Timeless

weathered appearance of the garment, Biffy deduced he must have come by train directly from the Dover landing green, on the Channel Dirigible Express out of Calais.

“Good evening, sir,” said Biffy. “May I help you at all?”

“Ah, good evening.” The man had a jovial way of speaking and a French accent.

“Are you looking for Madame Lefoux, perhaps?”

“Cousin Genevieve, no. Why would you think…? Ah, yes, this used to be her shop. No, I am in search of Lady Maccon. I have a delivery for her. This was the address given with the commission.”

“Indeed? Is it something for the London Pack perchance?”

“No, no. For her specifically, at Lord Maccon’s request.”

Biffy unlocked the shop door. “In that case, you had best come in, Mr….?”

“Monsieur Trouvé, at your service.” The Frenchman doffed his hat, his button eyes twinkling, apparently at the mere pleasure of being asked to introduce himself.

Biffy felt the bushiness of his beard became less offensive in a man who seemed so very good-natured.

“Pardon me for a moment. I must see to the lights.” Biffy left the Frenchman at the entrance and flitted quickly about in his practiced nightly ritual of turning up the gas in all the lamps and straightening gloves and hairmuffs from the day’s activities. His head girl was good, but when she closed the shop for supper, she never left things quite up to his exacting standards. He remembered talking with Lady Maccon about her journey through Europe after Lord Maccon’s unfortunate distrust of her moral fiber. At the time, he had been locked in a massive egg beneath the Thames. Later, however, Lady Maccon had related her side of the story, and it had included this French clockmaker, one Monsieur Trouvé. He was also the man who had designed the cages in the contrivance chamber below.

He completed his circuit of the shop and returned to his visitor.

“You are said by experts to be the last word on the subject of clocks. And I have heard of your exploits as relates to a certain ornithopter, the Muddy Duck. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The Frenchman threw his head back and let loose an infectious peal of laughter. “Yes, of course. It has been so long since I saw either Lady Maccon or Cousin Genevieve that I thought I might make the trip to London myself with the goods. An excuse for socializing, yes?”

“I am afraid you’ve missed them both. They left only a few hours ago for Southampton.”

“Oh, how unfortunate. Will they be back soon?”

“Regrettably, no. They have taken a large party on an Egyptian tour. But if that box contains what I think it contains, Lady Maccon will want it as soon as possible. I am charged to send important items on to her. They are traveling by steamer in deference to Lord Maccon’s, er, health.”

“Ah, mail by dirigible has ample opportunity to bisect their journey? A most acceptable proposal, Mr….?”

“Oh, dear me, my sincerest apologies, sir. Sandalio de Rabiffano. But everyone calls me Biffy.”

“Ah, the newest member of the London Pack. Genevieve wrote of your metamorphosis. A matter of some scientific interest not to mention political unrest. Not my field, of course.” Knowing he was conversing with a member of Lord Maccon’s pack seemed to relax the Frenchman. Yet France was not progressive in its approach to the supernatural.

“You are not afraid of me, Monsieur Trouvé?”

“My dear young man, why should I be? Oh, ah, your unfortunate monthly condition. I admit before meeting Lady Maccon I might indeed have been taken aback, but a werewolf came to our rescue on several occasions, and of wonderful use he was, too. Now vampires, I will say, I have little use for. But werewolves are good to have on one’s side in a fight.”

“How kind of you to say.”

“Here is the box for her ladyship. The contents are quite durable, but I should not like to see it lost.”

“Certainly not. I will ensure it is transported safely.”

The twinkle reappeared from the depths of all the facial hair. Biffy dearly wanted to recommend the man the services of a good barber but thought this might be taken as an insult. So he bent his head to examine the package—a plain thing of untreated wood, cut thin like a cigar box.

“There is one other matter.”

Biffy looked up from his inspection expectantly. “Yes?”

“Major Channing, is he also out of town?”

Biffy’s good breeding took over, hiding his surprise. “No, sir, I believe he is at the pack’s town residence.” He tried to hide the curiosity in his voice, but the Frenchman seemed to sense it.

“Ah, that werewolf I spoke of, the one who came to our rescue. We ended up traveling through Europe together. Decent fellow.”

At a complete loss, Biffy told him the pack address. He and the Gamma had very little to do with one another. Biffy showed the major his neck on a regular basis, and the major took control as needed and ignored him the rest of the time. But never before had anyone described Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings as a decent fellow.

The French clockmaker continued this surprising line of conversation. “I believe I will pay him a call, seeing as the ladies are away. Thank you for your time, Mr. Biffy. Good evening to you.”

“I hope the rest of your London visit is more productive, Monsieur Trouvé. Good night.”

As soon as the man left, Biffy popped open the long, skinny wooden box to look inside. It was terribly out of form, of course, to inspect someone else’s mail. But he argued himself into believing it was to check on the safety of the contents, and he was now a member of Lady Maccon’s Parasol Protectorate. It granted him, he felt, certain rights of familiarity.

He gasped in horror at the contents. Lady Maccon had carried with her many rather ill-advised parasols over the course of their association, one of which had been a good deal more. There was something to be said for such a weapon. But the parasol in the box before him was a travesty. Apart from everything else, it was utterly plain and undecorated except for the stitching of the supposedly hidden pockets. It was made of drab olive canvas! It was probably quite deadly, and there was no doubt the bobbles on the handle housed hidden dials and debilitating poisons. It was certainly heavy enough to do any number of things. But if such a thing could be said of a parasol, it looked like the kind of object a sportsman would carry, all function and no beauty. The brass handle positively clashed with the olive color. It looked—Biffy shuddered in utter horror—like an… umbrella!

He checked the delivery schedule. He’d have to place it on the early morning Casablanca-bound post in order for it to cross Lady Maccon’s path as soon as possible. With a determined gait, he returned to the front of the shop and flipped the CLOSED sign. He had only six hours to rectify the situation. Taking the hideous thing in hand, he made room upon the counter. He pulled out all the laces, silk flowers, feathers, and other trims, dumped them all around him, found a needle and thread, and went to work.

The P & O’s Express Steamer was constructed with luxury in mind. Built to take advantage of the new craze in antiquities collecting and Egyptian tours, the line was an attempt by the shipping industry to compete with dirigible carriers. Dirigibles had the advantage of being faster and more frequent, but a steamer had more space and carrying capacity. Lord and Lady Maccon’s first class cabin was quite as large as Lord Akeldama’s closet, perhaps even bigger, and outfitted with two portholes—an improvement on the closet, which had no windows at all. Of course, the portholes could be covered over with thick curtains, as the one clientele liners could guarantee was werewolves.

Lord and Lady Maccon knocked on the adjoining cabin, which they had rented for Ivy’s nursemaid and the children, and deposited the sleeping Prudence into a small cot there. They could hear Ivy, still chattering to her husband in a distressed tone over the loss of her hat, in the cabin on the far side.

In the interest of limiting numbers, they had not included a butler, valet, or lady’s maid among their personnel. This was an embarrassing breach in propriety, should the information get out. Alexia was nervous because it meant Conall had to help her with her toilette, but she supposed she might call upon the theatrical troupe’s wardrobe mistress in dire emergencies. Her hair would simply have to be stuffed under a cap as much as possible. She had a few of Ivy’s hairmuffs on hand as well, suspecting that the deck of a steamer got just as cold as that of a dirigible, possibly more so.