Timeless

and immediately off the other, so that he, like the luggage, had to be strapped into place. After seeing his wife safely up top, Tunstell threw his leg over easily enough, for he was quite nimble and athletic. Unfortunately, his trousers were not so flexible. They ripped loudly, exposing much of his scarlet drawers to the evening air and causing his wife to shriek in horror and faint forward onto the neck of her donkey. Lord Maccon guffawed loudly. Prudence clapped in appreciation. Madame Lefoux made her way genteelly to a nearby stand where she purchased one of the robes so favored by the locals. This Tunstell donned with all the enthusiasm and amiability of an actor accustomed to odd apparel in front of a large audience.

Ivy awoke from her swoon, noted her husband now wore what amounted to a dress, in public, and fainted again. The donkey beneath her was composed and unimpressed by her histrionics.

Conall refused donkey transport, as did their vampire dragoman. Even donkeys, placid creatures as they were, preferred not to carry werewolves or vampires. Lord Maccon perfectly understood this. After all, he was a good deal faster on four paws anyway, so the very idea was preposterous, and he would far rather snack upon the beast than ride it—particularly at this moment with ten days at sea and no live meat the entire time. Lastly, riding a donkey was pointless even when he had been mortal, for his long legs would touch the ground on either side of the wee thing. So he and the guide walked at the front, leading the way and chatting in a forced manner that had nothing to do with the fact that they were from different cultures and everything to do with the fact that one was a vampire and the other a werewolf.

As they trundled through the street, it became clear that they were as much a spectacle for Alexandria as Alexandria was for them. The great port city had been made much of over the last few decades, and the British army called there regularly, but high lords and ladies, small pale children, and troupes of English actors were practically unheard of and quite enthralling as a result.

Many Egyptians came to watch them. The natives pointed with interest at the ladies’ hats, the gentlemen’s top hats, Alexia’s parasol, the odd shapes made by wardrobe and props, as though they were some kind of circus come to parade among them.

Alexia spent a good deal of her time trying to absorb every aspect of the city in the dim light of evening. They arrived at their abode, Hotel des Voyageurs, all too quickly for her, and she could not wait until the next day when she might see Egypt in all its glory. There was the expected chaos once more that saw them all, after much discussion and exchange of moneys, settled into a single floor of the hotel. The ladies took to their rooms for tea and rest, the children went down for naps, and the gentlemen retired to either the nearest bathhouses or the hotel’s dubious smoke room, as suited their individual natures.

Lord Maccon helped his wife disrobe, merely raising one eyebrow when a gun dropped out of her corset and clattered to the floor. One became accustomed to such things when one was married to Alexia. Then he reacquainted himself with every aspect of her body, as if he had not just done so onboard the SS Custard that morning. Alexia threw herself wholeheartedly into the activity, having learned early on in their marriage that this was an exercise she found both enjoyable and entertaining. It also left her, generally speaking, relaxed and pleased with the world. Not so her husband. Not on this particular night, for even lying next to her on what had proved to be quite a resilient bed, he was what could only be described as twitchy.

“Conall, my love, what is the matter?”

“Foreign land,” he said curtly.

“And you don’t know the lay of it?”

“Exactly so.”

“Well,” she said with a supportive smile, “go on, then. We shall be fine without you for a few hours.”

“Are you quite certain, my dear?”

“Yes, quite.”

“You aren’t trying to get rid of me?”

“Now, Conall, why would I want to do a thing like that?”

He grunted noncommittally.

“You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Of what, precisely?”

“Oh, I don’t know, random God-Breaker Plagues running amok? We only just arrived. I’d greatly prefer you not go missing or die quite yet.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

With which her husband gave her a passionate kiss, sprang naked from the bed, and exited their room rather spectacularly by way of the balcony in wolf form. Alexia wrapped the woven blanket about herself and made her way across the room rather less precipitously. She looked to see if she could spot him dashing through the streets off into the desert, but he was already out of sight. It was quarter moon, but he was restless from little exercise on board and he needed to hunt. She tried not to imagine what poor mangy desert creature he would end up eating. As the wife of a werewolf, one had to ignore certain unsavory aspects of cuisine and ingestion.

Lady Maccon felt only a slight twinge of concern. Conall Maccon could certainly take care of himself, and the one thing Alexandria boasted of in plenty was stray dogs. Her husband would simply look like a very large version thereof.

Alexia, thus consoled, drank her tea, which turned out not to be tea at all but that most ghastly of beverages, coffee. It was served with a great deal of honey, which rendered it drinkable if not entirely palatable. She then managed to dress herself. In honor of her trip, she had ordered up a nice mushroom-colored muslin blouse and matched tiny bowler hat, with a duster-style puff of brown feathers. The blouse was designed to be cool in hot weather, while still preserving her modesty. The fastenings at the back gave her some trouble, and the corset underneath could not be laced tight at all. But the draped brown overskirt and modest bustle went on easily enough. Her hair, in response to the desert heat, refused to obey any commands, coiling into great loglike curls. She fussed with it for a bit and then, figuring she was abroad where certain standards might be allowed to slip, pinned it half up and left the rest to flop about as it will.

Downstairs, supper had commenced and the front entrance to Hotel des Voyageurs was empty as all the residents descended upon the comestibles.

“Any messages for Lady Maccon?” she inquired of the desk clerk.

“No, my lady, but there is one for a Lord Maccon.”

Alexia took it, noted that the handwriting was not one she recognized, and figured it was a BUR report. She tucked it into her reticule.

“Can you arrange an aetheric transponder connection appointment for me? I have my own valve frequensors, but I understand there is only one transmitter for public access in the city.”

“Indeed, my lady. We are a little overtaxed as a result, but I am certain your rank will guarantee access. You’ll want the Boulevard Ramleh’s west end, opposite the street leading to the Exchange.”

Alexia determined she would have to borrow Ivy Tunsell’s guidebook in order to make sense of these directions, possibly attached to Ivy herself, but she made a mental note of the details.

“Thank you, my good man. I’ll need to book to send a message for just after sunset London time, from here to England. Can you arrange such a thing?”

“Certainly, my lady. That should be something on the order of six o’clock in the evening. But I will ascertain the particulars and make the appointment for you.”

“You are most efficient.” Alexia, missing Floote quite dreadfully, gave the man a generous gratuity for his pains and wandered into the dining room to see if any of her party were about yet.

Ivy, Tunstell, the nursemaid, and the children were all there causing a ruckus at one of the larger tables. Prudence had her mechanical ladybug and was trundling about banging into people’s chairs in a most indiscriminate manner. Alexia was mortified by such behavior. What was the nursemaid thinking, allowing the infant to bring the ladybug to a public eatery? Tunstell was explaining, in large expansive gestures, the thrilling plot of The Death Rains of Swansea to some poor unfortunate tourists at the adjoining table. Ivy was fretting over her Baedeker’s guidebook, and the nursemaid was busy with the twins.

Lady Maccon scooped up her errant child.

“Mama!”

“Have you eaten, poppet?”

“No!”