Timeless

to witness the opening of her new parasol.

She found him at the backgammon tables, delivered to him his missives—one in Lyall’s tidy block lettering and the other in Channing’s untidy scrawl—and then turned her attention to her own mail. In addition to the box, there was a letter from Biffy. The front of this was addressed as required for float mail, but on the back, below the seal, the young werewolf had written, To be opened before the box! in block lettering.

Conall, dear man, got all bouncy when he saw the package. “Capital! It has arrived at last!”

Alexia had enough sensitivity not to blurt out her certain knowledge as to the contents. “I have a communication from Biffy. Silly boy seems to believe it important that I read his letter first.”

“By all means,” said her husband magnanimously, although his eyes were caramel colored with excitement.

Alexia duly seated herself, despite glares from various gentlemen at the presence of a female in the smoke room, and cracked open the seal. Inside, Biffy detailed not only the current state of the murder investigation (no appreciable change), Lord Akeldama’s latest waistcoat purchase (navy and cream striped with gold braid), and Floote’s odd behavior on the subject of roasted pheasant (dismissed from the larder forthwith), but also a visit from Gustave Trouvé (beard of substantial magnitude). He went into a colorful and very detailed description of her new parasol upon its initial arrival. And then into even more specificity over the improvements to its appearance that he had felt compelled to make. He apologized profusely for opening her mail without permission but articulated that he felt his actions were duly excused, as they spared her the horror of ever having to encounter the parasol in its original state. He signed the missive with his real name, but Alexia knew this was because this particular letter contained nothing delicate nor Parasol Protectorate related, aside, of course, from the parasol itself.

Thus forewarned, Lady Maccon opened the box.

What lay before her was as dissimilar a creature to Biffy’s description of the original as could be imagined. The talented boy had taken the monstrosity in hand and subdued it with as much finesse as might be brought to bear upon drab olive canvas.

He had covered the exterior with black silk. There were delicate white chiffon ruffles along the ribs and three layers of fine embroidered lace ruffles at the edge of the shade, completely disguising the multiple pockets hidden there. He had managed to drape the fabric overlay in such a way that when the parasol was closed, it puffed out, disguising any suspicious bulges. At the top, near the spike, was another bit of white lace and then a great puff of black feathers, cleverly hiding the springs and arming mechanism that allowed the tip to open and shoot various deadly objects and substances. Unfortunately, he’d had very little to work with on the handle. It was brass, very simple, with three nodules, the twisting of which, according to Gustave Trouvé’s notes, would cause different results. He hadn’t Madame Lefoux’s predilection for fancy hidden buttons or carved handles. Biffy, however, had fought back against the simplicity by wrapping pretty ribbon at various points about the handle, hopefully not interfering with its primary function. He had completed his decoration by lining the interior with white chiffon ruffles and looping two black pom-poms about the handle, which acted decoratively and, Alexia realized with delight, would allow her to fasten the accessory to her person so she might not misplace it.

It was a bit loud for her taste, but the clean black-and-white color scheme added an air of refinement, and all the additional froofs would better disguise the secrets within.

“Oh, Conall, isn’t it perfectly lovely? Didn’t Biffy do a splendid job?”

“Oh, yes, if you say so, my dear. But what of Mr. Trouvé?”

“What, indeed? To praise his side of the work, I must put it through its paces, must I not?”

Lord Maccon looked around at the still-glaring gentlemen whose peaceful card games and cigar puffs had been inexcusably disturbed by the brash Lady Maccon and her frivolous mail.

“Perhaps elsewhere, wife?”

“What? Oh. Of course, somewhere private, and in the open air. There’s no knowing what might come flying out of this little beauty.” Alexia stood eagerly.

They exited the smoking room, only to run into Mrs. Tunstell in the hallway.

“Alexia! Lord Maccon! How fortuitous! I was looking for you. Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk has put the children down, and Tunny and I were wondering if you would like to join us for a game of whist?”

“I don’t play whist,” said Conall, rather shortly.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” dismissed his wife at Ivy’s offended expression. “He’s difficult about cards. I might be able to, in a quarter of an hour or so, but I just this moment took delivery of a new parasol, and Conall and I are off to the promenade deck to test it.”

“Oh, how topping. But, Alexia, it isn’t sunny.”

“Not that kind of testing.” Lady Maccon gave Mrs. Tunstell a wink.

Ivy was taken aback for only a moment. “Oh! Ruffled Parasol?”

“Exactly, Puff Bonnet.”

Ivy was enthralled. “Oh, I say.” She raised her hand to her face and made a little finger wiggle toward the tip of her pert little nose. This was her not-so-subtle gesture for secrets afoot. Alexia counted her blessings. Ivy’s first suggestion had been that they each hop about in a small circle when they had clandestine information to impart, and then stop, face one another, and point both fingers at the mouth in a most ridiculous fashion.

Still, Lord Maccon was fascinated by Ivy’s absurdly wiggling fingers.

Lady Maccon poked him in the ribs to get him to stop staring.

Ivy stopped her odd gesture. “Can I see it?”

Lady Maccon proffered up the accessory.

Mrs. Tunstell was appropriately enthusiastic. “Black and white, very modish! And is that chiffon? Now, that is something like. Nicely done. Of course, you know scarlet and yellow are far more the thing for spring.”

Alexia gave her a look that said she was on very dangerous ground.

Ivy backpedaled hurriedly. “But black and white is more versatile, of course, and you want this one to last.”

“Exactly so.”

“May I join you on deck?”

“To view its anthroscopy?”

“Its anthro-what? No, my dear Alexia, to witness its”—Ivy paused and blushed, looking around to see if they were being overheard—“ emissions.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh, did you? Well?”

Alexia figured Ivy was officially part of her inner circle, and this parasol was that circle’s defining feature. “Of course you may, my dear Ivy.”

Ivy clapped her blue-gloved hands in excitement. “I’ll go fetch a wrap and my hairmuffs.”

“We shall see you up top.” Lady Maccon took her husband’s arm and led him away.

“My dear, what is the meaning of that…” Conall waved his fingers at his nose in a fair imitation of Ivy’s wiggle.

“Oh, let her have her fun, Conall.”

“If you say so, my dear. Odd behavior, though. Like she had a fly about her snoot.”

Accordingly, a good fifteen minutes later, Ivy, complete with wardrobe change, joined a shivering Alexia and an annoyed Lord Maccon on the promenade deck.

Ivy now sported an outrageous set of hairmuffs that Alexia had no doubt had been specially designed. They exactly matched Ivy’s hair and consisted of multiple corkscrew curls in the Greek style falling about her ears and a coronet of plaits. Gold braid was woven throughout, with a gilt dagger over the left ear with a spray of leaves and gold fruit falling at the back. It looked more like a headdress for a ball than anything else. It was all of a piece and worn like a helmet over Ivy’s own hair.

Because the hairmuffs entirely covered her ears as well as her head, Mrs. Tunstell was warm but also rather deaf.

“Ivy, finally, what could possibly have taken you so long?” Lady Maccon wanted to know.

“You want a song? I couldn’t possibly serenade you on an open deck. Perhaps later, in the lounge. You are