The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (80 page)

Alexia cleared her throat loudly, placing one hand to her stomach and the other on her parasol. She might think of this baby
as inconvenient, even hate it sometimes, but far be it for some diminutive German with bad taste in pets to describe it as
an
abomination.
“I do beg your pardon!”

Madame Lefoux recognized
that tone
in Alexia's voice and jumped to her feet. Grabbing Alexia by the hand, she attempted to pull her friend up and out of the
room.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf had whipped out a notepad and, oblivious to Alexia's anger, began scribbling away, all the while muttering
to himself.

“We shall find guest rooms on our own, shall we?” suggested the Frenchwoman over Alexia's angry sputtering.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf made a dismissive movement with his stylographic pen, not looking up from his ruminations.

Alexia found her voice. “Couldn't I just whack him once? Just a little one, over the head? He would hardly notice.”

Floote raised one eyebrow and took hold of Alexia's elbow, helping Madame Lefoux to remove her bodily from the room. “Bed,
I think, madam.”

“Oh, very well,” conceded Alexia, “if you insist.” She glared at Madame Lefoux. “But you had better be right about this character's
character.”

“Oh”—the dimples were back—“I believe he may surprise you.”

“Like being served wet toad on toast?”

“He could prove you're right. That Lord Maccon fathered your child.”

“That's the only possible way this could be worth it. ‘Female Specimen,' indeed! Sounds like he plans to dissect me with a
clinkering-spud.”

When Alexia finally came down to breakfast the next morning, it was, in fact, no longer morning at all, but early afternoon.
Madame Lefoux and Floote were already seated at the small dining table, as was the little German scientist. He was entirely
absorbed in some research while eating—
deplorable behavior
! He was positively vibrating
in excitement, almost as much as his feather duster of a dog.

As it was now daytime, both the German and his dog were a tad more formally attired. Alexia was a little surprised. She'd
half expected Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf to still be wearing his striped nightshirt. Instead, he looked perfectly respectable in a
tweed coat and brown trousers. He wore no cravat, to Floote's obvious dismay. Alexia was, perhaps, less shocked by the missing
cravat than she should have been. After all, eccentricity of dress was to be expected in foreigners for whom neckwear and
cravats were regarded with suspicion, as they made it difficult to identify drones. Poche also wore tweed; a length of it
was tied in a waterfall knot about the dog's neck.
Aha,
thought Alexia,
the missing cravat!
The creature greeted Alexia's arrival with the expected volley of frenzied barking.

Alexia arranged herself at the table without direction from her host and, as he did not appear to care one way or the other,
she began helping herself to the repast. Today the infant-inconvenience wasn't objecting to food. Buggery thing couldn't make
up its mind. Madame Lefoux greeted her with a fond smile and Floote with a little nod.

“Sir,” said Alexia to their host.

“Good afternoon, Female Specimen.” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf did not look up from the open book and companion notepad upon which
he was scribbling some complex formula.

Alexia scowled.

Whatever else might be said about Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf—and after his use of the term “abomination,” Alexia could certainly think
of a good deal that
she
might say about him—he provided a decent spread. The food
laid out for luncheon was light but tasty: roasted winter vegetables, cold poultry, bread that managed to be both crispy and
fluffy, and a selection of flaky pastries. Alexia had extracted from the depths of her dispatch case some of the precious
tea that Ivy had given her. It had survived the journey far better than anything else. She had also, after a moment's consideration,
transferred a small emergency amount into one of the pockets of her parasol, just in case. Fortunately, milk remained a cross-cultural
universal, and the tea managed to taste just as delicious as it might have back in England. This resulted in a pang of homesickness
so acute that Alexia actually did not speak for a good few minutes after the initial sip.

Madame Lefoux noticed her uncharacteristic silence.

“Are you feeling well, my dear?” The inventor placed a soft hand on Alexia's upper arm.

Alexia started slightly and experienced an unacceptable welling of tears. Really, at her age! It seemed to have been a very
long while since anyone touched her with genuine fondness. Air kisses and three-fingered pats on the head comprised the bulk
of affectionate action in the Loontwill household, and had done since she was a child. It wasn't until Conall had come into
her life that Alexia became accustomed to physical intimacy. He enjoyed it immensely and had engaged in it with her at every
possible opportunity. Madame Lefoux was not quite so aggressive, but she was French, and seemed to feel that verbal comfort
ought to be companioned by a soothing caress. Alexia leaned into the embrace. The hand around her shoulder was not large and
calloused, and Madame Lefoux smelled of vanilla and engine oil, not open fields, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

“Oh, it is nothing. I was reminded of home there for one moment.” Alexia took another sip of the tea.

The German looked up at her curiously. “He did not treat you well? The werewolf husband?”

“Not as such in the end,” Alexia prevaricated, never one to talk about personal matters with strange little Germans.

“Werewolves, ya. Difficult creatures. What is left of the soul is all violence and emotion. It is a wonder you English have
managed to integrate them into society.”

Alexia shrugged. “I am under the impression the vampires are more difficult to handle.”

“Really?”

Alexia, feeling she may have been traitorously indiscreet, grappled for the right way of phrasing it. “You know how vampires
get, all high-up-mucky-mucky and I'm-older-than-thou.” She paused. “No, I suppose you do not know how they get, do you?”

“Mmm. I should have thought werewolves more an issue. With the running about in armies and the marrying of normal humans.”

“Well
my
particular werewolf did turn out a bit difficult. But, to be fair, he was perfectly suitable right up until the end.” Alexia
was painfully conscious that “perfectly suitable” was a rather understated way of putting it. Conall had been a model husband
in his massive grumpy way: tender, except when it wasn't necessary, and then rough until gentleness was called for once more.
She shivered slightly at the memories. He had also been loud and gruff and overprotective, but he had adored her. It had taken
her a good deal of time before she believed that she was worth all that fierce affection he lavished upon her. To have it
stolen away unjustly was that much more cruel.

“Isn't the end result what counts?” Madame Lefoux cocked her head. She had taken against Conall most decidedly when he kicked
Alexia out.

Alexia grimaced. “Spoken like a true scientist.”

“You cannot possibly forgive him for what he did?” Madame Lefoux seemed ready to reprimand Alexia.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf glanced up from his meal. “Cast you out, did he? Does he not think the child is his?”

“Howlers have never sung of a werewolf child.” Alexia couldn't believe it, but she was actually defending her husband. “And
loving me apparently wasn't enough to get him over that fact. He didn't even give me a chance.”

The German shook his head. “Werewolves. Emotion and violence, ya?” Then he put down his stylographic pen decidedly and leaned
forward over book and notepad. “I spent all morning with research. My records would seem to substantiate his assessment. Although,
lack of corroborative cases or other information does not make for real evidence. There are older records.”

“Records kept by vampires?” Alexia theorized, thinking of the Vampire Edicts.

“Records kept by Templars.”

Floote gave a little wince. Alexia glanced at him. He chewed his food impassively.

“So you think the Templars might have some hint as to how
this
is possible?” Alexia gestured delicately at her midsection.

“Ya. If this has happened before, they will have records of it.”

Alexia had grand romantic visions of marching into Conall's office and slamming down proof of her innocence—of making him
eat his words.

“And what of your theories, Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf?” asked Madame Lefoux.

“I believe, if I abandon the concept of undead but maintain my aetheric analysis of the composition of the soul, I might be
able to explain this pregnancy.”

“Will you be able to maintain the principles of epidermal contact?”

The German looked impressed. “You are indeed familiar with my work, madame. I thought you were an engineer by training?”

Madame Lefoux flashed her dimples. “My aunt is a ghost and so was my grandmother. I have a keen interest in understanding
excess soul.”

The horrible little dog came over to yap at Alexia's ankle, and then, to add insult to injury, began to chew on one of her
bootlaces. Alexia picked the serviette up off of her lap and surreptitiously dropped it on Poche's head. The animal attempted
to back out from under it, with little success.

“You believe you may have excess soul?” The German was apparently unaware of his dog's predicament.

The Frenchwoman nodded. “It seems likely.”

Alexia wondered what that might feel like, knowing one was likely to end life as a poltergeist. She herself would die with
no possibility of salvation or immortality. Preternaturals had no soul to save for either God or ghost.

“Then why not seek immortality, now that you live in England where such atrocities are openly encouraged?” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf
curled his lip.

Madame Lefoux shrugged. “Despite my preferred mode of dress, I am still a woman, and I know my chances
of surviving a werewolf bite, not to mention vampire blooding, are extremely slim. Besides, I do not wish to lose what little
skill I have as an inventor alongside the bulk of my soul. To become entirely dependent upon the goodwill of a pack or a hive?
No thank you. And simply because my relatives were ghosts does not necessarily mean I, too, have excess soul. In the end,
I am not that much of a risk taker.”

The little dog had managed to circumnavigate the entire table without shaking off the offending serviette. Alexia coughed
and rattled her dinnerware to disguise the sound of the animal bumping into various objects about the room. Floote, now within
reach, bent down and removed the cloth from the dog's head, issuing Alexia a reproving look.

Alexia had never thought to ask, but come to think of it, it was indeed odd that an inventor of Madame Lefoux's particularly
high creative skill level should have no supernatural patron. The Frenchwoman maintained good working relationships with the
Westminster Hive and the Woolsey Pack, but she also dealt with loners, roves, and daylight folk. Alexia had thought the inventor's
avoidance of metamorphosis and supernatural patronage stemmed from personal objections, not practical ones. Now she was forced
to consider, had she herself been born with Madame Lefoux's options, would she choose the same path?

The German was not impressed. “I should prefer if you were a religious protester rather than an ethical objector, Madame Lefoux.”

“It is better, then, Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf, that I act to suit myself and not you. Is it not?”

“So long as the end result is one less supernatural.”

“Oh, really. Must we talk politics while eating?” Alexia interjected at this juncture.

“By all means, Female Specimen, let us turn the conversation back to you.” The little man's eyes were quite hard as he focused
them upon her, and Alexia had a sudden sense of alarm.

“It is quite remarkable, you understand, your pregnancy. Until last night, I would have sworn that vampires and werewolves
could only breed through metamorphosis. Ya? Your preternatural touch, it does not cancel out the fact that the supernatural
person has, already, mostly died. It turns them mortal, ya, but not
human,
certainly not sufficient to procreate naturally.”

Alexia nibbled a piece of fruit. “Obviously this is an incorrect statement you make, sir.”

“Obviously, Female Specimen. So I have—how do you say?—rethought the situation. There is one line of scientific evidence to
support your claim. That line is the fact that both vampires and werewolves still engage in”—the little man paused, a bright
flush suffusing his pale features—“well, bedroom activities.”

“Of an extensive and rather experimental nature, if the rumors are to be believed.” Madame Lefoux waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
Trust the only French person at the table to be at ease with this topic of conversation. Alexia, Floote, and Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf
all looked painfully uncomfortable and shared a moment of awkward solidarity. Then the little German soldiered bravely on.

“There has to be a reason the procreative urges aren't eliminated postmetamorphosis. Yet, none of my books could adequately
address this concern. If they really were
undead, werewolves should no longer have need of that particular
biological
function.”

“So how, exactly, does this pertain to my situation?” Alexia stopped eating to listen with renewed interest.

“It seems clear that your husband's capacity to continue to, er, perform, even as a werewolf, must be linked to an instinctual
need to produce offspring the old-fashioned way. Modern science tells us that, thus, offspring must be a possibility, however
infinitesimal. You, it would appear, are that infinitesimal possibility. The problem is, of course, the inevitable miscarriage.”