Blameless - By Gail Carriger Page 0,54
integrate them into society.”
Alexia shrugged. “I am under the impression the vampires are more difficult to handle.”
“Really?”
Alexia, feeling she may have been traitorously indiscreet, grappled for the right way of phrasing it. “You know how vampires get, all high-up-mucky-mucky and I’m-older-than-thou.” She paused. “No, I suppose you do not know how they get, do you?”
“Mmm. I should have thought werewolves more an issue. With the running about in armies and the marrying of normal humans.”
“Well my particular werewolf did turn out a bit difficult. But, to be fair, he was perfectly suitable right up until the end.” Alexia was painfully conscious that “perfectly suitable” was a rather understated way of putting it. Conall had been a model husband in his massive grumpy way: tender, except when it wasn’t necessary, and then rough until gentleness was called for once more. She shivered slightly at the memories. He had also been loud and gruff and overprotective, but he had adored her. It had taken her a good deal of time before she believed that she was worth all that fierce affection he lavished upon her. To have it stolen away unjustly was that much more cruel.
“Isn’t the end result what counts?” Madame Lefoux cocked her head. She had taken against Conall most decidedly when he kicked Alexia out.
Alexia grimaced. “Spoken like a true scientist.”
“You cannot possibly forgive him for what he did?” Madame Lefoux seemed ready to reprimand Alexia.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf glanced up from his meal. “Cast you out, did he? Does he not think the child is his?”
“Howlers have never sung of a werewolf child.” Alexia couldn’t believe it, but she was actually defending her husband. “And loving me apparently wasn’t enough to get him over that fact. He didn’t even give me a chance.”
The German shook his head. “Werewolves. Emotion and violence, ya?” Then he put down his stylographic pen decidedly and leaned forward over book and notepad. “I spent all morning with research. My records would seem to substantiate his assessment. Although, lack of corroborative cases or other information does not make for real evidence. There are older records.”
“Records kept by vampires?” Alexia theorized, thinking of the Vampire Edicts.
“Records kept by Templars.”
Floote gave a little wince. Alexia glanced at him. He chewed his food impassively.
“So you think the Templars might have some hint as to how this is possible?” Alexia gestured delicately at her midsection.
“Ya. If this has happened before, they will have records of it.”
Alexia had grand romantic visions of marching into Conall’s office and slamming down proof of her innocence—of making him eat his words.
“And what of your theories, Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf?” asked Madame Lefoux.
“I believe, if I abandon the concept of undead but maintain my aetheric analysis of the composition of the soul, I might be able to explain this pregnancy.”
“Will you be able to maintain the principles of epidermal contact?”
The German looked impressed. “You are indeed familiar with my work, madame. I thought you were an engineer by training?”
Madame Lefoux flashed her dimples. “My aunt is a ghost and so was my grandmother. I have a keen interest in understanding excess soul.”
The horrible little dog came over to yap at Alexia’s ankle, and then, to add insult to injury, began to chew on one of her bootlaces. Alexia picked the serviette up off of her lap and surreptitiously dropped it on Poche’s head. The animal attempted to back out from under it, with little success.
“You believe you may have excess soul?” The German was apparently unaware of his dog’s predicament.
The Frenchwoman nodded. “It seems likely.”
Alexia wondered what that might feel like, knowing one was likely to end life as a poltergeist. She herself would die with no possibility of salvation or immortality. Preternaturals had no soul to save for either God or ghost.
“Then why not seek immortality, now that you live in England where such atrocities are openly encouraged?” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf curled his lip.
Madame Lefoux shrugged. “Despite my preferred mode of dress, I am still a woman, and I know my chances of surviving a werewolf bite, not to mention vampire blooding, are extremely slim. Besides, I do not wish to lose what little skill I have as an inventor alongside the bulk of my soul. To become entirely dependent upon the goodwill of a pack or a hive? No thank you. And simply because my relatives were ghosts does not necessarily mean I, too, have excess soul. In the end, I am not that much of a risk taker.”
The little dog had managed to circumnavigate the