“And that does not trouble you?”
“My dear, he will live hundreds of years longer than I as well. One must come to terms with these things if one fraternizes with the supernatural set. I admit it is hard, knowing we will not grow old together. But if you choose Tunstell, you may eventually have to face the same concerns. Then again, your time together could be cut short, as he may not survive metamorphosis.”
“Is that likely to occur soon?”
Lady Maccon knew very little about this aspect of pack dynamics. So she only shrugged.
Ivy sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation that seemed to encompass all the problems of the empire. “It is all too much to think about. My head is positively awhirl. I simply do not know what to do. Don’t you see? Don’t you comprehend my cacophony?”
“You mean catastrophe?”
Ivy ignored her. “Do I throw over Captain Featherstonehaugh, and his five hundred a year, for Mr. Tunstell and his unstable”—she shuddered—“working-class station? Or do I continue with my engagement?”
“You could always marry your captain and pursue a dalliance with Tunstell on the side.”
Miss Hisselpenny gasped, sitting fully upright in her outrage at such a proposal. “Alexia, how could you even think such a thing, let alone suggest it aloud!”
“Well, yes, of course, those damp kisses would have to improve.”
Ivy threw a pillow at her friend. “Really!”
Lady Maccon, it must be admitted, gave little further thought to her dear friend’s dilemma. She transferred all the most delicate documents and important smaller instruments and devices out of her dispatch case and into the pockets of her parasol. Since she was already known as an eccentric parasol-carrier, no one remarked upon its continued presence at her side, even well after dark.
Dinner was a strained affair, stiff with tension and suspicion. Worse, the food was horrible. True, Alexia had very high standards, but the fare continued to be ghastly. Everything—meat, vegetables, even pudding—appeared to have been steamed into flaccid colorless submission, with no sauce, or even salt, to bolster the flavor. It was like eating a wet handkerchief.
Felicity, who had the palate of a country goat and tucked in without pause to anything laid before her, noticed that Alexia was only picking at her food. “Nice to see you are finally taking measures, sister.”
Lady Maccon, lost in thought, replied with an unguarded, “Measures?”
“Well, I am terribly concerned for your health. One simply should not weigh so much at your age.”
Lady Maccon poked at a sagging carrot and wondered if anyone would miss her dear sister were she to be oh-so-gently tipped over the rail of the upper deck.
Madame Lefoux glanced up. She gave Alexia an appraising look. “I think Lady Maccon appears in fine health.”
“I think you are being fooled by her unfashionable robustness,” said Felicity.
Madame Lefoux continued as though Felicity hadn’t spoken. “You, on the other hand, Miss Loontwill, are looking a touch insipid.”
Felicity gasped.
Alexia wished, yet again, that Madame Lefoux were not so clearly a spy. She would be a good egg otherwise. Was it she who had tried to get into the dispatch case?
Tunstell came wandering in, full of excuses for his tardiness, and took his seat between Felicity and Ivy.
“How nice of you to join us,” commented Felicity.
Tunstell looked embarrassed. “Have I missed the first course?”
Alexia examined the steamed offering before her. “You can have mine if you like. I find my appetite sorely taxed these days.”
She passed the graying mass over to Tunstell, who looked at it doubtfully but began eating.
Madame Lefoux continued talking to Felicity. “I have an interesting little invention in my rooms, Miss Loontwill, excellent for enlivening the facial muscles and imparting a rosy hue to the cheeks. You are welcome to try it sometime.” There was a slight dimpling at that, suggesting this invention was either sticky or painful.
“I would not think, with your propensities, that you would be concerned with feminine appearances,” shot back Felicity, glaring at the woman’s vest and dinner jacket.
“Oh, I assure you, they concern me greatly.” The Frenchwoman looked at Alexia.
Lady Maccon decided Madame Lefoux reminded her a little bit of Professor Lyall, only prettier and less vulpine. She looked to her sister. “Felicity, I seem to have misplaced my leather travel journal. You have not seen it anywhere, have you?”
The second course was presented. It looked only slightly more appetizing than the first: some unidentifiable grayish meat in a white sauce, boiled potatoes, and soggy dinner rolls. Alexia waved it all away in disgust.
“Oh dear, sister, you have not taken up writing, have you?” Felicity pretended shock. “Quite frankly, all of that reading is outside of enough. I had thought that being married would cure you of such an unwise inclination. I never read if I can help it. It is terribly bad for the eyes. And it causes one’s forehead to wrinkle most horribly, just there.” She pointed between her eyebrows and then said pityingly to Lady Maccon, “Oh, I see you do not have to worry about that anymore, Alexia.”
Lady Maccon sighed. “Oh, pack it in, Felicity, do.”
Madame Lefoux hid a smile.
Miss Hisselpenny said suddenly in a loud and highly distressed voice, “Mr. Tunstell? Oh! Mr. Tunstell, are you quite all right?”
Tunstell was leaning forward over his plate, his face gone pale and drawn.
“Is it the food?” wondered Lady Maccon. “Because if it is, I entirely understand your feelings on the subject. I shall have a conversation with the cook.”
Tunstell looked up at her. His freckles were standing out and his eyes watering. “I feel most unwell,” he said distinctly before lurching to his feet and stumbling out the door.
Alexia looked after him for a moment with her mouth agape, then glared suspiciously down at the food set before them. She stood. “If you will excuse me, I think I had best check on Tunstell. No, Ivy, you stay here.” She grabbed her parasol and followed the claviger.
She found him on the nearest observation deck, collapsed on his side against a far rail, clutching at his stomach.
Alexia marched up to him. “Did this come over you quite suddenly?”
Tunstell nodded, clearly unable to speak.
There came a faint smell of vanilla, and Madame Lefoux’s voice behind them said, “Poison.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Problematic Octopuses and Airship Mountaineering
Randolph Lyall was old, for a werewolf. Something on the order of three hundred or so. He had long since stopped counting. And through all that time, he had played this little game of chess with local vampires: they moved their pawns and he moved his. He’d been changed shortly before King Henry absorbed supernaturals legally into the British government, so he’d never known the Dark Ages, not personally. But he, like every other supernatural on the British Isles, worked hard to keep them from returning. Funny how such a simple objective could so easily become adulterated by politics and new technology. Of course, he could simply march up to the Westminster Hive and ask them what they were about. But they would no more tell him than he would tell them Lord Maccon had BUR agents watching the hive twenty-four hours a day.
Lyall reached his destination in far less time than it would have taken by carriage. He changed into human form in a dark alley, throwing the cloak he’d carried in his mouth about his naked body. Not precisely dress appropriate for paying a social visit, but he was confident his host would understand. This was business. Then again, one never could tell with vampires. They had, after all, dominated the fashion world for decades as a kind of indirect campaign against werewolves and the uncivilized state shifting shape required.