change, do you? I hope you do not mind such an unexpected visit.” Madame Lefoux addressed their host in the queen’s English, in deference to Alexia and Floote’s presence.
The gentleman in question switched smoothly into Alexia’s native language as though it were a tongue as familiar to him as his own. In the same instant, he seemed to notice Alexia and Floote for the first time. “Not at all, not at all, I assure you. I adore the company. Always welcome.” There was a tone to his voice and a twinkle to his blue-button eyes that suggested real truth to the social niceties. “And you have brought me guests! How marvelous. Delighted, delighted.”
Madame Lefoux made introductions. “Monsieur Floote and Madame Tarabotti, this is my dear cousin, Monsieur Trouvé.”
The clockmaker gave Floote a measured look and a small bow. Floote returned both in kind, after which Alexia found herself the object of bespectacled scrutiny.
“Not that Tarabotti?”
Alexia would not go so far as to describe Monsieur Trouvé as shocked, but he was certainly something more than complacent. It was difficult to see the exact nature of his expression as, in addition to the ubiquitous mustache, the clockmaker also wore a golden-brown beard of such epic proportions as might dwarf a mulberry bush. It was as though his mustache had become overly enthusiastic and, seized with the spirit of adventure, set out to conquer the southern reaches of his face in a take-no-prisoners kind of way.
“His daughter,” confirmed Madame Lefoux.
“In truth?” The Frenchman looked to Floote, of all people, for confirmation.
Floote nodded curtly—once.
“Is it so very bad a thing, to be my father’s daughter?” Alexia wondered.
Monsieur Trouvé raised both bushy eyebrows and smiled. It was a small, shy smile that barely made it through the shrubbery of his beard. “I take it you never met your father? No, of course, you wouldn’t have, would you? Not possible. Not if you are his daughter.” He looked at Madame Lefoux this time. “Is she really?”
Madame Lefoux dimpled at him. “Without question.”
The clockmaker brought his monocle up, peering through both it and his spectacles at Alexia. “Remarkable. A female preternatural. I never thought I would live to see the day. It is a true honor having you to visit, Madame Tarabotti. Genevieve, you always did bring me the most charming surprises. And trouble with them, of course, but we won’t talk about that now, will we?”
“Better than that, cousin—she is with child. And the father is a werewolf. How do you like that?”
Alexia gave Madame Lefoux a sharp stare. They had not discussed revealing the personal details of her embarrassing condition to a French clockmaker!
“I must sit down.” Monsieur Trouvé groped without looking for a nearby chair and collapsed into it. He took a deep breath and then examined Alexia with even more interest. She wondered if he might try to wear the glassicals as well as the spectacles and the monocle.
“You are certain?”
Alexia bristled. She was so very tired of having her word questioned. “I assure you. I am quite certain.”
“Amazing,” said the clockmaker, seeming to recover some of his equanimity. “No offense meant, no offense. You are, you must realize, a marvel of the modern age.” The monocle went back up. “Though, not so very much like your dear father.”
Alexia glanced tentatively at Floote and then asked Monsieur Trouvé, “Is there anyone who did not know my father?”
“Oh, most people didn’t. He preferred things that way. But he dabbled in my circle, or I should say, my father’s circle. I met him only the once, and I was six at the time. I remember it well, however.” The clockmaker smiled again. “He did have quite the habit of making an impression, your father, I must say.”
Alexia was unsure as to whether this comment had an underlying unsavory meaning or not. Then she realized it must. Given what little she knew of her father, a better question might be, to which form of unsavory meaning was the Frenchman alluding? Still, she was positively dying of curiosity. “Circle?”
“The Order.”
“My father was an inventor?” That surprised Alexia. She had never heard that about Alessandro Tarabotti. All his journal entries indicated he was more a destroyer than a creator. Besides, by all accounts, preternaturals couldn’t really invent anything. They lacked the necessary imagination and soul.
“Oh, no, no.” Monsieur Trouvé brushed two fingers through his beard thoughtfully. “More of an irregular customer. He always had the oddest requests. I remember, once, my uncle talking about how he actually asked