The vampire’s head swiveled around, focusing in on their little band. He hissed through his teeth, the tips of both fangs visible over thin lips. Then with a swirl of long burgundy greatcoat, he swept majestically from the inn.
Professor Lyall, who had never done anything majestically in all his life, faintly envied the man.
The young soldier came over to them, a harsh red welt about the side of his mouth.
“I’ll murder the liverless bastard,” swore Major Channing, making as if to follow Lord Ambrose out into the street.
“Stop.” Professor Lyall’s hand tightened on the Gamma’s arm. “Burt here is perfectly fine. Aren’t you, Burt?”
Burt spat out a bit of blood but nodded. “Dealt with worse at sea.”
Biffy picked his snuffbox off the table and tucked it into a coat pocket. “So”—the young man gestured for the soldier to pull up a chair and join them—“what did he say? What are they looking for?”
“It’s the weirdest thing. Artifacts.”
“What?”
The soldier bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, Egyptian artifacts. But not objects as we might have thought. Not a weapon as such. That’s why he was so angry with my offerings. Thems is looking for scrolls. Scrolls with a certain image on ’em.”
“Hieroglyphic?”
Burt nodded.
“What image, did he say?”
“Seems they’re quite desperate, ’cause it was pretty indiscreet of him to tell me, but, yeah, he said. Something called an ankh, only they want it broken. You know, in the picture, like the symbol was cut in half.”
Professor Lyall and Biffy looked at one another. “Interesting,” they both said at the same time.
“I wager the edict keepers have some kind of record of the symbol.” Biffy, of course, had some knowledge of vampire information sources.
“Which means,” Lyall said thoughtfully, “this has happened before.”
Alexia left her husband soundly asleep. After centuries as an immortal, he had forgotten how a mortal body seeks succor in slumber when it has injuries to deal with. Despite the excitement, the night was young and most of the rest of the castle was still awake.
She nearly ran full tilt into a rapidly scuttling Ivy in the hallway. Miss Hisselpenny had a fierce frown decorating her normally amiable face.
“Good Lord, Ivy, what an expression.” Lady Maccon leaned casually on her parasol. The way things were progressing this evening, she was unwilling to part with the accessory.
“Oh, Alexia. I do not mean to be forward, but I really must venture: I simply loathe Mr. Tunstell.”
“Ivy!”
“Well, I mean to say, well, really! He is so very impossible. I was given to understand that his affection for me was secure. And one little objection and he switches allegiance quite flippantly. One might even call him flighty! To bill and coo around another female so soon after I went to such prodigious lengths to break his heart. It gives him the countenance of a, well, a vacillating butterfly!”
Lady Maccon was arrested trying to imagine a cooing butterfly. “Really, I thought you were still quite enamored of him, despite rejecting his suit.”
“How could you think such a thing? I positively detest him. I am in full agreement with myself on this. He is nothing more than a billing-cooing vacillator! And I shall have nothing more to do with a person of such weakened character.”
Lady Maccon was not quite certain how to converse with Miss Hisselpenny when she was in such a mood. She was accustomed to Ivy-overset and Ivy-chatterbox, but Ivy-full-of-wrath was a new creature altogether. She opted for the fallback position. “You are clearly in need of a fortifying cup of tea, my dear. Shall we go and see if we can hunt one down? Even the Scots must stock some form of libation.”
Miss Hisselpenny took a deep breath. “Yes, I think you may be right. Excellent notion.”
Lady Maccon solicitously shepherded her friend down the stairs and into one of the smaller drawing rooms, where they ran into two clavigers. The young gentlemen were more than eager to hunt down the requisite tea, see to Miss Hisselpenny’s every whim, and generally prove to the ladies that all good manners had not fled the Highlands along with its complement of trousers. As a result, Ivy forgave them their kilts. Lady Maccon left her friend to their stimulating accents and tender care and went in search of Madame Lefoux and the broken aethographor, hoping for a peek at its functional component parts.
It took her some time to track the massive machine down. Castle Kingair was a real castle, with none of Woolsey’s practical notions on conservation of space and gridlike layout. It was very large, with a propensity for confusing itself with additional rooms, towers, and gratuitous staircases. Lady Maccon was logical in her approach (which may have been her mistake). She surmised that the aethographor must be located in one of the many castle turrets, but which one proved to be the difficulty. There was a decided overabundance of towers. Very concerned with defensibility, the Scots. It took a good deal of time to climb the winding steps to each turret. She knew she was in the right area, however, when she heard the cursing. In French, of course, and not words that she was familiar with, naturally, but she was in no doubt as to their profane nature. Madame Lefoux appeared to be experiencing some form of inconvenience.
When she finally attained the room, Alexia came face-to-face, or as is were, face-to-bottom, with yet another good reason for the lady inventor to don trousers. Madame Lefoux was on her back, half underneath the apparatus, only her legs and backside visible. Had she been in skirts, it would have been a most indelicate position.
Kingair’s aethographic transmitter was raised up on little legs above the stone floor of the castle. It looked somewhat like two attached privy houses with footstool feet. Everything was brightly lit with gas lamps, as the pack had clearly spared no expense on this room. It was also clean.
Lady Maccon craned her neck to see into the darkened interior of the chamber that Madame Lefoux worked under. It appeared that the transmitting mechanicals were the ones being problematical. The Frenchwoman had with her a hatbox that appeared to be no hatbox at all but a cleverly disguised toolkit. Lady Maccon instantly coveted one herself—so much less obvious than a dispatch case.
The bespectacled claviger, with the ever-present expression of panic, crouched nearby, passing the inventor, one after another, a string of exciting-looking tools.
“The magnetomotor modulating adjustor, if you please,” Madame Lefoux would say, and a long, sticklike object with a corkscrew of copper at one end and a glass tube full of an illuminated liquid at the other was passed over. Shortly after, there would emit another curse, the tool would be passed back to the claviger, and a new one called for.
“Goodness gracious,” exclaimed Alexia. “What are you doing?”
There came the sound of a thump, Madame Lefoux’s legs jerked, and further cursing ensued. Moments later, the Frenchwoman wormed her way out and stood up, rubbing her head. The action only added to a vast collection of grease smudges covering her pretty face.
“Ah, Lady Maccon, how lovely. I did wonder when you would track us down.”
“I was unavoidably delayed by husbands and Ivys,” explained Alexia.
“These things, regrettably, are bound to occur when one is married and befriended.” Madame Lefoux was sympathetic.
Lady Maccon leaned forward and, using her parasol as a prop, tried to see underneath the contraption. Her corset made this action mostly impossible, so she turned back to the Frenchwoman. “Have you determined the nature of the problem?”
“Well, it is definitely the transmitting chamber that is malfunctioning. The receiving room seems fully operational. It is hard to tell without an actual transmission of some kind.”