Floote, having fol owed Professor Lyal in from the street, tipped his hat to the Frenchwoman in such a way as to indicate mild censure, which Lyal supposed stemmed from the fact that he did not approve of her choice of attire and never had.
“Lady Maccon’s missive indicated his presence might be acceptable.” Lyal set his hat careful y down on the edge of the sales counter, where it would not look as though it were part of the stock. It was a favorite hat. “You are aware that he was valet to Lady Maccon’s father? If we are going to discuss what I believe we are going to discuss, his input might prove invaluable.”
“Was he real y? Of course, I knew he was butler to the Loontwil s before Alexia’s marriage. I don’t recal her revealing anything further.” Madame Lefoux looked with renewed interest at Floote, who remained stoic under her pointed scrutiny.
“Everything that has happened, up to a point, probably has something to do with Alessandro Tarabotti.” Professor Lyal drew her attention back to himself.
“You believe so, do you? Including this impromptu clandestine meeting of Alexia’s?”
“Isn’t that always the way of things with preternaturals? Should we go somewhere more private?” The open airiness of the hat shop with its long front windows made the Beta feel uncomfortably exposed. He would feel more relaxed below the shop in Madame Lefoux’s secret underground contrivance chamber.
Madame Lefoux put down her work. “Yes, Alexia wil know where to find us. If you would like to—”
She was cut off by a knock sounding at the shop door. Bel s jingled charmingly as it was pushed open. A cheerful-looking ginger-haired young blunt entered the room wearing a tan top hat, slightly too-tight red plaid breeches, gaiters, and a wide smile that had the unmistakable air of the theater about it.
“Ah, Tunstel , of course.” Professor Lyal was not surprised at this addition to Lady Maccon’s little gathering.
Floote gave Lord Maccon’s former claviger a nod. Then he slipped past him to shut the shop door and check the CLOSED sign. He’d only lately been made Alexia’s personal secretary and librarian; before that he’d been a very good butler. Sometimes it was hard to take the butlering out of a fel ow, especial y where doors were concerned.
“What ho, Professor? Lady Maccon’s note didn’t say you’d be here. What a pleasure, indeed. How’s the old wolf?” Tunstel doffed his hat and gave the assembly a sweeping bow and an even wider grin.
“Floppy.”
“You don’t say? I should think, from what I read in the paper this morning, he’d be rampaging about the countryside, threatening to tear folk limb from limb. Why—” Tunstel was warming to his topic, striding around the room in the sentimental style, arms waving, crashing into hats. He had recently earned himself a reputation as an actor of some note, but even before his fame, his mannerisms had leaned markedly in the dramatic direction.
A humorless little smile crossed Madame Lefoux’s lips, and she cut the former claviger off midgesticulation. “Not taking the marital separation well , your Alpha? I am very glad to hear it.” It wasn’t exactly rude of her to interrupt Tunstel . The redhead was a well -meaning fel ow, with a perpetual y jovial disposition and an undeniable stage presence, but, it must be admitted, he was prone to hyperbole.
Professor Lyal sighed heavily. “He has been intoxicated these last three days.”
“Good gracious me! I wasn’t even aware of the fact that werewolves could become intoxicated.” The Frenchwoman’s scientific interest was piqued.
“It takes some considerable effort and real al ocation of resources.”
“What was he drinking?”
“Formaldehyde, as it turns out. Just this morning I deduced his source. It is most wearisome. He worked his way through al of my reserves and then demolished half my specimen col ection before I realized what he was up to. I keep a laboratory, you see, on Woolsey Castle grounds in a converted gamekeeper’s hut.”
“Are you saying that you actual y are a legitimate professor?” Madame Lefoux tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in newfound respect.
“Not as such. Amateur ruminantologist, to be precise.”
“Oh.”
Professor Lyal looked modestly proud. “I am considered a bit of an expert on the procreative practices of Ovis orientalis aries. ”
“Sheep?”
“Sheep.”
“Sheep!” Madame Lefoux’s voice came over suddenly high, as though she were suppressing an inclination to giggle.
“Yes, as in baaaa. ” Professor Lyal frowned. Sheep were a serious business, and he failed to see the source of Madame Lefoux’s amusement.
“Let me understand this correctly. You are a werewolf with a keen interest in sheep breeding?” A little bit of a French accent trickled into Madame Lefoux’s speech in her glee.
Professor Lyal continued bravely on, ignoring her flippancy. “I preserve the nonviable embryo in formaldehyde for future study. Lord Maccon has been drinking my samples.
When confronted, he admitted to enjoying both the refreshing beverage and the ‘crunchy pickled snack’ as well . I was not pleased.” At which, Professor Lyal felt that nothing more was required of him on this particular topic. “Shal we proceed?”
Taking the hint, Madame Lefoux made her way to the back of the shop. In the farthest corner was a pretty marble-topped stand with an attractive display of gloves spread atop it. Lifting one of the many glove boxes, the Frenchwoman revealed a lever. She pressed it sharply down and a door swung open from the wal before her.
“Oh, I say!” Tunstel was impressed, never having visited Madame Lefoux’s laboratory before. Floote, on the other hand, was untroubled by the almost magical appearance of the doorway. Very little ever seemed to ruffle the feathers of the unflappable Floote.
The hidden doorway led into neither a room nor a passageway, but instead a large cagelike contraption. They entered, Tunstel with much highly vocalized trepidation.
“I’m not certain about this, gents. Looks like one of those animal-col ecting thingamabobs, used by my friend Yardley. You know Winston Yardley? Explorer of some renown. He was off down this engorged river, the Burhidihing I think it was, and came back with a ruddy great ship packed with cages just like this, ful of the most messy kinds of animals. Not certain I approve of getting into one myself.”
“It is an ascension room,” explained Madame Lefoux to the worried redhead.
Floote pushed a lever, which closed the door to the shop, and then he pul ed the smal metal safety grate closed across the open side of the cage.
“Cables and guide rails al ow the chamber to move up and down between levels, like so.” Madame Lefoux pul ed a cord on one side of the cage. She continued explaining to Tunstel as the contraption dropped downward, raising her voice above the din that accompanied movement. “Above us is a steam-powered windlass. Do not worry; it is perfectly capable of sustaining our weight and lowering us at a respectable speed.”
So it proved to be the case as, with many ominous puffs of steam floating into the cage and some creaking and groaning that made Tunstel jump, they moved down.
Madame Lefoux’s definition of a respectable speed might be questioned, however, as the contraption plummeted quickly, bumping when it hit the ground, causing everyone to stumble violently up against one side.
“At some point, I suppose I shal have to get around to fixing that.” The Frenchwoman gave an embarrassed little smile, showing smal dimples. Straightening her cravat and top hat, she led the three men out. The passageway they walked into was lit by neither gas lamps nor candles, but instead by an orange-tinted gas that glowed faintly as it traveled through glass tubing set in one side of the ceiling. It was carried by an air current of some kind. The gas swirled constantly, resulting in patchy il umination and a shifting orange glow.
“Oooh,” commented Tunstel , and then, rather unguardedly, “What’s that?”
“Aetheromagnetic currents with a gaseous electromagnetic il uminatory crystal ine particulate in suspension. I was interested, until recently, in devising a portable version, but, if not precisely regulated, the gas has a tendency to, well , explode.”
Tunstel didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, some questions are best left unasked, I take it?” He gave the tubing a wary look and moved to walk on the opposite side of the passageway.
“Probably wise,” agreed Professor Lyal .
Madame Lefoux gave a half shrug. “You did ask, no?” She led them through a door at the end of the passage and into her contrivance chamber.
Professor Lyal sensed that there was something different about the place. He could not determine exactly what it was. He was familiar with the laboratory, having visited it in order to acquire various necessary instruments, gadgets, and devices for the pack, for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), and sometimes for his own personal use.
Madame Lefoux was general y thought to be one of the better young members of the mad-scientist set. She had a reputation for good, hard work and fair prices, her only idiosyncrasy of consequence, so far, being her mode of dress. Al members of the Order of the Brass Octopus were notorious for their eccentricities, and Madame Lefoux stood comparatively low on the peculiarity scale. Of course, there was always the possibility she would go on to develop more offensive inclinations later. There were rumors, but, to date, Lyal had had no cause to complain. Her laboratory was everything that was to be expected from an inventor of her character and reputation—very large, very messy, and very, very interesting.
“Where is your son?” inquired Professor Lyal politely, looking around for Quesnel Lefoux’s mercurial little face.
“Boarding school.” The inventor dismissed her child with a faint headshake of disappointment. “He was becoming a liability, and then the muddle with Angelique last month made school the most logical choice. I anticipate his imminent expulsion.”
Professor Lyal nodded his understanding. Angelique, Quesnel’s biological mother and Alexia’s former lady’s maid, had been working undercover for a vampire hive when she fel to her death out of the window of an obscure castle in Scotland. Not that such information was common knowledge, nor likely to become so, but the hives were not above recrimination. Angelique had failed her masters, and Madame Lefoux had involved herself unnecessarily in the matter. It was probably safer for Quesnel to be out of town and away from society, but Professor Lyal had a soft spot for the little ragamuffin, and would miss seeing him around the place.
“Formerly Lefoux must be missing him.”
Madame Lefoux dimpled at that. “Oh, I doubt that. My aunt never did like children very much, even when she was a child.”
The ghost in question, Madame Lefoux’s dead aunt and fel ow inventor, resided in the contrivance chamber and had been, until recently, responsible for Quesnel’s education—although, of course, not during the daytime.
Floote stood quietly while Professor Lyal and Madame Lefoux exchanged pleasantries. Tunstel did not. He began poking about the vast muddle, picking up containers and shaking them, examining the contents of large glass vials and winding up sets of gears. There were cords and wire coils draped over hat stands to investigate, vacuum tubes propped in umbrel a stands to tip over, and large pieces of machinery to rap on experimental y.
“Do you think I should warn him off? Some of those are volatile.” Madame Lefoux crossed her arms, not particularly concerned.
Professor Lyal rol ed his eyes. “Impossible pup.”
Floote went trailing after the curious Tunstel and began relieving him of his more dangerous distractions.
“I see there is a reason Lord Maccon never decided to bite him into metamorphosis.” Madame Lefoux watched the exchange with amusement.
“Aside from the fact that he ran away, got married, and left the pack?”
“Yes, aside from that.”
Tunstel paused to scoop up and put on a pair of glassicals as he walked. Since Madame Lefoux had entered the London market, the vision assistors were becoming ubiquitous. They were worn like spectacles but looked like the malformed offspring of a pair of binoculars and a set of opera glasses. More properly cal ed “monocular cross-magnification lenses with spectra modifier attachments,” Alexia cal ed them “glassicals,”
and Professor Lyal was ashamed to admit even he had taken to referring to them as such. Tunstel blinked at them, one eyebal hideously magnified by the instrument.
“Very stylish,” commented Professor Lyal , who owned several pairs himself and was often to be seen wearing them in public.
Floote gave Professor Lyal a dirty look, removed the glassicals from Tunstel , and prodded him back to where Madame Lefoux leaned against a wal , arms and ankles crossed. Large diagrams drawn in black pencil on stiff yel ow paper were haphazardly pinned behind her.
