Changeless

might do such things voluntarily with one another and do so with some degree of romantic love. Was this possible?

She did not realize she had voiced this last question aloud.

The ghost snorted. “All I can say iz, I am certain she loved me, at one time.”

Lady Maccon began to see much more in the inventor’s actions and comments over the past week than she had originally. “You are a hard little thing, aren’t you, Angelique?”

“What a waste of your last question, my lady. We all become what we are taught to be. You are not so hard as you would like. What will that husband of yours say, when he finds out?”

“Finds out what?”

“Oh, you really do not know? I thought you were playacting.” The ghost laughed, a genuine laugh, harsh and directed at the confusion and future misery of another.

“What? What do I not know?”

“Oh no, I have fulfilled my half of the bargain. Ten questions, fairly answered.”

Alexia sighed. It was true. She reached forward, albeit reluctantly, to perform her very first exorcism. Odd that the government had known of her preternatural state for her whole life, had recorded her in the BUR Files of Secrecy and Import as the only preternatural in all of London, yet never used her in her kind’s most common capacity—that of exorcist. Odd, too, that her first use of this ability should be at a ghost’s request, in the Highlands of Scotland. And odd, last of all, that it should be so dreadfully easy.

She simply laid her hand upon Angelique’s broken body, performing the literal application of the term laying the body to rest. As quick as that, the ghostly form disappeared, tethers broken, and all excess soul was terminated. With no living body to call it back when Alexia raised her hands, it was gone forever: complete and total disanimus. The soul could never return, as it did with werewolves and vampires. With the body dead, such a return was fatal. Poor Angelique, she might have been immortal, had she made different choices.

Lady Maccon found a very strange scene when she made her way back inside the castle and up the stairs into the mummy room. Tunstell was awake, his shoulder and upper arm bandaged with a red-checked handkerchief of Ivy’s origination, and he was busy applying a good deal of excellent brandy to his mouth as a curative addendum. Miss Hisselpenny was kneeling next to him, cooing unhelpfully, having recovered her senses, at least enough to attain wakefulness, if not actual sense.

“Oh, Mr. Tunstell, how exceedingly brave you were, coming to my rescue like that. So heroic,” she was saying. “Imagine if it got known that I had been knifed by a maid, a French maid, no less? Had I died, I should never have lived it down! How can I possibly thank you enough?”

Madame Lefoux stood next to Lord Maccon, looking composed, if a little drawn about the eyes and mouth, her dimples secured away for the time being. Alexia could not interpret this expression. She was not yet confident in the inventor’s trustworthiness. Madame Lefoux had entertained some considerable vested interest in the proceedings from the start. Not to mention that suspicious octopus tattoo. If nothing else, Alexia’s experience with the bedeviled scientists of the Hypocras Club had taught her not to trust octopuses.

She strode up to the Frenchwoman and said, “Angelique has had her say. It is time, Madame Lefoux, for you to do the same. What did you really want—simply Angelique or something more? Who was trying to poison me on board the dirigible?” Without pause, she turned her attention onto Tunstell, eyeing his wound critically. “Did he get vinegar put on that?”

“Had?” Madame Lefoux asked, apparently grappling with only one of the many words Lady Maccon had uttered. “Did you say had? Is she dead, then?”

“Angelique?”

Teeth nibbling fretfully at her bottom lip, the Frenchwoman nodded.

“Quite.”

Madame Lefoux did the most curious thing. She opened her green eyes wide, as though in surprise. And then, when that did not seem to help, turned her dark head aside and began to cry.

Lady Maccon envied her the skill of crying with aplomb. She herself went allover splotchy, but Madame Lefoux seemed to be able to execute the emotional state with minimal fuss: no gulps, no sniffles, just silent fat tears falling down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. It seemed all the more painfully sad, immersed in unnatural silence.

Lady Maccon, never one to be moved by sentiment, cast her hands up to heaven. “Oh, by glory, what now?”

“I ken, wife, now is the time for us all to be a tad more forthcoming with one another,” said Conall. He was a softer touch. He steered both Alexia and Madame Lefoux away from the scene of battle (and Ivy and Tunstell, who were now making horrible kissy noises at one another) to a different part of the room.

“Oh dear.” Lady Maccon glared at Lord Maccon. “You said ‘us all.’ Were you involved as well, my darling husband? Have you, perhaps, been less forthcoming than you should with your loving wife?”

Lord Maccon sighed. “Why must you always be so difficult, woman?”

Lady Maccon said nothing, simply crossed her arms over her ample bosom and stared pointedly at him.

“Madame Lefoux was working for me,” he admitted, his voice so low it was almost a growl. “I asked her to keep an eye on you while I was away.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“Well, you know how you get.”

“I most certainly do. Really, Conall, imagine assigning a BUR agent to track me, as though I were a fox in the hunt. That is simply the living end! How could you?”

“Oh, she isn’t BUR. We’ve known each other a long time. I asked her as a friend, not an employee.”

Alexia frowned. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “How long a time and how good a friend?”

Madame Lefoux gave a watery little smile.

Lord Maccon looked genuinely surprised. “Really, wife, you are not usually given to such denseness. I dinna fit Madame Lefoux’s preferences.”

“Ah, any more than I fit Lord Akeldama’s?”

Lord Maccon, who was prone to getting a mite jealous of the effete vampire and resented the man’s close relationship with Alexia, nodded his understanding. “Verra well, I take your point, wife.”

“Admittedly,” interjected Madame Lefoux, her voice soft and tear-strained, “I was also interested in contacting Angelique, and she is Lady Maccon’s maid.”

“You had your own agenda,” accused Lord Maccon, looking with suspicion at the Frenchwoman.

“Who doesn’t?” wondered Lady Maccon. “Angelique told me you used to be intimate and that Quesnel is hers, not yours.”

“When did she tell you this, before she died?” wondered Lord Maccon.

Alexia patted his arm. “No, dear, after.”

Madame Lefoux brightened considerably. “She is a ghost?”

Lady Maccon waggled her fingertips about. “Not anymore.”

The inventor gasped, what appeared to have been a strange kind of hope quickly followed by a return to sadness. “You exorcised her? How cruel.”

“She asked, and we struck a bargain. I am sorry. I did not think to take your feelings into account.”

“These days, no one seems to.” The inventor sounded bitter.

“There is no need to wallow,” replied Lady Maccon, who did not approve of maudlin humors.

“Really, Alexia, why such sharpness with the woman? She is overset.”

Lady Maccon looked more closely into Madame Lefoux’s face. “I believe there may be cause. You are not so sad over lost love as you are over a lost past. Is that not so, madame?”

Madame Lefoux’s face lost a modicum of its grief, and her eyes narrowed, sharpening on Alexia. “We were together for a long time, but you are right. I did want her back—not for me but for Quesnel. I thought perhaps a son would ground her in the daylight world. She changed so very much after she became a drone. They tapped into the hardness Quesnel and I had once managed to temper.”

Alexia nodded. “I deduced as much.”