Blameless

the fight. Having delivered the expected daily miracle, Floote stood in his usual stance and warily watched the Templars work.

“The locals, they are terrified of them, aren’t they?” Alexia spoke softly, but she was reasonably certain that no one was paying them any mind. “And they must wield a considerable amount of clout for things to go so smoothly. No one has summoned the local constabulary, even though our little battle occurred in a public arena, in front of witnesses.”

“One country under God, madam.”

“It happens.” Alexia wrinkled her nose and looked about for a scrap of fabric for Madame Lefoux to press against the back of her head. Finding nothing of use, she shrugged and ripped one of the ruffles off her orange dress. The inventor took it gratefully.

“One cannot be too careful with a head wound. Are you certain you are quite the thing?” Alexia watched her with concern.

“Everything is fine, I assure you. Except, of course, for my pride. I tripped, you know. He didn’t overpower me. Really, I do not know how you ladies do it, run around dressed in long skirts all day every day.”

“Generally, not a whole lot of running is involved. Is that why you dress as a man, then, pure practicality?”

Madame Lefoux looked as though she would like to twirl her fake mustache in thought, although, of course, she wasn’t wearing it at the moment. “Partly.”

“You like to shock people—admit it.”

Madame Lefoux gave her an arch look. “As if you do not.”

“Touché. Although we approach the endeavor differently.”

The Templars, having concluded their activities, disappeared back into the foliage of Boboli Gardens with an air of hauteur. Even though violent action had been undertaken on Alexia’s behalf, they had neither addressed her, nor looked in her direction. Alexia was disgusted to find, once the Templars had gone, that the ordinary Italian folk, including the once affable clerk, now regarded her with suspicion and disdain.

“Persona non grata once more.” Alexia sighed. “Beautiful country, as you say, Floote, but the locals. The locals.” She climbed into the cart.

“Exactly so, madam.” With that, Floote took the driver’s seat and, with a steady hand to the reins, guided the pony and trap through Boboli Gardens and out into the city streets. He took the bumpy course slow and gentle in deference to Madame Lefoux’s head.

Floote stopped along the way at a small public eatery where, despite the presence of even more of the vile coffee and far too much tobacco, Alexia’s opinion of the Italians was greatly improved through the application of the best victuals she had ever eaten in her entire life.

“These little chubby puddings with the green sauce,” she declaimed, “must represent the food of the gods. I declare, the Templars may do what they like; I love this country.”

Madame Lefoux grinned. “So easily swayed?”

“Did you taste that green sauce? How did they refer to it? Pets-something-or-other. Sheer culinary genius.”

“Pesto, madam.”

“Yes, Floote, that! Brilliant. Full of garlic.” To illustrate her point, she took another mouthful before continuing. “Seems they put garlic in positively everything here. Absolutely fantastic.”

Floote shook his head faintly. “I beg to differ, madam. It is, in fact, the result of practicality. Vampires are allergic to garlic.”

“No wonder it is so rare back home.”

“Terrible sneezing fits, madam. Much in the manner that young Miss Evylin used to come over when faced with a feline.”

“And werewolves?”

“The basil, madam.”

“No? How intriguing. Same sort of sneezing?”

“I believe it makes the insides of the mouth and nose itch, madam.”

“So this pesto I enjoy so much is really an infamous Italian antisupernatural weapon?” Alexia turned accusing dark eyes on Madame Lefoux. “Yet there is no pesto in my parasol armament. I think we ought to rectify that immediately.”

Madame Lefoux did not point out that Alexia could hardly go traipsing around toting a parasol that smelled strongly of garlic and basil. She did not have to, as Alexia was distracted by the arrival of some variety of orange fruit—of course it was orange—wrapped in a thinly cut piece of pig meat that was almost, but not quite, bacon. Alexia was transported.

“I don’t suppose this is a weapon?”

“Not unless you have suddenly taken against the Jews, madam.”

It was fortunate that they ate, for no food awaited them upon their return. After a lengthy stop at the alchemist’s, which in Italy also stocked pharmaceuticals and fishing equipment, to purchase what Madame Lefoux referred to as “necessary supplies,” they returned to the temple. There they found that, despite the early hour—it was not yet six—the Templars were already retired for the evening, undertaking some form of extended silent prayer.

While Madame Lefoux fussed with refilling the parasol and Floote went to do mysterious butler-type duties, Alexia hunted down the library. When no one stopped her, she began reading various books and records with interest. She had Ivy’s little clipping with her and paused to reread it now and again. A printed admission of guilt, imagine that? She found herself humming from time to time. You see, infant-inconvenience, it’s not so bad.

She did not find the information she was chiefly interested in: anything pertaining to the preternatural breeding program or concerning Templar use of soulless agents. However, she did find enough entertaining reading matter to keep her occupied well into the night. It was far later than she thought when she finally looked up to find the temple utterly silent around her, and not in the way of an edifice filled with prayer and soft movements. No, this was the silence of sleeping brains that only ghosts were comfortable experiencing.

Alexia padded toward her room, but then, sensing a presence she was not quite certain she could name, she shifted in her purposeful tread and veered down a small hallway. It was undecorated: there were no crosses nor any other religious effigies, and it ended in a tight stairwell that she might have thought only used by servants, except that it was arched and mossy and had the feel of immense age about it.

Alexia decided to explore.

This was, it must be admitted, probably not the most intelligent decision of her life. But how often is one given the opportunity to investigate an ancient passageway in a sacred temple in Italy?

The stairs down were indeed steep and slightly wet, as the back ends of caves will get no matter the climate. Alexia steadied herself with one hand against the damp wall, trying not to think about whether said wall had been cleaned recently. The stairs seemed to go down a very, very long way, ejecting her at the end into another undecorated hallway that in turn ended in what was possibly the most disappointing little room imaginable.

She could see that it was a room because, and this was peculiar, the door to the room was glass. She walked up and peeked through.

A small chamber lay before her, walls and floors of dingy limestone, with no paint nor other form of decoration. The only piece of furniture was a small pedestal in the center of the room, on top of which stood a jar.

The door was locked, and Alexia, resourceful as she was, had not yet learned to pick locks, though she mentally added it to her list of useful skills she needed to acquire, along with hand-to-hand combat and the recipe for pesto. If her life were to continue on its present track, which, after twenty-six years of obscurity now seemed to mainly involve people trying to kill her, it would appear that acquiring a less savory skill set might be necessary. Although, she supposed, pesto-making ought to be termed more savory.

She squinted through the door. It was paned with small squares of old leaded glass that were warping and sagging in their frames. This meant that the room within shifted and wiggled, and she squirmed around trying to see. She just couldn’t quite make out what was inside the jar, and then finally she got the correct angle and was abruptly rather queasy to her stomach.