Alexia did not ask what was in the needle.
Madame Lefoux folded it back in and tucked the watch away once more.
Alexia took a long assessing look at the amount and type of jewelry the Frenchwoman wore. Her two cravat pins were in place, one wood, one silver. And there was another chain leading to her other vest pocket. A different kind of watch, or some other gadget, perhaps? The buttoner pin seemed suddenly suspicious, as did the metal cigar case tucked into the band of her top hat. Come to think on it, Alexia had never seen the woman smoke a cigar.
“True,” said Alexia, “but the primitive nature of the attempt could be to throw me off the scent.”
“You are of a suspicious inclination, are you not, Lady Maccon?” The Frenchwoman still did not look at her but seemed to find the cold night sky infinitely fascinating.
Lady Maccon came over philosophical. “Possibly that has something to do with having no soul. I prefer to think of it as pragmatism rather than paranoia.”
Madame Lefoux laughed. She turned toward Alexia, dimples back.
And just like that, something solid hit Alexia hard across the back at exactly the correct angle to tilt her forward and over the railing. She tumbled, ass over teakettle, right over the edge of the deck. She felt herself falling, and screaming, scrabbling with both hands for purchase on the side of the dirigible. Why was the darn thing so smooth? The carrier body of the dirigible was shaped like a huge duck, and the observation deck was at its fattest point. In falling down, she was also falling away.
There was a horrible long moment when Alexia knew all was lost. She knew that all her future held in store was the long cold rush of aether and then air followed by a sad, wet thud. And then she was stopped with an abrupt jerk and flipped upside down, her head crashing hard into the side of the ship. The reinforced metal hem of her dress, designed to keep her copious skirts from floating about in the aether breezes, had wrapped fast around a spur that stuck out of the side of the ship two decks down, part of the docking mechanism.
She hung, suspended, her back against the ship’s side. Carefully, cautiously, she twisted, climbing her own body with her hands, seeking out the spur of metal, until she could wrap her arms around it. She reflected that this was probably the first and last time in her life she would have cause to value the ridiculous fashions society foisted upon her sex. She realized she was still screaming and stopped, slightly embarrassed with herself. Her mind became a blur of worries. Could she trust in the security of the little metal spur to which she now clung? Was Madame Lefoux safe? Had her parasol fallen over the edge with her?
She took several calming breaths and assessed the situation: not dead yet, but not precisely safe either. “Halooo,” she called out. “Anyone? A little assistance if you would be so kind.”
The cold aether rushed past her, wrapping a loving chill about her legs, which were protected now only by her underdrawers and were unused to such exposure. No one answered her call.
Only then did she realize that, despite the fact that she had stopped screaming, the screaming had not stopped. Above her, she could see the figure of Madame Lefoux struggling against a cloaked opponent against the white backdrop of the blimp. Whoever had pushed Alexia over the edge obviously intended Madame Lefoux to follow. But the inventor was putting up a good deal of fight. She was struggling valiantly, arms pinwheeling, top hat tilting frantically from side to side.
“Help!” Alexia cried, hoping someone might hear her above the racket.
The struggling continued. First Madame Lefoux, then the covert enemy, leaned back over the railing, only to twist aside at the last moment and fight on. Then Madame Lefoux jerked away, fumbling with something. There came the sound of a loud burst of compressed air. The whole dirigible jerked suddenly to one side.
Alexia’s grip loosened. She was distracted from the battle above by her own, more pressing, danger as she tried to reestablish her purchase on the helpful little spur.
The sound of forced air rang forth again, and the cloaked villain vanished from sight, leaving Madame Lefoux slumped back against the railing above. The dirigible lurched again, and Alexia let out a little eep of distress.
“Halloo! Madame Lefoux, a little assistance if you please!” she yelled up at the top of her voice. She had cause to appreciate her lung capacity and the vocal practice that living with a confrontational husband and a pack of unruly werewolves had given her.
Madame Lefoux turned and looked down. “Why, Lady Maccon! I was convinced you had fallen to your death! How wonderful that you are still alive.”
Alexia could barely make out what the Frenchwoman was saying. The inventor’s normally melodic voice was high and tinny, a helium-afflicted squeak. The inflation apparatus for the blimp must have developed a severe leak to be affecting voices all the way down to the observation deck.
“Well, I am not going to be here much longer,” yelled back Alexia.
The top hat nodded agreement. “Hold on, Lady Maccon, I shall fetch crewmen to collect you directly.”
“What?” yelled Alexia. “I cannot make you out at all. You have come over all squeaky.”
Madame Lefoux’s top hat and associated head disappeared from view.
Alexia entertained herself by concentrating on holding on as hard as she could and yelling a bit more for form’s sake. She was indebted to those few puffy clouds floating below her, for they obscured the distant ground. She did not want to know exactly how far she had to fall.
Eventually, a small porthole window popped open near one of her booted feet. A familiar ugly hat stuck out the tiny hole. The face wearing the hat tilted up and back and witnessed Alexia’s indecorous position.
“Why, Alexia Maccon, what are you doing? You appear to be dangling.” The voice was a little slurred. Ivy was clearly still laboring under the effects of Madame Lefoux’s cognac. “How undignified of you. Stop it at once!”
“Ivy. Assist me, would you?”
“I hardly see what I can do,” replied Miss Hisselpenny. “Really, Alexia, what could have possessed you to attach yourself to the side of the ship in such a juvenile fashion? It is positively barnacle-like.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ivy, it is not like I intended to end up this way.” Ivy tended toward dense, it was true, but alcohol evidently caused her to attain new heights of fatheadedness.
“Oh? Well, then. But honestly, Alexia, I do not mean to be boorish, but do you realize that your underdrawers are exposed to the night air, not to mention the public view?”
“Ivy, I am hanging on for dear life to the side of a floating dirigible, leagues up in the aether. Even you must admit there are some instances wherein protocol should be relaxed.”
“But why?”
“Ivy, I fell, obviously.”
Miss Hisselpenny blinked bleary dark eyes at her friend. “Oh, deary me, Alexia. Are you actually in real danger? Oh no!” Her head retreated.
Alexia wondered what it said about her character that Ivy had genuinely believed she would intentionally go climbing about the side of a floating dirigible.
Some sort of silky material was shoved out the window and up at her.
“What is that?”
“Why, my second-best cloak.”
Lady Maccon gritted her teeth.
“Ivy, did you miss the part where I am hanging, an inch from death? Do get help.”
The cloak vanished, and Miss Hisselpenny’s head reappeared. “As bad as that, is it?”