bother and testing? Are you a true believer? I would have thought that odd in a member of the Order of the Brass Octopus.”
Madame Lefoux cracked her eyelids at her friend’s direct speech and tipped her top hat back on her head with one elegant finger. She regarded the little German with interest.
“Perhaps, perhaps. My research is delicate, dangerous, even. If I am to trust you, or help you, it is important, vital, that none of you are—how do I put this?—undead.”
Alexia winced. Madame Lefoux straightened out of her slouch, abruptly much less drowsy. “Undead” was not a word one used openly in polite society. The werewolves, vampires, and even newly minted ghosts found it understandably distasteful to be referred to as such. Much in the same way that Alexia objected when the vampires called her a soul-sucker. It was, simply put, vulgar.
“That is a rather crude word, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is it? Ah, you English and your semantics.”
“But ‘undead,’ certainly, is not apt.”
The man’s eyes went hard and flinty. “I suspect that depends on what you define as living. Ya? Given my current studies, ‘undead’ suits very well.”
The French inventor grinned. Her dimples showed. Alexia wasn’t certain how they did it, but those dimples managed to look quite crafty. “Not for long it won’t.”
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf tilted his head, intrigued. “You know something of relevance to my research, do you, Madame Lefoux?”
“You are aware that Lady Maccon here married a werewolf?”
A nod.
“I think you should tell him what has happened, Alexia.”
Alexia grimaced. “He might be helpful?”
“He is the closest thing to an expert on the preternatural the Order of the Brass Octopus has. Templars might know more, but it’s difficult to say.”
Alexia nodded. She weighed her options and finally decided the risk was worth it. “I am pregnant, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.”
The German looked at Alexia with a distinct air of covetousness. “Felicitations and condolences. You will not, of course, be able to—how do you say?—carry to term. No preternatural female has in recorded history. A great sadness to the Templars and their breeding program, of course, but…” He trailed off at Madame Lefoux’s continued grin.
“You are implying? No, it cannot be. She is pregnant by the werewolf?”
Alexia and Madame Lefoux both nodded.
The German turned away from the window and came to sit close to Alexia. Too close. His eyes were hard and greedy on her face.
“You would not be covering up for, how you English might say, a little indiscretion?”
Alexia was tired of all the games. She gave him a look that suggested the next person to even hint she was unfaithful would be receiving the worst her parasol had to offer. She had hoped he would know something that might result in a different reaction.
“How about,” she suggested in clipped tones, “you assume I am telling the truth in this matter and we leave you to theorize on the subject while we attend to some much-needed rest?”
“Of course, of course! You are with child; you must sleep. Imagine such a thing, a preternatural pregnant by a supernatural. I must do research. Has it ever been tried before? The Templars would not think to breed the werewolf with soulless. The very idea. Ya, amazing. You are, after all, scientific opposites, each other’s end. With rarity of females of either species, I can see a basis for absence of proper documentation. But if you speak truth, why, what a miracle, what a fabulous abomination!”
Alexia cleared her throat loudly, placing one hand to her stomach and the other on her parasol. She might think of this baby as inconvenient, even hate it sometimes, but far be it for some diminutive German with bad taste in pets to describe it as an abomination. “I do beg your pardon!”
Madame Lefoux recognized that tone in Alexia’s voice and jumped to her feet. Grabbing Alexia by the hand, she attempted to pull her friend up and out of the room.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf had whipped out a notepad and, oblivious to Alexia’s anger, began scribbling away, all the while muttering to himself.
“We shall find guest rooms on our own, shall we?” suggested the Frenchwoman over Alexia’s angry sputtering.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf made a dismissive movement with his stylographic pen, not looking up from his ruminations.
Alexia found her voice. “Couldn’t I just whack him once? Just a little one, over the head? He would hardly notice.”
Floote raised one eyebrow and took hold of Alexia’s elbow, helping Madame Lefoux to remove her bodily from the room. “Bed, I think, madam.”