vital than the other, despite what Lord Akeldama may think.”
Biffy smiled slightly and continued on with the consumption of his raw steak and fried egg.
Madame Genevieve Lefoux was a woman of style and understanding. If that style leaned toward gentlemen’s dress and mannerisms and if that understanding leaned toward scientific theory and practice, Lady Maccon was certainly not the kind of person so in want of sensibility that she would critique a friend for such eccentricities. Some considerable intimacy had left Alexia with the distinct feeling that Madame Lefoux liked her and that she liked Madame Lefoux, but not a great deal more. Trust, for example, seemed still in question. Between them existed a friendship quite different from the one she shared with Ivy Tunstell. There was no discussion of the latest fashions or societal events. If asked, Alexia might say that she could not recall precisely what it was she and the French inventor did discuss, but whatever it was, it always left Alexia feeling intellectually stretched and vaguely exhausted—rather like visiting a museum.
Madame Lefoux had a new, pretty, young shopgirl behind the counter when they arrived at Chapeau de Poupe. Madame Lefoux’s shopgirls were always young and pretty. This one seemed overset by the unexpected arrival of the grand Lady Maccon and was mightily relieved when her mistress, elegant and refined in gray tails and top hat, appeared to take over the management of such an august personage.
“My dear Lady Maccon!”
“Madame Lefoux, how do you do?”
The Frenchwoman grasped both of Alexia’s hands and kissed first one and then the other of Alexia’s cheeks. No air was left between lips and flesh, as was the custom among women of fashion, nor was this an extravagant gesture for fashion’s sake. No, for Madame Lefoux, such a greeting was as natural as a handshake among American businessmen. Her actions were tender and her smile dimpled with genuine affection.
“What an unexpected pleasure! But are you certain you should be in public in your condition?”
“My dear Genevieve, you have been so long away I began to suspect you might never return to us. Then what should London do when in need of a new hat?”
Madame Lefoux acknowledged both the compliment and rebuke of Alexia’s statement with a tilt of her dark head.
Lady Maccon noted, with some concern, that her friend was looking practically gaunt. Mostly composed of sharp angles, Madame Lefoux could never be described as full figured, but during her most recent travels, she had lost flesh she could not afford to lose. The inventor always had been more concerned with the pursuits of the mind than the body, but never before had her lovely green eyes sported such dark circles.
“Are you well?” asked Alexia. “Is it Quesnel? He is supposed to be home for the month, is he not? Is he being perfectly beastly?”
Madame Lefoux’s son was a cheerful towheaded creature with an unfortunate nose for mischief. There was no malice to his actions, but his mere presence resulted in a kind of microcosmic chaos that kept his mother on edge whenever he was in residence.
Madame Lefoux flinched slightly and shook her head. “He did not make it home this time.”
“Oh, dear! But then if not Quesnel, what could possibly be the matter? Truly, you do not look at all well.”
“Oh, pray, do not concern yourself, Alexia. Some trouble sleeping, nothing more. How are you? I understand you have taken a residence in town. You certainly look amplified. Have you been maintaining a tranquil environment? I read recently that it is terribly important for the baby to be surrounded by peace. Knowing your disposition, this has me worried.”
Alexia blinked at her.
Perceiving that her solicitude was unwelcome, the Frenchwoman moved hastily on. “Did you come to pick up Woolsey’s new glassical order, or is this merely a social call?”
Lady Maccon accepted the conversational redirection. She respected her friend’s need for privacy and her expertly cultivated aura of mystery. She also did not want to appear nosy. “Oh, is there an order? I suppose I could collect it. But, in actuality, there is a matter I should very much like to discuss with you.” Alexia noticed the curiosity in the eyes of the new shopgirl. “In seclusion, perhaps?” And then, as she was not certain as to the extent of the shopgirl’s knowledge, she confined her voice to a whisper. “Below?”
Madame Lefoux lowered her eyelashes and nodded gravely. “Of course, of course.”
Alexia looked to her escort. “Biffy, will you find yourself entertainment enough here for a quarter of an hour, or should you prefer to run along to the Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square?”
“Oh, I can abide a while among such loveliness as this.” The young werewolf waved a graceful gloved hand at the forest of dangling hats displayed all about him. He brushed his fingers along an exaggerated ostrich feather, much as a young girl would trail her fingertips through a fountain. “Beautiful brim rolling.”
“I shan’t be very long,” replied his mistress before following her friend toward the back of the shop, where a door in the wall led to an ascension room that took them down to a passageway, underneath Regent Street, and into the inventor’s much-vaunted contrivance chamber.
Madame Lefoux’s laboratory might have been a great wonder of the world, if only because it was a wonder the Frenchwoman could ever find anything inside it. The massive, cavelike laboratory was not only messy, but it was also noisy. Alexia often thought that the only reason it could not be heard in the street above was that Regent was one of the busiest thoroughfares in London. Then she wondered if that was why Madame Lefoux had chosen this particular spot.
As ever, Lady Maccon took in her surroundings with a kind of reverence that was part appreciation, part horror. There were engines and mysterious constructs galore, some of them running, many of them disassembled into component parts. There were diagrams and sketches of larger projects strewn about, mostly aeronautical devices such as ornithopters, as aetheric travel was one of Madame Lefoux’s specialties. It smelled of oil.
“Oh, my, is that a new commission?” Alexia picked her way slowly through the clutter, holding her skirts well out of the way of any possible grease stains.
Dominating the chamber was a partly assembled transport contraption. Or Alexia assumed it was a transport—as yet, it had no apparent wheels, rails, or legs. It was shaped like a massive bowler hat without a brim, so she supposed it might be an underwater conveyance. Inside were levers and pull cords, an operator’s seat, and two small slits at the front for visibility. It was almost buglike and well outside of the Frenchwoman’s ordinary principles of subtlety. Alexia’s parasol with all its secret pockets and component parts was far more to Genevieve’s taste. Traditionally, she did not go in for big and flashy.
“Something I’ve been working on of late.”
“Is it armored?” Lady Maccon had an embarrassingly unladylike interest in modern technology.
“In part.” Something in Madame Lefoux’s tone warned Alexia off.
“Oh, dear, is it under contract from the War Office? I’m probably not supposed to know. I do apologize for asking. We shall say no more about it.”
“Thank you.” Madame Lefoux smiled in tired gratitude. Her dimples barely showed.
Government defense commissions were lucrative but not something one could speak of openly, even to the queen’s muhjah. The inventor moved to take Alexia’s hand, her own work-hardened by decades of tool use. Alexia could feel the roughness even through her gloves, along with a companion thrill she had grown to accept was part of the price of intimacy with this woman. Genevieve was so very
“Was there something specific you wanted, my dear Alexia?”
Alexia hesitated and then, without subtlety, jumped right to the point. “Genevieve, do you know anything about the Kingair assassination attempt on Queen Victoria of twenty years ago? I mean, anything from the Order of the Brass Octopus?”
Madame Lefoux started in genuine surprise. “My goodness, what has brought you back around to that?”
“Let us say I made a contact recently who has led me into explorations of the past.”
Madame Lefoux crossed her arms and leaned back against a coiled roll of brass plating. “Hmm. I personally know nothing. I would have been no more than thirteen at the time, but we could ask my aunt. I’m not certain how useful she might be but the attempt can’t hurt.”
“Your aunt? Oh you mean . . . ?”
Madame Lefoux nodded, her face sad. “She’s finally undergoing diminished spectral cohesion. Even with all my preservation techniques and chemical expertise, it was inevitable. However, she does have her lucid
