The French inventor looked at them, genuinely amazed. “You did not know? Neither of you knew?”
Lord Maccon recoiled away from his wife, violently, jerking to stand upright, arms stiff by his sides.
Alexia glared at Madame Lefoux. “Don’t talk piffle, madame. I cannot possibly be pregnant. That is not scientifically feasible.”
Madame Lefoux dimpled. “I was with Angelique during her confinement. You show every possible sign of a delicate condition—nausea, weakness, increased girth.”
“What!” Lady Maccon was genuinely shocked. True, she had been slightly sick to her stomach and unreasonably off some foods, but was it really possible? She supposed she might be in an indelicate condition. The scientists could be wrong, after all; there didn’t exist very many soulless females, and none of them were married to werewolves.
She turned a suddenly grinning face to her husband. “You know what this means? I am not a bad dirigible floater! It was being pregnant that made me ill on board. Fantastic.”
But her husband was not reacting in quite the manner anticipated. He was clearly angry, and not the sort of angry that made him bluster about, or shout, or change form, or any of those normal Lord Macconish kinds of things. He was quietly, white-faced, shivering angry. And it was terribly, terribly frightening.
“How?” he barked at his wife, backing away from her as though she were infected with some terrible disease.
“What do you mean, how? The how should be perfectly obvious, even to you, you impossible man!” Alexia shot back, becoming angry herself. Shouldn’t he be delighted? This was evidently a scientific miracle. Wasn’t it?
“We only call it ‘being human’ when I touch you, for lack of a better term. I’m still dead, or mostly dead. Have been for hundreds of years. No supernatural creature has ever produced an offspring. Ever. It simply isna possible.”
“You believe this can’t be your child?”
“Now, hold on there, my lord, don’t be hasty.” Madame Lefoux tried to intervene, placing one small hand on Lord Maccon’s arm.
He shook her off with a snarl.
“Of course it’s your child, you pollock!” Now Alexia was livid. If she hadn’t still been feeling weak, she would have stood and marched about the room. As it was, she groped for her parasol. Maybe whacking her husband atop his thick skull would drive some sense into him.
“Thousands of years of history and experience would seem to suggest you are lying, wife.”
Lady Maccon sputtered in offense at that. She was so overset she couldn’t even find the words, a remarkably novel experience for her.
“Who was he?” Conall wanted to know. “What daylight-dependent dishtowel did you fornicate with? One of my clavigers? One of Akeldama’s poodle-faking drones? Is that why you’re always visiting him? Or just some milk-curling mortal blowhard?”
Then he began calling her things, names and words, dirtier and harsher than she had ever heard before—let alone been called—and Alexia had encountered more than her fair share of profanity over the past year. They were horrible, cruel things, and she could comprehend the meanings of most, despite her lack of familiarity with the terminology.
Conall had committed many a violent act around Alexia during their association, not the least of which was savage a woman into metamorphosis at the supper table, but Alexia had never been actually afraid of him before.
She was afraid of him now. He did not move toward her—in fact, he’d backed farther away toward the door—but his hands were fisted white at his thighs, his eyes had changed to wolf yellow, and his canines were long and extended. She was immeasurably grateful when Madame Lefoux physically interposed herself between Alexia and the earl’s verbal tirade. As though, somehow, the inventor could provide a barrier to his horrible words.
He stayed there, on the other side of the room, yelling at Alexia. It was as though he’d placed the distance between them, not because he didn’t want to come at her and tear her apart, but because he really thought he might. His eyes were such a pale yellow they were almost white. Alexia had never seen them that color before. And, despite the filthy words coming out of his mouth, those eyes were agonized and bereft.
“But I didn’t,” Alexia tried to say. “I wouldn’t. I’d never do those things. I am no adulteress. How could you even think? I would never.” But her protestations of innocence only seemed to injure him. Eventually, his big, good-natured face crumpled slightly about the mouth and nose, drawing down into lines of pain, as though he might actually cry. He strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.
The silence he left behind was palpable.
Lady Kingair had, during the chaos, managed to change back into human form. She came around the front of the couch and stood a moment before Alexia, entirely naked, shielded only by her long gray-brown hair, loose over her shoulders and chest.
“You will understand, Lady Maccon,” she said, eyes cold, “if I ask you to leave Kingair territory at once. Lord Maccon may have abandoned us once, but he is still pack. And pack protects its own.”
“But,” Alexia whispered, “it is his child. I swear it. I was never with anyone else.”
Sidheag only stared at her, hard. “Come now, Lady Maccon. Shouldna you come up with a better story than that? ’Tis na possible. Werewolves canna breed children. Never have done, never will do.” Then she turned and left the room.
Alexia turned to Madame Lefoux, shock written all over her face. “He really believes I was unfaithful.” She herself had reflected recently how much Conall valued loyalty.
Madame Lefoux nodded. “I’m afraid it is a belief most will share.” Her expression sympathetic, she placed a small hand on Alexia’s shoulder and squeezed.
“I wasn’t, I swear I wasn’t.”
The Frenchwoman winced. “I believe that, Lady Maccon. But I will be in the minority.”
“Why would you trust me when even my husband does not?” Alexia looked down at her own stomach and then rested shaking hands upon it.
“Because I know how very little we understand about preternaturals.”
“You are interested in studying me, aren’t you, Madame Lefoux?”
“You are a remarkable creature, Alexia.”
Alexia widened her eyes, trying not to cry, her mind still vibrating with Conall’s words. “Then how is this possible?” She pressed hard against her stomach with both hands, as though asking the tiny creature inside to explain itself to her.
“I imagine that is something we had best figure out. Come on, let’s get you out of this place.”
The Frenchwoman helped Alexia to stand and supported her weight out into the hallway. She was surprisingly strong for such a delicate-looking creature, probably all that lifting of heavy machinery.
They ran into Felicity, looking remarkably somber.
“Sister, there was the most awful to-do,” she said as soon as she saw them. “I believe your husband just smashed one of the hall tables into a thousand pieces with his fist.” She cocked her head. “It was an astonishingly ugly table, but still, one could always give it to the deserving poor, couldn’t one?”
“We must pack and leave immediately,” said Madame Lefoux, keeping one arm supportively about Alexia’s waist.
“Good Lord, why?”
“Your sister is pregnant, and Lord Maccon has cast her out.”
Felicity frowned. “Well, that does not follow.”
Madame Lefoux had clearly had enough. “Quickly, girl, run off and gather your things together. We must quit Kingair directly.”
Three-quarters of an hour later, a borrowed Kingair carriage sped away toward the nearest train station. The horses were fresh and made good time, even in the slush and mud.
Alexia, still overcome with the most profound shock, opened the small window above the carriage door and poked her head out into the rushing wind.
“Sister, come away from the window. That will wreak havoc with your hair. And, really, your hair doesn’t need t
he excuse,” Felicity jawed on. Alexia ignored her, so Felicity looked to the Frenchwoman. “What is she doing?”
Madame Lefoux gave a sad little grimace of a smile—no dimples. “Listening.” She put a gentle hand on Alexia’s back, rubbing it softly. Alexia did not appear to notice.
“For what?”
“Howling, running wolves.”
And Alexia was listening, but there was only the damp quiet of a Scottish night.
extras
meet the author
Ms. Carriger began writing in order to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in Higher Learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She now resides in the Colonies, surrounded by a harem of Armenian lovers, where she insists on tea imported directly from London. She is fond of teeny-tiny hats and tropical fruit. Find out more about Ms. Carriger at www.gailcarriger.com.
introducing
If you enjoyed CHANGELESS,
look out for
BLAMELESS
The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Third
by Gail Carriger
How much longer, Mama, must we tolerate this gross humiliation?”
Lady Alexia Maccon paused before entering the breakfast room. Cutting through the comfortable sounds of chinking teacups and scrunching toast came her sister’s nondulcet tones. In an unsurprising morning duet of well-practiced whining, Felicity’s voice was soon followed by Evylin’s.
“Yes, mumsy darling, such a scandal under our roof. We really shouldn’t be expected to put up with it any longer.”
Felicity championed the cause once more. “This is ruining our chances”—crunch, crunch—“beyond all recuperation. It isn’t to be borne. It really isn’t.”
Alexia made a show of checking her appearance in the hall mirror, hoping to overhear more. Much to her consternation, the Loontwills’ new butler, Swilkins, came through with a tray of kippers. He gave her a disapproving glare that said much on his opinion of a young lady caught eavesdropping on her own family. Eavesdropping was, by rights, a butler’s proprietary art form.
“Good morning, Lady Maccon,” he said loudly enough for the family to hear even through their chatting and clattering. “You received several messages this morning.” He handed Alexia two folded and sealed letters and then waited pointedly for her to precede him into the breakfast room.
Alexia hid her annoyance and flounced in. “Good morning, dearest family.”
Said family responded reluctantly to her pleasant greeting.
As she made her way carefully to the only empty chair, four pairs of blue eyes watched her progress with an air of condemnation. Well, three pairs: the Right Honorable Squire Loontwill seemed entirely taken with the correct cracking of his soft-boiled egg. This involved the application of an ingenious little device, rather like a handheld sideways guillotine, that nipped the tip off the egg in perfect, chipless circularity. Thus happily engrossed, he did not bother to attend to the arrival of his stepdaughter.
Alexia carefully poured herself a glass of barley water and took a piece of toast from the rack, no butter, trying to ignore the smoky smell of breakfast. It had once been her favorite meal; now it invariably curdled her stomach. So far the infant-inconvenience—as she’d taken to thinking of it—was proving itself far more tiresome than one would have thought possible, considering it was years away from either speech or action.
Mrs. Loontwill looked with manifold approval at her daughter’s meager selection. “I shall be comforted,” she said to the table at large, “by the fact that our poor dear Alexia is practically wasting away for want of her husband’s affection. Such fine feelings of sentimentality.” She clearly perceived Alexia’s breakfast-starvation tactics as symptoms of a superior bout of wallowing.
Alexia gave her mother an annoyed glance. Since the infant-inconvenience had already brought with it a small amount of weight added to Alexia’s already substantial figure, she was several stone away from “wasting.” Nor was she of a personality inclined toward wallowing. In addition, she resented the fact that Lord Maccon might be perceived as having anything whatsoever to do with the fact—aside from the obvious, of which her family was as yet unaware—that she was off her food. She opened her mouth to correct her mother in this regard, but Felicity interrupted her.
“Oh, Mama, I hardly think Alexia is the type to die of a broken heart.”
“Nor is she the type to be gastronomically challenged,” shot back Mrs. Loontwill.
“I, on the other hand,” interjected Evylin, helping herself to a plateful of kipper, “may jolly well do both.”
“Language, Evy darling, please.” Mrs. Loontwill snapped a piece of toast in half in her distress.
The youngest Miss Loontwill rounded on Alexia, pointing a forkful of eggs at her accusingly. “Captain Featherstonehaugh has thrown me over! How do you like that? We received a note only this morning.”
“Captain Featherstonehaugh?” Alexia muttered to herself. “I thought he was engaged to Ivy and you were engaged to someone else. How confusing.”
“No no, Evy’s engaged to him now. Or, was. How long have you been staying with us? Do pay attention, Alexia dear.” Mrs. Loontwill admonished.
Evylin sighed dramatically. “And the dress is already bought and everything. I shall have to have it entirely made over.”
“He did have very nice eyebrows,” consoled Mrs. Loontwill.
“Exactly,” crowed Evylin. “Where will I find another pair of eyebrows like that? Crushed, I tell you, Alexia. I am absolutely crushed. And it’s all your fault.”
Evylin, it must be noted, did not actually look nearly so bothered as one rightly ought over the loss of a fiancé, especially one reputed to possess such heights of eyebrow superiority. She stuffed the eggs into her mouth and chewed methodically. She had taken it into her head recently that chewing every bite of food twenty times over would keep her slender. What it did was keep her at the dinner table longer than anyone else.
“He cited philosophical differences, but we all know why he really broke things off.” Felicity waved a gold-edged note at Alexia—a note that clearly contained the good captain’s deepest regrets—a note that, from the stains about its person, had received the concerted attention of everyone at the breakfast table, including the kippers.
“I agree.” Alexia calmly sipped her barley water. “Philosophical differences? That cannot possibly be true. You don’t actually have a philosophy about anything. Do you, Evylin dear?”
“So you admit responsibility?” Evylin was moved to swallow her eggs early so that she could launch the attack once more. She tossed her blond curls, only one or two shades removed from the color of her eggs.
“Certainly not. I never even met the man.”
“But it is still your fault. Abandoning your husband like that, staying with us instead of him. It is outrageous. People. Are. Talking.” Evylin emphasized her words by stabbing ruthlessly at a sausage.
“People do tend to talk. I believe it is generally considered one of the better modes of communication.”
“Oh, why must you be so impossible? Mama, do something about her.” Evylin delegated her mother as responsible for Alexia’s good conduct, gave up on the sausage, and went back to her eggs.
“You hardly seem very cut up about it.” Alexia watched as her sister chewed away.
“Oh, I assure you, poor Evy is deeply effected. Shockingly overwrought, even.” Mrs. Loontwill came to her daughter’s defense.
“Surely you mean affected?” Alexia was not above a barb or two where her family was concerned.
At the end of the table, Squire Loontwill, the only one likely to understand a literary joke, chuckled softly.
“Herbert,” his wife reprimanded immediately, “don’t encourage her to be pert. Most unattractive quality in a married lady, pertness.” She
turned back to Alexia. Mrs. Loontwill’s face, that of a pretty woman who had aged without realizing it, screwed itself up into a grimace Alexia supposed was meant to simulate motherly concern. Instead she looked like a Pekinese with digestive complaints. “Is that what the estrangement with him is over, Alexia? You weren’t… brainy… with him, were you, dear?” Mrs. Loontwill had refrained from referring to Lord Maccon by name ever since her daughter’s marriage, as if by doing so she might hold on to the fact that Alexia had married—a condition believed by most to be highly unlikely right up until the fateful event—without having to remember what she had married. A peer of the realm, it was true, and one of Her Majesty’s finest, to be certain, but also a werewolf. It hadn’t helped that Lord Maccon loathed Mrs. Loontwill and didn’t mind who knew it—including Mrs. Loontwill. Why, Alexia remembered, once he had even… She stopped herself from further thought of her husband, squashing down ruthlessly on the small smile attempting to creep up at the memory.
“It seems clear to me,” interjected Felicity with an air of finality, “that your presence here, Alexia, has somehow overset Evy’s engagement. Even you cannot argue your way out of that, sister dear.”
Felicity and Evylin were Alexia’s younger half sisters by birth and were entirely unrelated to her if one took into account any other factors. They were short, blond, and slender, while Alexia was tall, dark, and, quite frankly, not so very slender. They were inclined to giggle, waste hours over the fashion papers, and don the color pink. Alexia was not. Lady Maccon was known throughout London for her intellectual prowess, patronage of the scientific community, and biting wit. Felicity and Evylin were known for their puffed sleeves. The world, as a result, was generally a better place when the three were not living together under the same roof.
“And we all know how considered and unbiased your opinion is on the matter, Felicity.” Alexia’s tone was unruffled.
Felicity picked up the scandal section of the Ladies Daily Chirrup, clearly indicating she wanted nothing more to do with the conversation.
Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second Page 31
