“Better than could be expected. It is not so bad as I had feared, working for the hive.”
“Ah.”
“And Quesnel is enjoying himself, getting plenty of attention and an excellent education. Say what you will about vampires, they value knowledge. And an entire hive of vampires and drones actually keeps my boy in check. Although, that said, they have not managed to impress upon him any interest in fashion.”
“Dama?” Prudence wanted to know.
“Exactly, Prudence,” answered her mother.
“No,” said Prudence.
Alexia remembered Quesnel as a scamp with a predilection for grubby workman’s clothing that rendered him, in appearance, much like a newspaper boy. “So you both may survive until he has reached his maturity?”
Prudence finished her warm milk and shoved the cup away petulantly. Alexia caught it before it fell off the table. The child switched her attention to the printed menu that the steward had unwisely left behind. She flapped it about happily and then spent some time folding the corners.
Madame Lefoux’s dimples reappeared. “We may. It is strangely restful, having the responsibility for his well- being partly removed, although there have been”—she paused delicately—“discussions with the countess. I can but temper their influence. I suppose it must be similar for you and Lord Akeldama.”
“Thus far, Prudence seems perfectly capable of making up her own mind on most things. He does favor frilly dresses but I could hardly expect practicality from a vampire. Prudence doesn’t seem to mind. Conall and I are happy to have the help. The werewolves have a saying. Do you know it? ‘It takes a pack to raise a child.’ In this case, a pack, Lord Akeldama, and all his drones may just possibly be sufficient to handle my daughter.”
Madame Lefoux gave a doubtful look. The child looked about as innocent as a werewolf with a pork chop. She was content with the pamphlet, quietly humming to herself.
The Frenchwoman finished the last of the chocolate in her cup and poured herself another helping from the pot. “You have an easier time letting go than I.”
“Well, I am less motherly than you, I suspect, and Lord Akeldama is my friend. We share sympathies and interests. Fortunately, he is
“Not so the countess and myself.”
Lady Maccon smiled into the last of her tart before probing gently. “Although I understand you do share
“Why, Alexia, what could you possibly be implying?”
“Mabel Dair, perhaps?”
“Why, Alexia.” Madame Lefoux brightened. “Are you jealous?”
Alexia had only meant to needle, now she found herself drawn into flirting and became embarrassed as a result. She should never have even broached such a scandalous topic.
“You would bring things back around to that.”
Madame Lefoux took Lady Maccon’s hand, becoming serious in a way that made Alexia quite nervous. Her green eyes were troubled. “You never even gave me a chance. To determine if you liked it.”
Alexia was surprised. “What? Oh.” She felt her body flush under the constriction of stays. “But I was married when we met.”
“I suppose that is something. At least you saw me as competition.”
Alexia sputtered, “I… I am very
“Such a pity. Ah well, that’s one of us sorted. I guess you could do worse than Conall Maccon.”
“Thank you, I suppose. And things cannot be so off with the hive and Miss Dair, or you would not be so forthcoming about it.”
“Touché, Alexia.”
“Did you think that while you were studying my character, I was not studying yours? We have not been much in each other’s company these last few years, but I doubt you have changed that much.” Alexia leaned forward. “Formerly Lefoux said to me, before she died, that you loved too freely. I find it interesting that you can be so loyal to the individual and to your much-vaunted technology yet be so unreliable where groups and governments are concerned.”
“Are you accusing me of having my own agenda?”
“Are you denying it?”
Madame Lefoux sat back and let out a silvery tinkle of laughter. “Why should I wish to?”
“I don’t suppose you are going to tell me to whom you are reporting on this particular trip. Order of the Brass Octopus? Woolsey Hive? Royal Society? French government?”
“Why, Alexia, didn’t you just say I work only for myself?”
This time it was Alexia’s turn to be amused. “Very nicely turned, Genevieve.”
“And now, if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to in my quarters.” Madame Lefoux stood, made a little bow to both ladies. “Alexia. Miss Prudence.”
Prudence looked up from her careful mutilation of the menu. “No.”
The inventor retrieved her jacket and top hat from a stand by the door and made her way out into the blustery corridor.
“Fooie,” said Prudence.
“I couldn’t agree with you more, infant,” said Lady Maccon to her daughter.
Alexia remained in the dining hall a goodly while. She enjoyed the ambiance, the constant supply of tea and nibbles, the efficiency of the staff, and the fact that it afforded her a general inspection of the other passengers. Everyone, after all, had to eat. Their fellow pilgrims were the expected assortment. She spotted several sets of pale ladies—invalids in search of health. The two emaciated fellows who were all floppy hair and elbows with ill-cut jackets could only be artists. The tweed-clad jovial chaps intent on drinking the steamer’s entire stock of port before they reached port were obviously sportsmen keen upon crocodiles. There was a wastrel in black Alexia first thought might be a statesman, until he whipped out a notebook, which made her think he was that lowest of the low: a travel journalist. There were various unfashionable gentlemen with battered headgear and too much facial hair, either antiquities collectors or men of science.
Of course, her main reason for staying was that Prudence seemed equally content to sit, mutilating the menu pamphlet, and there was no point in messing with a good thing. Which was how it was that her husband found her still at tea even after sunset.
He arrived trailing Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell, the nursemaid, the twins, and two members of the troupe, all looking bleary-eyed but dressed for dinner.
“Dada!” said Prudence, looking very much like she would appreciate some affection from her father. Alexia set her bare hand carefully on the back of her daughter’s neck and then nodded at her husband.
“Poppet.” Conall buzzed his daughter exuberantly on the cheek, making her giggle, and then did the same to his wife. “Wife.” This elicited an austere look, which they both knew was one of affection.
Alexia supposed she ought to retire and dress for dinner herself, but she was terribly afraid of missing something interesting, so she remained, only transferring to a larger table so that the others could join her and Prudence.
“I do believe I might enjoy ocean transport even more than floating,” pronounced Ivy, sitting next to Alexia without regard for proper table arrangement or precedence. Alexia supposed such standards had to be relaxed when traveling. Lord Maccon sat on Ivy’s other side, keeping a good deal of room between him and his daughter.
“Is it the space or the fashion that appeals?”
“Both. Now, Percy, love, the furniture is not for eating.” Baby Percival was busy gumming the back of the dining chair, arching over his father’s arm in order to do so.
“Ahhouaough,” said Primrose from her position on the nursemaid’s lap. She had not yet developed the capacity for consonants.
This behavior, peaceable though it was, appeared to be too much for Mrs. Tunstell. “Oh, take them away, Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk, do. We will have a nice supper sent down to you. This simply isn’t the place for children, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk looked worried, faced with the logistical prospect of having to carry three toddlers. But
