The gentlemen and ladies of Egypt seemed to possess a self-respect and innate gracefulness of manner, regardless of societal rank, that could only be thought engaging. That said, they also seemed inclined to sing while they worked, or sat upon their heels, or stretched out upon a mat. Alexia was not a particularly musical person, and her husband, a noted opera singer in his human days, had once described her bath time warblings as those of a deranged badger. But even she could recognize complete tunelessness, coupled to a certain rhythmic vocalization. The resulting renditions seemed a means of lightening labor or sweetening repose, but Alexia thought them monotonous and displeasing to the ear. However, she learned, as she had done with the harmonic auditory resonance disruptor, to disregard it as mere background hum.
As they tottered happily along, Alexia felt compelled to stop at many a small shop and one or two bazaar stands to investigate the goods on offer, mainly drawn, as was her wont, by delicious and exotic foodstuffs. Ivy and the child-burdened donkey trailed in her wake. The nursemaid paid due attention to her charges and was properly shocked by the foreignness of the city about them the rest of the time. “Oh, Mrs. Tunstell, would you look at that? Stray dogs!” or “Oh, Mrs. Tunstell, would you believe? That man is sitting cross-legged, on his front step, and his legs are bare!”
Mrs. Tunstell, meanwhile, became increasingly addlepated over their getting lost in a foreign land.
Prudence held on with all her might, and after taking in her surroundings with the jaundiced eye of a seasoned traveler, tilted her little head back, nearly losing her hat, and cooed in delight over the amazing sight of the many massive colorful balloons that hovered above the city. Egyptians were not yet proficient in dirigible travel but had for many hundreds of years played host to the balloon nomads of the desert skies, bronzed cousins to the Bedouin. The first of the English settlers named them Drifters, and the moniker stuck. A vast number hovered above Alexandria during the day, having come in for the markets and the tourist trade. They were every color of every hat Ivy had ever possessed, many of them patchwork or striped. As fascinating as the daily life of the natives might be, Prudence was lured by the promise of flight high above. She warbled her glee.
Thus pleasantly entertained, the group made its way through the city, pausing overlong only once, in one of the bazaars when Alexia was particularly taken by a fine display of leatherwork. Looking up, she noticed that the man seated behind the goods attractively arrayed on a colorful striped rug was not the same in looks as all the others they had encountered thus far. He had a different garb and bearing. His sharp, bearded features and steady gaze betokened firmness, resolution, and an autocratic nature. He was also not singing. This was no Alexandrian local but one of the Bedouin nomads of the desert, or so Alexia believed at first. Until she noted that a long rope ladder was tied to the building behind him, a ladder that stretched all the way up into the sky above, attached to the basket of one of Prudence’s beloved balloons. The man was uncommonly handsome, his dark eyes intent, and he stared hard at Alexia for a moment.
“Leather for the pretty lady?” he asked.
“Oh, no thank you. Simply looking.”
“You should look farther south. The answers to your questions lie in Upper Egypt, Miss Tarabotti,” said the Drifter, his accent thick but his meaning unmistakable.
“Pardon me. What did you just say?” Alexia was startled into asking. She looked for Mrs. Tunstell. “Ivy, did you hear that?” By the time she had turned back, the man was gone, shimmying up his rope ladder into the sky with remarkable dexterity and speed, almost supernaturally quick—impossible, of course, as it was still daylight.
Alexia watched him go with her mouth slightly open until a new voice said, “Leather for the pretty lady?” and a small boy, in typical Alexandrian garb, looked hopefully up at her from the exact place the man had just been.
“What! Who was that bearded man? How did he know my name?”
The boy only blinked his fringe of lashes at her, uncomprehending. “Leather for the pretty lady?”
“Alexia, are we finished here? I hardly see what you would want with such goods.”
“Ivy, did you see that man?”
“What man?”
“The balloon nomad who was just here.”
“Oh, really, Alexia, it says right here in my little book—Drifters don’t fraternize with Europeans. You must have imagined it.”
“Ivy, my dearest boon companion, have I ever imagined anything?”
“Fair point, Alexia. In which case, I am very sorry to say that I did not observe the interaction.”
“A disappointment for you, I’m sure, for he was a remarkably fine specimen.”
“Oh, my, Alexia, you shouldn’t say such things! You’re a married woman.”
“True, but not a dead one.”
Ivy fanned herself vigorously. “La, Alexia, such talk!”
Lady Maccon only smiled and twirled her parasol. “Ah, well, I suppose time is of the essence. We should press on.” She tried to memorize the stall’s location and the color of the man’s balloon, a patchwork of varying shades of deep purples.
With no further disruptions, they made their way to the west end of Boulevard Ramleh, arriving by six o’clock exactly. Alexia left her party in ecstasies over Port Neuf, glittering rich and blue under the low light of the late afternoon sun. She strode swiftly inside and, finding it was English run and quite up to snuff, had her own valve in place exactly on time to transmit a message to Biffy. At least she hoped it was the right time; so many things could go wrong with aethographors.
“Ruffled Parasol in place,” her message ran. “Booking this time this location until departure.” She then added the Alexandria codes and waited with bated breath. Within moments, as ordered, there came a reply. Unfortunately, it was not the reply Lady Alexia Maccon would have wished.
Biffy’s sleep was troubled and not only by the fact that Professor Lyall boasted rather a small bed for two occupants. While neither of them was very large, Biffy was a good deal taller than his companion, which caused his feet to dangle off the end. Still neither would even think to suggest that they sleep apart, not now that they had discovered each other. Besides, once the sun rose fully, they both slept solidly enough to be thought dead, limbs wound together, breathing soft and deep. Nevertheless, Biffy’s dreams were colored by missed appointments, canceled events, and forgotten messages.
Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings had caught Biffy following Lyall into his room that morning. He raised one blond eyebrow in silent criticism but said nothing. However, they both knew they were due to come under a good deal of teasing that evening, for all the pack would be informed. Werewolves were terrible gossips, especially about their own. Vampires preferred to talk about other people’s business; werewolves were a tad more incestuous in their interests. Knowing that their new arrangement, as yet unformed in the particulars, was public fodder for the rumor mill allowed Biffy to give his claviger instructions to see him awakened a few minutes before sunset in Lyall’s chamber.
“Sir, sir, wake up.” As ordered, Catogan Burbleson, a nice boy with considerable musical talent, shook Biffy hard some fifteen minutes before sunset. It took a good deal of force to rouse a werewolf before sundown, especially one of Biffy’s youth.