“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 meant to be anthropomorphizing the workings of that parasol, remember?”
“Yes, Ivy, I know. We have been waiting for you.”
“What are you to do? Well, I assume the accessory came with instructions. It can’t possibly be all that different from your original emissionous parasol.”
Alexia gave up and turned to proceed with her experiments. She stripped off her gloves and passed them to Ivy, who took them gravely and tucked them into her reticule. Alexia consulted the instruction sheet.
Of the three nodules on the handle, the first, when twisted, appeared to do nothing whatsoever. As she was pointing the parasol out to sea, and this was the magnetic disruption emitter, this was the best that could be hoped for. Even Alexia was not so bold as to trot aft and try the parasol on the steamboat’s engine.
“Nothing happened,” objected Ivy in disappointment.
“Shouldn’t with the emitter.”
“Mittens? I suppose that is sensible in case of snow,” replied Ivy.
The middle nodule, turned to the left, caused a silver spike to jut out, and to the right, a wooden one. Unlike Lady Maccon’s previous parasol, both could not pop out at once.
Alexia wasn’t certain about that change. “What if I need to fight off both vampires and werewolves together?”
Lord Maccon gave her a very dour look.
“Ooh, ooh, ooh!” Ivy was practically bouncing in excitement over some kind of revelation. “I had a thought,” she said, examining the edge of the wooden stake with interest.
“Oh, yes?” encouraged Alexia loudly.
Ivy stopped and frowned, her pert little face creased in worry. “I said I had one. It appears to have vanished.”
Alexia returned to her examinations. The bottom nodule, closest to the shade and nested in the puff of black feathers, was slightly more detailed. Alexia consulted her sheet and then opened and carefully flipped the parasol around. A twist to one direction and a fine mist spouted forth from the ends of the parasol’s ribs. From the smell and sizzle of the liquid as it hit the deck, that was lapis solaris diluted in sulfuric acid. A twist in the other direction and lapis lunearis and water came out, causing a brown discoloration to the already pockmarked deck.
“Oops,” said Lady Maccon, not very apologetically.
“There, you see, emissions! Really, Alexia, is there no more dignified approach?” Ivy stepped back from her friend and wrinkled her nose.
Finally, Alexia reached the very last point on Monsieur Trouvé’s list of instructions.
Gustave Trouvé had written: “My esteemed colleague included the two spikes in her original model, but I thought we might make additional use of them. Please ensure that you are well braced for this feature, my dear Lady Maccon, and that you have pointed the parasol at something substantial. Twist the nodule closest to the shade sharply clockwise while holding the parasol pointed steadily at your target.”
Alexia backed up, leaning against the railing of the ship, and pointed the parasol at the wall on the other side of the promenade deck. She handed Conall the instruction sheet, braced herself, gestured Mrs. Tunstell well out of the way, and fired.
Later, Conall was to describe to her how the parasol’s tip shot completely off, twisting slightly as it flew and pulling behind it a long, strong rope. The spike sank into the wall of the cabin and held. Alexia was to comment that this might have been quite useful the time she nearly fell off of the dirigible or out of the hive house. However, Gustave Trouvé had not exaggerated when he instructed her to be well braced, for the parasol jerked back against her violently, quite destroying her stability. Alexia let go of it in surprise.
Unfortunately, the railing was just low enough not to accommodate a woman of Lady Maccon’s stature, girth, and corsetry. She overbalanced entirely, flipped in graceless splendor backward over the railing, and plummeted down into the ocean below.
Alexia screamed in surprise and then in shock at the coldness of the water. She came up sputtering.
Without hesitating, her husband dove in after. He could swim better and catch up to her faster in wolf form, so he changed as he fell, hitting the water a massive brindled beast instead of man.
As the steamer churned swiftly away, Alexia heard Ivy screaming, “Woman overboard! Wait, no, man and woman overboard. Wait, no woman and wolf overboard. Oh, dash it, help! Help us please! Stop the ship! Man the lifeboats. Help! Summon the fire brigade!”
Conall arrowed through the icy black sea toward Alexia, his fur slicked back, seal-like. After only a few moments, he reached her.
“Really, husband, I can swim perfectly well. There’s no need for both of us to get all salty,” instructed Alexia tersely, although she was already shivering and she well knew the real danger in being cast adrift came not from drowning but from cold.
Conall barked at her and swam closer.
“No, don’t touch me! Then you’ll be human, too. Then we’ll both shiver to death. Don’t be silly.”
Ignoring her, the wolf came up next to her and wormed his way under one arm, clearly intending to help her stay afloat.
He did not change.
Not even slightly.
Alexia had removed her gloves for parasol examination and was gripping him reflexively with one bare hand. Nothing. He remained a werewolf.
“Well, would you look at that!”
Conall’s wolf face looked shocked. But then again, the markings about his eyes and muzzle often caused that expression, so there was no way to tell if he was truly registering the peculiarity or still acting on instinct to protect her. Whatever the case, at least he did not give in to his werewolf nature and try to eat her, which for the first time in their long association he might have been able to do.
Alexia’s teeth started to chatter. Conall was doing most of the work to keep them afloat. She figured she might as well let him, as he still had all his supernatural strength.
She cogitated upon this amazing occurrence, thinking back over her life and every preternatural touch: those times when she had been forced to use her naked flesh, and those times when it had functioned even through fabric.
“Wat-t-t-t-ter!” she chattered. “It’s all wat-t-t-t-t-ter. Just like ghosts and t-t-tethers.”
Conall appeared to be ignoring her, but Alexia was having a scientific breakthrough and being stranded somewhere near the Strait of Gibraltar in the Atlantic Ocean wasn’t going to stop her epiphany. “It all makes per-r-r-fect sense!” She wanted to explain but she was chattering so hard she could no longer understand herself. Also her extremities were going numb. Science would have to wait.
I’m going to freeze to death, she thought. I have figured out one of the greatest preternatural mysteries and no one will know the truth. It’s so very simple. It was there all along. In the weather. How annoying.
“Oh! There she blows!” she heard Ivy sing out in the dark night. A wave of displaced water crashed over her, and a second later a wooden box with handles splashed down next to her for her to latch on to. The box was followed by a knitted hammock she could use to pull herself inside.
Conall changed into his human form and pulled himself in next to her.
“Cover yourself with my skirts,” hissed his wife through still-chattering teeth, pushing the ruination of her evening gown at him.
Her husband only looked at her, mouth agape. “What just happened?”
“We have made a g-g-g-reat discovery! We may have to p-p-p-publish,” announced his wife, waving her goose-pimpled arms about. “Scientif-f-f-ic-c-c break-k-k-through!”
Conall threw his arm around her, hugging her close, and they were lifted to safety. By the time they reached the deck, he was mortal.
CHAPTER NINE
Biffy Experiments with Flirting and Felicity
Everything ought to have proceeded smoothly with the investigation—or as smoothly as possible with Lady Kingair’s brand of Alpha obnoxious interference. Biffy genuinely believed they were doing well, even after calling in at the eighth ball in an attempt to track down various private dirigible owners. Lucky for him, in the manner of all wealthy enthusiasts, the owners were quite willing to talk about their floating conveyances to the exclusion of all else, even with a slight young man to whom they had only recently been introduced. Biffy learned how the Great Mitten Slayer earned its name, where it was berthed, how often it was used, and what security measures were in place that prevented lone assassins from floating it to Fenchurch Street and killing werewolves. He ascertained similar details about Her Majesty’s Truss, the Lady Boopsalong, and several others with names less easily recalled. He also learned that those gentlemen equipped with the means and inclination to purchase personal flotation devices were not so interested in tying their cravats with finesse. Dirigibles brought out the worst in people.
It was Professor Lyall’s plan of inquiry. Biffy was to handle the high-society elements, while the professor looked in at registration offices and sequestered paperwork on pilots’ credentials and private dirigible sales from Giffard’s. Lady Kingair was of very little use, so they left her to stew at the house, pacing about the library and pouncing upon whoever stumbled in. Floote kept her in line as well as he was able with a constant supply of chewing tobacco, Scotch, and treacle tart. Just like Lady Maccon, she seemed to have an unholy passion for the dratted stuff. Biffy had never liked treacle tart, even as a human; he simply couldn’t respect any kind of food that left a residue.
He came home from the eighth party, and yet another failed lead, to find Floote waiting for him in the hallway looking rather more concerned than he had previously thought Floote capable of looking, even after an entire evening spent with sticky, treacle-eating werewolf she-Alphas. The hallway smelled of roses.
“Is something wrong, Floote?”
“It’s Miss Felicity, sir.”
“Lady Maccon’s sister? What could she possibly want with me?”
“Not you, sir. She called here to see Lady Kingair. They’ve been sequestered in the back parlor for over an hour.”
“Good gracious me! They know each other from when the ladies visited Scotland, but I did not think they were on terms of any intimacy.”
“No, sir, I don’t believe they are.”
“You think Miss Loontwill is up to something?”
Floote inclined his head. As much as to say, Isn’t she always?
Biffy took off his hat and gloves, placing them both on the hall table and checking the state of his rebellious hair in the looking glass above it. Tonight it was frizzy. He sighed. “But what could Miss Loontwill possibly want with Lady Kingair?”
“Is that Professor Lyall?” came a roar from the back parlor. The door crashed open, revealing Lady Kingair in a towering fury.
Biffy, noting the rage, inclined his head, tugging down on his cravat to expose his neck.
This submissive stance only seemed to aggravate her further. “Oh, it’s you. Where is Lyall, the little weasel? I’ll see him flayed alive. You see if I don’t.”
