“Ivy, my dear, I am terribly sympathetic to your plight. Honestly, I am, most sincerely. But you must excuse me. Necessity demands I handle a situation downstairs rather hurriedly.”
Miss Hisselpenny flopped back onto the bed, hand to her head. “Oh, what kind of friend are you, Alexia Maccon? Here I lie, in crisis and abject suffering. This is the worst evening of my whole life, you realize? And you care only for your husband’s lucky socks!” She flipped over and buried her head in the pillow.
Alexia departed the room before Ivy could come up with further histrionics.
Most of the pack still stood outside the parlor door, looking confused. Alexia glared at them with her best Lady Maccon glare, opened the door, and shut it once more in their faces.
She handed the gun to Tunstell, who took it but swallowed nervously.
“You know what this is?”
He nodded. “Tue Tue Sundowner. But why would I need it? There are no vampires here, or werewolves for that matter. Not with the way things currently stand.”
“They are not going to stand like this for much longer, not if I have anything to say about it. Poison does not work on a werewolf, and I intend to see my husband wide awake sooner than it would take for that stuff, whatever it may be, to run its course through a human system. Besides, that deadly little gun will work just as well on daylight folk. Are you authorized to use it?”
Tunstell shook his head slowly. His freckles stood out starkly on his white face.
“Well, you are now.”
Tunstell looked like he would like to argue the point. Sundowner was a BUR position. Technically the muhjah had no real say in the matter. But his mistress was looking dreadfully belligerent, and he had no wish to try her patience.
She pointed an autocratic finger at him. “No one is to come in or out of this room. No one, Tunstell. No staff, no pack, no claviger, not even Miss Hisselpenny. Speaking of which, I really must insist you refrain from embracing her in public. It is most discomforting to watch.” Her nose wrinkled slightly.
Tunstell flushed at that, his freckles fading under the red, but he kept to the main point. “What are you going to do now, my lady?”
Lady Maccon glanced up at the grandfather clock ticking sonorously in the corner of the room. “Send an aetherogram, and soon. This is all getting terribly out of hand.”
“To whom?”
She shook her head, hair falling down now that she wore no cap. “Just you do your job, Tunstell, and let me do mine. I will want to know immediately if either of them awaken or worsen. Understood?”
The redhead nodded.
She scooped up the large pile of Madame Lefoux’s gadgets, stuffing them into her lace cap as a kind of bag. Her hair was loose about her face, but sometimes one must sacrifice appearance to cope with trying circumstances. Grasping the cap of booty in one hand and her parasol in the other, she exited the parlor, pulling the door firmly closed with her foot.
“I am afraid I must inform you, Lady Kingair, that no one is to go in or out of that room, including yourself, for the foreseeable future. I have left Tunstell exceedingly well armed and with strict instructions to fire on any who attempt to enter. You would not want to test his obedience to me, now, would you?”
“Under whose authority have you done this? The earl’s?” Lady Kingair was shocked.
“My husband has become”—Alexia paused—“indisposed at the moment. So, no, this is no longer a BUR matter. I have taken it under my own jurisdiction. I have tolerated this shilly-shallying and hedging of yours long enough. I have pandered to your pack problems and your pack ways, but this is outside of enough. I want this plague of humanization lifted, and I want it lifted now. I will not have anyone else shot at, or attacked, or spied upon, or any further rooms ransacked. Things are getting far too messy, and I cannot abide a mess.”
“Temper, Lady Maccon, temper,” remonstrated Lady Kingair.
Alexia narrowed her eyes.
“Why should we do what you say?” Dubh was militant.
Alexia shoved the letter of marque under the Beta’s nose. He left off his grumbling, and the oddest expression suffused his wide, angry face.
Lady Kingair grabbed the paperwork and held it up to the indifferent light of a nearby oil lamp. Satisfied, she passed it on to Lachlan, who appeared the least surprised by its contents.
“I take it you were not informed of my appointment?”
Sidheag gave her a hard look. “I take it you didna marry Lord Maccon purely for love?”
“Oh, the political position was a surprise advantage, I assure you.”
“And one that wouldna have been given to a spinster.”
“So you know the queen’s disposition sufficiently to predict that at least?” Alexia took her marque back and tucked it carefully down the front of her bodice. It would not do for the pack to be made aware of her parasol’s hidden pockets.
“Muhjah has been vacant for generations. Why you? Why now?” Dubh was looking less angry and more thoughtful than Alexia had yet seen him. Perhaps there was brain behind all that brawn and bluster.
“She did offer it to your father,” Lachlan pointed out.
“I had heard something to that effect. I understand he turned it down.”
“Oh no, no.” Lachlan gave a little half-smile. “We filibustered.”
“The werewolves?”
“The werewolves and the vampires and one or two ghosts as well.”
“What is it with you people and my father?”
At that Dubh snorted. “How much time do you have?”
The grandfather clock, locked in the room with Tunstell and his two comatose charges, tolled a quarter ’til.
“Apparently, not enough. I take it you accept the letter as authentic?”
Lady Kingair was looking at Alexia as though a good number of her previous questions about one Lady Maccon had now all been answered. “We will accept it, and we will defer to your authority in this.” She gestured to the closed parlor door. “For the time being,” she added, so as not to lose face in front of the pack.
Lady Maccon knew this was as good as she was going to get, so, in characteristic fashion, she took it and asked for more. “Very good. Next I will need to compose and send a message on your aethographor. While I am doing that, if you would please collect all the artifacts you brought back from Egypt into one room. I should very much like to peruse them as soon as my message has been sent. If I cannot determine which artifact is most likely causing the humanity problem, I shall have my husband removed to Glasgow, where he should return to supernatural and recover with no ill effects.” With that, she headed up to the top of the castle and the aethographor.
She was in for a prodigious surprise. For what should she find on the floor of the aethographor room but the comatose form of the bemused claviger who was caretaker of the machine and every single valve frequensor in Kingair’s library broken to smithereens. The place was littered with glittering crystalline shards.
“Oh dear, I knew they ought to have been locked away.” Lady Maccon checked the claviger, who was still breathing and as fast asleep as her husband, and then picked her way through the wreckage.
The apparatus itself was undamaged. Which made Alexia wonder; if the objective in destroying the valve frequensors was to prevent outside communication, why not take down the aethographor itself? It was, after all, an awfully delicate gadget easily and quickly disabled. Why smash all the valves instead? Unless, of course, the culprit wanted continued access to the aethographor.
Alexia rushed into the transmitting chamber, hoping that the fallen claviger had disturbed the vandal in the act. It looked like he had, for there, still sitting in the emitter cradle, was a unrolled scroll of metal with a burned-through message clearly visible upon it. And it was not the message she had sent to Lord Akeldama the evening before. Oh no, this message was in French!