This was not because of the hair. Or, not entirely because of it. This was because the woman was also dressed head to shiny boots in perfect and impeccable style—for a man. Jacket, pants, and waistcoat were all to the height of fashion. A top hat perched upon that scandalously short hair, and her burgundy cravat was tied into a silken waterfall. Still, there was no pretense at hiding her femininity. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and melodic, but definitely that of a woman.
Alexia picked up a pair of burnt umber kid gloves from a display basket. They were as soft as butter to the touch, and she looked at them to stop herself from staring at the woman.
“I am Madame Lefoux. Welcome to Chapeau de Poupe. How may I serve you fine ladies?” She had the hint of a French accent, but only the barest hint, utterly unlike Angelique, who could never seem to handle the “th” sound.
Ivy and Alexia curtsied with a little tilt to their heads, the latest fashion in curtsies, designed to show that the neck was unbitten. One wouldn’t want to be thought a drone without the benefit of vampiric protection. Madame Lefoux did the same, although it was impossible to tell if her neck was bitten under that skillfully tied cravat. Alexia noted with interest that she wore two cravat pins: one of silver and one of wood. Madame Lefoux might keep night hours, but she was cautious about it.
Lady Maccon said, “My friend Miss Hisselpenny has recently become engaged and is in dire need of a new hat.” She did not introduce herself, not yet. Lady Maccon was a name best kept in reserve.
Madame Lefoux took in Ivy’s copious flowers and feather bees. “Yes, this is quite evident. Do walk this way, Miss Hisselpenny. I believe I have something over here that would perfectly suit that dress.”
Ivy dutifully trotted after the strangely clad woman. She gave Alexia a look over her shoulder that said, as clearly as if she had the gumption to say it aloud, what the deuce is she wearing?
Alexia wandered over to the offensive yellow toque she and Madame Lefoux had so hastily warned Ivy off of. It completely contrasted with the general sophisticated tenor set by the other hats. Almost as though it wasn’t meant to be purchased.
As the extraordinary patroness seemed to be thoroughly distracted by Ivy (well, who wouldn’t be?), Alexia used the handle of her parasol to gently lift the toque and peek underneath. It was at that precise moment she deduced why it was her husband had sent her to Chapeau de Poupe.
There was a hidden knob, disguised as a hook, secreted under the hideous hat. Alexia quickly replaced the hat and turned away to begin innocently wandering about the shop, pretending interest in various accessories. She began to notice that there were other little hints as to a second nature for Chapeau de Poupe: scrape marks on the floor near a wall that seemed to have no door and several gas lights that were not lit. Alexia would wager good money that they were not lights at all.
Lady Maccon would not have thought to be curious, of course, had her husband not been so insistent she visit the establishment. The rest of the shop was quite unsuspicious, being the height of la mode, with hats appealing enough to hold even her unstylish awareness. But with the scrapes and the hidden knob, Alexia became curious, both about the shop and its owner. Lady Maccon might be soulless, but the liveliness of her mind was never in question.
She wandered over to where Madame Lefoux had actually persuaded Miss Hisselpenny to don a becoming little straw bonnet with upturned front, decorated about the crown with a few classy cream flowers and one graceful blue feather.
“Ivy, that looks remarkably well on you,” she praised.
“Thank you, Alexia, but don’t you find it a tad reserved? I’m not convinced it quite suits.”
Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux exchanged a look.
“No, I do not. It is nothing like that horrible yellow thing at the back you insisted on at first. I went to take a closer look, you know, and it really is quite ghastly.”
Madame Lefoux glanced at Alexia, her beautiful face suddenly sharp and her dimples gone.
Alexia smiled, all teeth and not nicely. One couldn’t live around werewolves and not pick up a few of their mannerisms. “It cannot possibly be your design?” she said mildly to the proprietress.
“The work of an apprentice, I do assure you,” replied Madame Lefoux with a tiny French shrug. She put a new hat onto Ivy’s head, one with a few more flowers.
Miss Hisselpenny preened.
“Are there any more… like it?” wondered Alexia, still talking about the ugly yellow hat.
“Well, there is that riding hat.” The proprietress’s voice was wary.
Lady Maccon nodded. Madame Lefoux was naming the hat nearest to the scrape marks Alexia had observed on the floor. They understood one another.
There came a pause in conversation while Ivy expressed interest in a frosted pink confection with feather toggles. Alexia spun her closed parasol between two gloved hands.
“You seem to be having problems with some of your gas lighting as well,” said Alexia, all mildness and sugar.
“Indeed.” A flicker of firm acknowledgment crossed Madame Lefoux’s face at that. “And, of course, there is the door handle. But you know how it goes—there are always kinks to work out after opening a new establishment.”
Lady Maccon cursed herself. The door handle—how had she missed that? She wandered over casually, leaning on her parasol to look down at it.
Ivy, all insensible of the underpinnings to their conversation, went on to try the next hat.
The handle on the inside of the front door was far larger than it ought to be and seemed to be comprised of a complicated series of cogs and bolts, far more security than any ordinary hat shop required.
Alexia wondered if Madame Lefoux was a French spy.
“Well,” Ivy was telling Madame Lefoux in a chatty manner when Alexia rejoined them, “Alexia always says my taste is abysmal, but I can hardly see how she has much ground. Her choices are so often banal.”
“I lack imagination,” admitted Alexia. “Which is why I keep a highly creative French maid.”
Madame Lefoux looked mildly interested at that. Her dimples showed in a little half-smile.
“And the eccentricity of carrying a parasol even at night? I take it I am being honored by a visit from Lady Maccon?”
“Alexia,” Miss Hisselpenny asked, scandalized, “you never introduced yourself?”
“Well I—” Alexia was grappling for an excuse, when…
Boom!
And the world about them exploded into darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Proper Use of Parasols
An enormous noise shook the structure around them. All of the hats on the ends of their long chains swung about violently. Ivy let out the most milk-curdling scream. Someone else yelled, rather soberly by comparison. The gas lighting went out, and the shop descended into darkness.
It took a moment for Lady Maccon to realize that the explosion had not, in fact, been intended to kill her. Given her experiences over the past year, this was a novel change of pace. But it also made her wonder if the explosion had been intended to kill someone else.
“Ivy?” Alexia asked the darkness.
Silence.
“Madame Lefoux?”
Further silence.
Alexia crouched down, as much as her corset would allow, and felt about, willing her eyes to acclimatize to the black. She felt taffeta: the ruffles attached to Ivy’s prone form.
Alexia’s heart sank.
She patted Ivy all about for injury, but Miss Hisselpenny seemed unscathed. Light puffs of breath hit the back of Lady Maccon’s hand when she passed it under Ivy’s nose, and there was a pulse—shallow but solid. Apparently, Miss Hisselpenny had simply fainted.
“Ivy!” she hissed.
Nothing.