Changeless

Strangely, once Lady Maccon had attained the deck, her legs no longer seemed to function as nature intended. She slid gracelessly onto the wooden deck.



“I think I might reside here for a moment,” she said after her third attempt to rise resulted only in wobbly knees and bones akin to jellyfish tentacles.



The steward, an immaculate if portly man dressed in a uniform of yellow canvas and fur, hovered about her in great concern, wringing his hands. He was clearly most upset that such a thing as a Lady of Quality falling off his craft had occurred. What would the company say if word got out? “Is there anything I can get you, Lady Maccon? Some tea perhaps, or something a little stronger?”



“Tea, I think, would be quite the restorative,” replied Alexia, mostly to get him to stop hovering about like a worried canary.



Madame Lefoux crouched down next to her. Yet another reason to envy the Frenchwoman her mode of dress. “Are you certain you are in good health, my lady?” Her squeaky voice had gone, the helium leak having apparently been fixed while Lady Maccon was rescued.



“I am finding myself less delighted by the height and notion of floating than I was at the onset of our journey,” replied Alexia. “But never mind that. Quickly now, before the steward returns, what happened after I fell? Did you see the attacker’s face, ascertain his purpose or intention?” She left off the “Were you in cahoots?” part of that question.



Madame Lefoux shook her head, looking serious. “The miscreant wore a mask and a long cloak; I could not even say with certainty if it was a male or a female. I do apologize. We struggled for a time, and eventually I managed to disentangle myself and get off a shot with the dart emitter. The first one missed and cut a hole through one of the dirigible helium ports, but the second caught our enemy a glancing blow to the side. Apparently that was sufficient to instill fear, for the attacker took flight and managed to escape mostly unharmed.”



“Bollix,” swore Lady Maccon succinctly. It was one of her husband’s favorite words, and she would normally never deign to use it, but current circumstances seemed to warrant its application. “And there are far too many crew and passengers on board to stage an inquest, even if I did not want to keep my preternatural state and role as muhjah a comparative secret.”



The Frenchwoman nodded.



“Well, I think I may be able to stand now.”



Madame Lefoux bent to help her up.



“Did I lose my parasol in the fall?”



The inventor dimpled. “No, it tumbled to the floor of the observation deck. I believe it is still there. Shall I have one of the hands bring it to your room?”



“Please.”



Madame Lefoux signaled to a nearby deckhand and sent him off to find the missing accessory.



Lady Maccon was feeling a little dizzy and was annoyed with herself for it. She had been through worse during the preceding summer and saw no reason to come over weak and floppy due to a mere dabbling with gravity. She allowed the inventor to assist her to her room but refused to call Angelique.



She sat gratefully down on her bed. “A little sleep and I shall be right as rain tomorrow.”



The Frenchwoman nodded and bent over her solicitously. “You are certain you do not need assistance to disrobe? I would be happy to help in your maid’s stead.”



Alexia blushed at the offer. Had she been wrong to doubt the inventor? Madame Lefoux did seem to be quite the best sort of ally to have. And, despite her masculine attire, she smelled amazing, like vanilla custard. Would it be so awful if this woman were to become a friend?



Then she noticed that the cravat around Madame Lefoux’s neck was stained on one side with a small amount of blood.



“You were injured while fighting off the attacker and said nothing!” she accused, worried. “Here, let me see.” Before the inventor could stop her, Lady Maccon pulled her down to sit on the bed and began untying the long length of Egyptian cotton wound about Madame Lefoux’s elegant neck.



“It is of little consequence,” the Frenchwoman asserted, blushing.



Lady Maccon ignored all protestations and tossed the cravat to the floor—it was ruined anyway. Then, with gentle fingers, she leaned in close to check the woman’s neck. The wound appeared to be nothing more than a scratch, already clotted.



“It looks quite shallow,” she said in relief.



“There, you see?” Self-consciously, Madame Lefoux shifted away from her.



Alexia caught a glimpse of something else upon the woman’s neck. Something that the cravat had kept hidden: near the nape, partly covered by a few short curls of hair. Lady Maccon craned her head about to see what it might be.



A mark of some kind, dark against the woman’s fine white skin, was inked in careful black lines. Alexia brushed the hair aside in a soft caress, startling the Frenchwoman, and leaned in, overcome with curiosity.



It was a tattoo of an octopus.



Lady Maccon frowned, oblivious to the fact that her hand still lay softly against the other woman’s skin. Where had she seen that image before? Abruptly, she remembered. Her hand twitched, and only through sheer strength of character did she stop herself from jerking away in horror. She had seen that octopus depicted in brass over and over again, all about the Hypocras Club just after Dr. Siemons kidnapped her.



An awkward silence ensued. “Are you certain you are quite well, Madame Lefoux?” she inquired finally, for lack of anything better to say.



Misinterpreting her continued physical contact, the lady inventor twisted to face her, their noses practically touching. Madame Lefoux slid her hand up Alexia’s arm.



Lady Maccon had read that Frenchwomen were much more physically affectionate than British women in their friendship, but there was something unbearably personal in the touch. And no matter how good she smelled and how helpful she had been, there was that octopus mark to consider. Madame Lefoux could not be trusted. The fight could have been staged. She could have an associate on board. She could still be a spy, intent on procuring the muhjah’s dispatch case through any possible means. Alexia pulled away from the caressing hand.



At the withdrawal, the inventor stood. “I shall excuse myself. We could probably both use some rest.”



Breakfast the next morning saw everyone back about their regular routine, bruises, bonnets, and all. Miss Hisselpenny forbore to mention Alexia’s clumsy attempt at scaling Mt. Dirigible out of mortification over her dear friend’s exposed underpinnings. Madame Lefoux was impeccably, if incorrectly, dressed and unflaggingly polite, with no comment on the previous evening’s aerial escapade. She inquired kindly after Tunstell’s health, to which Alexia responded favorably. Felicity was horrible and snide, but then Felicity had been a repulsive earwig ever since she first grew a vocabulary. It was as though nothing untoward had occurred at all.



Lady Maccon only nibbled at her food, not from any concern that there would be another attempted poisoning, but because she was still feeling slightly airsick. She was looking forward to having solid, unpretentious ground under her feet once more.



“What are your plans for the day, Lady Maccon?” inquired Madame Lefoux when all other pleasantries were exhausted.



“I envision an exhausting day of lying about in a deck chair, broken up with small but thrilling strolls about the ship.”



“Capital plan,” replied Felicity.



“Yes, sister, but I was going to sit in that deck chair with a book, not a supercilious expression and a hand mirror,” shot back Alexia.



Felicity only smiled. “At least I possess a face worth looking at for extended periods of time.”



Madame Lefoux turned to Ivy. “Are they always like this?”



Miss Hisselpenny had been staring dreamily off into space. “What? Oh, them, yes, as long as I’ve know them. Which is a dog’s age now. I mean to say, Alexia and I have been friends for quite these four years. Imagine that.”



The inventor took a bite of steamed egg and did not respond.



Lady Maccon realized she was exposing herself to ridicule by bickering with her sibling.



“Madame Lefoux, what did you do before you came to London? You resided in Paris, I understand? Did you have a hat shop there too?”



“No, but my aunt did. I worked with her. She taught me everything I know.”



“Everything?”



“Oh yes, everything.”



“A remarkable woman, your aunt.”



“You have no idea.”



“Must be the excess soul.”



“Oh.” Ivy was intrigued. “Did your aunt come over all phantomy after death?”



Madame Lefoux nodded.



“How nice for you.” Ivy smiled her congratulations.



“I suspect I will be a ghost in the end,” said Felicity, preening. “I am the type to have extra soul. Don’t you all agree? Mama says I am remarkably creative for someone who does not play or sing or draw.”



Alexia bit her tongue. Felicity was about as likely to have excess soul as a hassock. She turned the conversation forcibly back to the inventor. “What made you leave your home country?”



“My aunt died, and I came over here looking for something precious that had been stolen from me.”



“Oh, really? Did you find it?”



“Yes, but only to come to the understanding that it was never mine to begin with.”



“How tragic for you,” sympathized Ivy. “I had just such a thing happen with a hat once.”



“It matters little. It had changed beyond all recognition by the time I located it.”



“How mysterious and cryptic you are.” Lady Maccon was intrigued.



“It is not entirely my story to tell and others may be injured in the telling if I am not careful.”



Felicity yawned ostentatiously. She was little interested in anything not directly connected to herself. “Well, this is all very fascinating, but I am off to change for the day.”



Miss Hisselpenny rose as well. “I believe I shall go check on Mr. Tunstell, to ascertain if he has been provided with an adequate breakfast.”



“Highly unlikely—none of us were,” said Alexia, whose delight in the imminent end to their voyage was encouraged by the idea of eating food that was not bland and steamed into submission.



They parted ways, and Alexia was about to pursue her highly strenuous plans for the day when she realized that if Ivy had gone to check on Tunstell, the two would be isolated together, and that was not a good idea. So she hightailed it after her friend toward the claviger’s cabin.



She found Miss Hisselpenny and Tunstell engaged in what both probably thought was an impassioned embrace. Their lips were, in fact, touching, but nothing else was, and Ivy’s greatest concern throughout the kiss seemed to be keeping her hat in place. The hat was of a masculine shape but decorated with the most enormous bow of purple and green plaid.



“Well,” said Lady Maccon loudly, interrupting the couple, “I see you have recovered with startling alacrity from your illness, Tunstell.”



Miss Hisselpenny and the claviger jumped apart. Both turned red with mortification, though it must be admitted that Tunstell, being a redhead, was far more efficient at this.



“Oh dear, Alexia,” exclaimed Ivy, leaping back. She made for the door as rapidly as the strapped-down floating skirts of her travel dress would allow.



“Oh no, Miss Hisselpenny, please, come back!” Tunstell cried, and then, shockingly, “Ivy!”



But the lady in question was gone.



Alexia gave the ginger-haired young man a hard look. “What are you up to, Tunstell?”



“Oh, Lady Maccon, I am unreservedly in love with her. That black hair, that sweet disposition, those capital hats.”



Well goodness, thought Alexia, he really must be in love if he likes the hats. She sighed and said, “But, really, Tunstell, be serious. Miss Hisselpenny cannot possibly have a future with you. Even if you were not up for metamorphosis presently, you are an actor, with no substantial prospects of any kind.”



Tunstell donned a tragic-hero expression, one she had seen more than once in his portrayal of Porccigliano in the West End production of Death in a Bathtub. “True love will overcome all obstacles.”



“Oh bosh. Be reasonable, Tunstell. This is no Shakespearian melodrama; this is the 1870s. Marriage is a practical matter. It must be treated as such.”



“But you and Lord Maccon married for love.”



Lady Maccon sighed. “And how do you figure that?”



“No one else would put up with him.”



Alexia grinned. “By which you mean that no one else would put up with me.”



Tunstell judiciously ignored that statement.



Lady Maccon explained. “Conall is the Earl of Woolsey and as such is permitted the eccentricity of a highly inappropriate wife. You are not. And that is a situation unlikely to alter in the future.”