upset Ivy.

“I did so want to see the Highlands,” said Miss Hisselpenny. As though there would be some sort of line, drawn on the ground, that indicated transition from one part of Scotland to the next. Miss Hisselpenny had already commented that Scotland looked a lot like England, in a tone of voice that suggested this a grave error on the landscape’s part.

Inexplicably tired, Alexia dozed, her cheek resting on her husband’s large shoulder.

Felicity, Tunstell, and Angelique rode in the other carriage, emerging with an air of chummy gaiety that confused Alexia and tormented Ivy. Felicity was flirting shamelessly, and Tunstell was doing nothing to dissuade her. But the sight of Castle Kingair dampened everyone’s spirits. As if to compound matters, as soon as they and all their luggage had alighted and the carriages trundled off, the rain began to descend in earnest.

Castle Kingair was like something out of a Gothic novel. Its foundation was a huge rock that jutted out over a dark lake. It put Woolsey Castle to shame. There was the feel of real age about the place, and Alexia would bet good money that it was a drafty, miserably old-fashioned creature on the inside.

First, however, it appeared that they would have to get past a drafty, miserably old-fashioned creature on the outside.

“Ah,” said Lord Maccon upon seeing the reception committee of one, standing, arms crossed, outside the castle front gates. “Gird your loins, my dear.”

His wife looked up at him, her wet hair falling from its fancy arrangement. “I do not think you should be discussing my loins just now, husband,” she said in a sprightly manner.

Miss Hisselpenny, Felicity, and Madame Lefoux came to stand next to them, shivering in the rain, while Tunstell and Angelique began organizing the baggage.

“Who is that?” Ivy wanted to know.

The personage stood shrouded in a long, shapeless plaid cloak, face shadowed under a beaten coachman’s hat of oiled leather that had seen better days and barely survived them.

“One might well ask instead, what is that?” corrected Felicity, her nose wrinkled in disgust, her parasol raised ineffectually against the deluge.

The woman—for upon closer inspection, the personage did appear to be, to some slight degree, of the female persuasion—did not move forward to greet them. Nor did she offer them shelter. She simply stood and glared. And her glaring was most definitely centered on Lord Maccon.

They approached cautiously.

“You’re nae welcome here, Conall Maccon, you ken!” she yelled, long before they were within any reasonable conversational distance. “Hie yourself back away now afore you be fighting all what’s left of this here pack.”

Under the shade of the hat, she appeared to be of middling years, handsome but not pretty, with strong features and coarse thick hair, tending toward gray. She boasted the general battle-ax demeanor of an especially strict governess. This was the kind of woman who took her tea black, smoked cigars after midnight, played a mean game of cribbage, and kept a bevy of repulsive little dogs.

Alexia liked her immediately.

The woman shouldered a rifle with consummate skill and pointed it at Lord Maccon.

Alexia liked her less.

“And dinna be thinking you can change on me. Pack’s been free of yon werewolf’s curse for months, since we started out across the sea.”

“Which would be why I’m here, Sidheag.” Lord Maccon continued to advance. He was a good liar, her husband, thought Lady Maccon proudly.

“You be doubting these bullets be silver?”

“What matters that, if I’m as mortal as you?”

“Och, you always were a sharp one with the tongue.”