are the result of a lack of internally produced aether, and to compensate, the preternatural body seeks to absorb ambient aether from the outside. He invented this machine to test the theory.”
Floote shifted slightly from his customary stance near the door, then stilled.
“When it is in my mouth, it detects nothing because I have nothing to detect? Because I am absorbing it all through my skin instead?”
“Precisely.”
Madame Lefoux asked brightly, “So could this device detect excess soul?”
“Sadly, no. Only the absence of soul. And since most preternaturals are registered with the local government, or are at least known, such an instrument is mainly useless except to confirm identity. As I have just done with you, My Soulless One. I must say, your presence presents me with a bit of a conundrum.” He took the wand back from Madame Lefoux, cleaned it once more, and switched the machine off. It let out one little wheeze and then the metallic clicking noise stopped.
Alexia stared at it while the preceptor capped the wand with the little glass jar and then covered the machine with the white linen cloth. It was odd to encounter an instrument that existed solely for one purpose—to tell the world that she was different.
“What do you Templars call that little device?” Alexia was curious, for he had specified that “aether absorption counter” was Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s name for it.
The preceptor did not flinch. “A daemon detector, of course.”
Alexia was decidedly taken aback. “Is that what I am?” She turned to look accusingly at Madame Lefoux. “You would tell me if I suddenly developed a forked red tail, wouldn’t you?”
Madame Lefoux pursed her lips provocatively. “Would you like me to check under your skirts?”
Alexia backpedaled hurriedly. “On second thought, I think I should notice such a protuberance myself.”
Floote wrinkled one corner of his nose in a remarkably understated sneer. “You are a daemon to them, madam.”
“Now, gentlemen.” Madame Lefoux leaned back, crossed her arms, and dimpled at them all. “Be fair. The last I heard was that the church was referring to preternaturals as devil spawn.”
Alexia was confused. “But you gave me a bed… and this rather excitable nightgown… and a robe. That is hardly the way to treat devil spawn.”
“Yes, but you can see why none of the brothers would talk to you.” Madame Lefoux was clearly finding this part of the conversation amusing.
“And you understand the nature of our difficulty with your presence among us?” The preceptor seemed to think this fact obvious.
Floote interjected, his tone gruff. “You have found good use for her kind before, sir.”
“In the past,” the preceptor said to Floote, “we rarely had to deal with females, and we had the daemons controlled and isolated from the rest of the Order.”
Floote acted as though the Templar had inadvertently given up some vital piece of information. “In the past, sir? Have you given up your breeding program?”
The man looked thoughtfully at Alessandro Tarabotti’s former valet and bit his lip as if wishing he could retract the information. “You have been gone from Italy a long time, Mr. Floote. I am under the impression that England’s Sir Francis Galton has some interest in expanding our initial research. ‘Eugenics,’ he is calling it. Presumably, he would need a method of measuring the soul first.”
Madame Lefoux sucked in her breath. “Galton is a purist? I thought he was a progressive.”
The Templar only blinked disdainfully at that. “Perhaps we should pause at this juncture. Would you like to see the city? Florence is very beautiful even at this time of year, if a trifle”—he glanced at Alexia—“orange. A little walk along the Arno, perhaps? Or would you prefer a nap? Tomorrow I have a small jaunt planned for your entertainment. I think you will enjoy it.”
Apparently their audience with the preceptor had ended.
Alexia and Madame Lefoux took the hint.
The Templar looked at Floote. “I trust you can find your way back to your rooms? You will understand, it is impossible for me to ask a sanctified servant or brother to escort you.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, sir.” Floote led the way from the room in what might have been, for him, a huff.
They began the long trek back to their quarters. The Florentine Temple was indeed vast. Alexia would have gotten hopelessly lost, but Floote appeared to know where to go.
“Well, he was certainly very chatty.”
Floote glanced at his mistress. “Too chatty, madam.” Floote’s walk was stiff—well, stiffer than normal—which meant he was upset about something.