The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (103 page)

Oh, how inconvenient, when one's own brain starts issuing instructions.

“Who can I tell? Who can I tell? I am only a hen in a chicken coop.”

“Tell someone who can do something. Tell the soulless girl.”

“Her? But I don't even like her.”

“That's no excuse. You don't like anyone.”

The ghost hated it when she was sensible with herself.

O
h, really, must you?” was Lord Maccon's considered opinion, expressed to his wife upon seeing her sister in residence, as
if Felicity were some sort of unfortunate digestive complaint Alexia had recently developed.

Lady Maccon ignored her sister, who sat waiting patiently in the parlor, and instead took in her new surroundings. The drones
and the werewolves had done Woolsey Pack proud. Their new town house was quite filled to bursting with tasteful furniture,
pleasingly arranged and minimally decorated. As the abode was intended to serve as a way station for those of the pack who
had business in town, most personal items and vital survival necessities such as dungeons and clavigers were left back at
Woolsey Castle. The result was that the new house had the look of a gentleman's club, rather than a private residence (but
a nicely up-market gentleman's club). Lord Maccon muttered that it reminded him of one of the sitting rooms in the House of
Lords. But he was muttering for the sake of it, and everyone knew it. Thick curtains kept
harmful sunlight out, and thick, plush rugs kept heavy footfalls and claw scrapes to a minimum.

For the time being, Floote was to resume the post of butler to the secondary residence. He had not even batted an eye at this
temporary demotion back to domestic staff. Alexia suspected that he had missed his former authority over the household and
accompanying ability to monitor all business occurring within it. Personal secretary might be a higher position, but it did
not carry with it quite the range of a butler's command over gossip.

The front parlor, where Felicity sat, was decked out in rich chocolate brown leather and cream twill, with only a small touch
of brass here and there for accent—the filigree of a gas lamp, the fringe on a tablecloth, a large Oriental floor vase to
hold Alexia's parasols, and a periscopic shoe-drying stand in front of the fireplace.

It was exactly the opposite of Lord Akeldama's brocade-and-gilt splendor.

Lady Maccon was impressed. “Floote, where did you find such lovely furnishings at such short notice?”

Floote looked at Alexia as though she had asked him the secrets of his daily ablutions.

“Now, now, wife. If Floote prefers to be thought a conjurer, who are we to inquire as to his sleight of hand? We must preserve
a sense of wonder and faith, eh, Floote?” Lord Maccon slapped the dignified gentleman amiably on the back.

Floote sniffed. “If you say so, sir.”

Lord Maccon turned to his wife's sister, sitting in demure silence and drab gray, both so utterly out of character as to garner
even Lord Maccon's notice.

“Miss Felicity, has somebody died?”

Felicity stood and bobbed a curtsy at the earl. “Not that I am aware, my lord. Thank you for inquiring. How do you do?”

“There's something rather singular about your appearance this evening, isn't there? Have you done something different with
your hair?”

“No, my lord. I'm simply a tad underdressed for visiting. Only, I had a favor to ask my sister and it couldn't possibly wait.”

“Oh, did you?” The earl turned his tawny eyes on his wife.

Alexia tipped her chin up and to one side. “She wants to come stay with us.”

“Oh, she does, does she?”

“Here.”

“Here?” Conall took his wife's point exactly. They could hardly have Felicity stay in their new town house and not actually
be living there themselves. What if that information got out? Felicity would be known to have resided with a pack of werewolves
and no chaperone.

“Why not at Woolsey? Bit of country air? Looks like she could do with it.” Lord Maccon grappled for a better solution.

“Felicity has involved herself in some”—Alexia paused—“questionable charitable work here in town. She seems to believe she
may require our protection.”

Lord Maccon looked confused. As well he might. “Protection… protection from whom?”

“My mother,” replied his wife, with meaning.

Lord Maccon could understand
that
and was about to demand additional details when a ghost materialized up through the plush carpet next to him.

Under ordinary circumstances, ghosts were too polite to simply appear in the middle of a conversation. The better-behaved
specters took pains to drift into front hallways at the very least, where a footman might notice and inquire as to their business.
In a startling fashion, this one wafted into existence out of the center of the new rug, directly through the bouquet of flowers
depicted there.

Lord Maccon exclaimed. Lady Maccon let out a little gasp and firmed her grip on her parasol. Floote raised one eyebrow. Felicity
fainted.

Alexia and Conall looked at each other for a moment and then left Felicity slumped over in her chair by mutual and silent
agreement. Alexia's parasol did have a small bottle of smelling salts among its many secret accoutrements, but this ghost
required immediate attention with no time to revive troublesome sisters. The Maccons turned the full force of their collective
attention onto the specter before them.

“Floote,” asked Lady Maccon slowly, so as not to startle the creature, “did we know this house came with a ghost? Was that
in the leasing documentation?”

“I don't believe so, madam. Let me ascertain the particulars.” Floote glided off to find the deeds.

The ghost in question was rather fuzzy around the edges and not entirely cohesive in the middle either. She must be close
to poltergeist state. When she began speaking, it became abundantly clear that this was indeed the case, for the ghost's mental
faculties were degenerated and her voice was high and breathy, sounding as though it emanated from some distance away.

“Maccon? Or was it bacon? I used to like bacon. Very salty.” The ghost paused and twirled about, trailing misty
tendrils through the air. These eddied in Lady Maccon's direction, pulled by the preternatural's attraction for ambient aether.
“Message. Missive. Mutton. Didn't like mutton—chewy. Wait! Urgent. Or was that pungent? Important. Impossible. Information.”

Lady Maccon looked at her husband curiously. “One of BUR's?”

The Bureau of Unnatural Registry kept a number of mobile ghost agents—exhumed and preserved bodies with tethered specters
that could be placed in select locales or near key public institutions for information-gathering purposes. They took pains
to have a noncorporeal communication network in place, where each ghost's tether crossed over the limits of at least one other's.
This stretched the length and breadth of London, although it was not able to cover the city in its entirety. Of course, it
had to be updated as its members went insane, but such maintenance was practically second nature to BUR's spectral custodians.

The werewolf shook his shaggy head. “Not that I know of, my dear. I'd have to look at the registry to be certain. I've met
most of our noncorporeal recruits at least once. Don't think this one is under contract at all, or someone would be taking
far better care of the body.” He braced himself in front of the ghost, arms stiff by his side. “Hallo? Listen up. Where are
you tethered? This house? Where is your corpse? It needs looking to. You are drifting, young lady. Drifting.”

The ghost looked at him in puzzled annoyance and floated up and down. “Not important. Not important at all. Message, that's
what's important. What was it? Accents, accents, everywhere these days. London's full of foreigners. And curry. Who let in
the curry?”

“That's the message?” Lady Maccon didn't like to be out of the loop, even if the loop was inside some nonsensical ghost's
head.

The ghost whirled to face Alexia. “No, no, no. Now, no, what? Oh, yes. Are you Alexia Macaroon?”

Alexia didn't know how to respond to
that,
so she nodded.

Conall, useless beast, started laughing. “Macaroon? I love it!”

Both Alexia and the ghost ignored him. All of the ghost's wavering attention was now focused on Lady Maccon. “Tarabitty? Tarabotti.
Daughter of? Dead. Soulless. Problem? Pudding!”

Alexia wondered whether all this verbal rigmarole was related to her father or to herself, but she supposed in either context
it was accurate enough. “The same.”

The ghost twirled about in midair, pleased with herself. “Message for you.” She paused, worried and confused. “Custard. No.
Conscription. No. Conspiracy. To kill, to kill…”

“Me?” Alexia hazarded a guess. She thought it might be a safe bet: someone was usually trying to kill her.

The ghost became agitated, straining at her invisible tether and vibrating slightly. “No, no, no. Not you. But someone. Something?”
She brightened suddenly. “The queen. Kill the queen.” The specter began to sing. “Kill the queen! Kill the queen! Kill the
quee-een!”

Lord Maccon stopped smiling. “Ah, that's torn it.”

“Good. Yes? That's all. Bye-bye, living people.” The ghost then sank down through the floor of their new parlor and vanished,
presumably back the way she had come.

Floote returned to the room at that juncture to find a
silently shocked Lord and Lady Maccon staring at each other.

“No documented apparitions come tethered to this house, madam.”

“Thank you, Floote. I suppose we should see to…?” Alexia did not need to continue. The ever-resourceful Floote was already
tending to Felicity with a scented handkerchief.

Lady Maccon turned to her husband. “And you should—”

He was already clapping his top hat to his head. “On my way, wife. She has to be within tether radius of this house. There
should be a record of her somewhere in BUR's files. I'm taking Professor Lyall and Biffy with me.”

Alexia nodded. “Don't be out too late. Someone needs to help get me back into Lord Akeldama's house before morning, and you
know all I seem to do these days is sleep.”

Her husband swept over in the manner of some Gothic hero, cloak flapping, and administered a loud kiss both to her and then,
to her utter embarrassment, to her protruding stomach before dashing off. Luckily, Floote was still seeing to Felicity, so
neither witnessed the excessive display of affection.

“I suppose that makes Felicity the least of our concerns.”

The sun had just set, and the Maccons were awake, across the temporary gangplank from Lord Akeldama's house, and downstairs
in their own dining room. The conversation had not changed from that of the night before; it had only paused for Conall to
conduct some slapdash investigations and then catch half a day's sleep.

Lord Maccon glanced up from his repast. “We must take any threat against the queen seriously, my dear. Even
if my efforts so far have proved unproductive, that does not mean we can treat the ravings of a ghost with flippancy.”

“You believe I am not concerned? I've alerted the Shadow Council. We have a special meeting called for this very evening.”

Lord Maccon looked disgruntled. “Now, Alexia, should you be involving yourself in this matter at such a late stage?”

“What? The rumor has only just been reported! I understand you and Lyall got lengths ahead yesterday after I went to bed,
but I hardly think—”

“No, wife. I mean to say, you are not exactly up to your usual galavanting about London with parasol at the ready, now, are
you?”

Alexia glanced down at her overstuffed belly and then got
that
look on her face. “I am entirely capable.”

“Of what, waddling up to someone and ruthlessly bumping into them?”

Lady Maccon glared. “I assure you,
husband,
that while the rest of me may be moving more slowly than has previously been my custom, there is nothing whatsoever wrong
with my mental capacities. I can manage!”

“Now, Alexia,
please
be reasonable.”

Lady Maccon was willing to concede somewhat due to the nature of her state. “I promise that I will not take any unnecessary
risks.”

Her husband did not miss the fact that this statement would have to bow to his wife's definition of the term
necessary.
He was, therefore, not at all reassured. “At least take one of the pups with you on your investigations.”

Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes.

The earl wheedled. “I should feel much better knowing
someone had care of your physical safety. Even if the vampires are abstaining—and we've no guarantee yet that they are—you
do tend to get yourself into certain predicaments. Now, it's not that I think you are incapable, my dear, simply that you
are currently much less mobile.”

Alexia did have to admit his reasoning. “Very well. But if I am to troll about with a companion, I want it to be Biffy.”

The earl did not approve this selection at all. “Biffy! He's a new pup. He can't even control the change. What good could
he possibly be?”