“Are you saying that you actual y are a legitimate professor?” Madame Lefoux tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in newfound respect.
“Not as such. Amateur ruminantologist, to be precise.”
“Oh.”
Professor Lyal looked modestly proud. “I am considered a bit of an expert on the procreative practices of Ovis orientalis aries. ”
“Sheep?”
“Sheep.”
“Sheep!” Madame Lefoux’s voice came over suddenly high, as though she were suppressing an inclination to giggle.
“Yes, as in baaaa. ” Professor Lyal frowned. Sheep were a serious business, and he failed to see the source of Madame Lefoux’s amusement.
“Let me understand this correctly. You are a werewolf with a keen interest in sheep breeding?” A little bit of a French accent trickled into Madame Lefoux’s speech in her glee.
Professor Lyal continued bravely on, ignoring her flippancy. “I preserve the nonviable embryo in formaldehyde for future study. Lord Maccon has been drinking my samples.
When confronted, he admitted to enjoying both the refreshing beverage and the ‘crunchy pickled snack’ as well . I was not pleased.” At which, Professor Lyal felt that nothing more was required of him on this particular topic. “Shal we proceed?”
Taking the hint, Madame Lefoux made her way to the back of the shop. In the farthest corner was a pretty marble-topped stand with an attractive display of gloves spread atop it. Lifting one of the many glove boxes, the Frenchwoman revealed a lever. She pressed it sharply down and a door swung open from the wal before her.
“Oh, I say!” Tunstel was impressed, never having visited Madame Lefoux’s laboratory before. Floote, on the other hand, was untroubled by the almost magical appearance of the doorway. Very little ever seemed to ruffle the feathers of the unflappable Floote.
The hidden doorway led into neither a room nor a passageway, but instead a large cagelike contraption. They entered, Tunstel with much highly vocalized trepidation.
“I’m not certain about this, gents. Looks like one of those animal-col ecting thingamabobs, used by my friend Yardley. You know Winston Yardley? Explorer of some renown. He was off down this engorged river, the Burhidihing I think it was, and came back with a ruddy great ship packed with cages just like this, ful of the most messy kinds of animals. Not certain I approve of getting into one myself.”
“It is an ascension room,” explained Madame Lefoux to the worried redhead.
Floote pushed a lever, which closed the door to the shop, and then he pul ed the smal metal safety grate closed across the open side of the cage.
“Cables and guide rails al ow the chamber to move up and down between levels, like so.” Madame Lefoux pul ed a cord on one side of the cage. She continued explaining to Tunstel as the contraption dropped downward, raising her voice above the din that accompanied movement. “Above us is a steam-powered windlass. Do not worry; it is perfectly capable of sustaining our weight and lowering us at a respectable speed.”
So it proved to be the case as, with many ominous puffs of steam floating into the cage and some creaking and groaning that made Tunstel jump, they moved down.
Madame Lefoux’s definition of a respectable speed might be questioned, however, as the contraption plummeted quickly, bumping when it hit the ground, causing everyone to stumble violently up against one side.
“At some point, I suppose I shal have to get around to fixing that.” The Frenchwoman gave an embarrassed little smile, showing smal dimples. Straightening her cravat and top hat, she led the three men out. The passageway they walked into was lit by neither gas lamps nor candles, but instead by an orange-tinted gas that glowed faintly as it traveled through glass tubing set in one side of the ceiling. It was carried by an air current of some kind. The gas swirled constantly, resulting in patchy il umination and a shifting orange glow.
“Oooh,” commented Tunstel , and then, rather unguardedly, “What’s that?”
“Aetheromagnetic currents with a gaseous electromagnetic il uminatory crystal ine particulate in suspension. I was interested, until recently, in devising a portable version, but, if not precisely regulated, the gas has a tendency to, well , explode.”
Tunstel didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, some questions are best left unasked, I take it?” He gave the tubing a wary look and moved to walk on the opposite side of the passageway.
“Probably wise,” agreed Professor Lyal .
Madame Lefoux gave a half shrug. “You did ask, no?” She led them through a door at the end of the passage and into her contrivance chamber.
Professor Lyal sensed that there was something different about the place. He could not determine exactly what it was. He was familiar with the laboratory, having visited it in order to acquire various necessary instruments, gadgets, and devices for the pack, for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), and sometimes for his own personal use.
Madame Lefoux was general y thought to be one of the better young members of the mad-scientist set. She had a reputation for good, hard work and fair prices, her only idiosyncrasy of consequence, so far, being her mode of dress. Al members of the Order of the Brass Octopus were notorious for their eccentricities, and Madame Lefoux stood comparatively low on the peculiarity scale. Of course, there was always the possibility she would go on to develop more offensive inclinations later. There were rumors, but, to date, Lyal had had no cause to complain. Her laboratory was everything that was to be expected from an inventor of her character and reputation—very large, very messy, and very, very interesting.
“Where is your son?” inquired Professor Lyal politely, looking around for Quesnel Lefoux’s mercurial little face.
“Boarding school.” The inventor dismissed her child with a faint headshake of disappointment. “He was becoming a liability, and then the muddle with Angelique last month made school the most logical choice. I anticipate his imminent expulsion.”
Professor Lyal nodded his understanding. Angelique, Quesnel’s biological mother and Alexia’s former lady’s maid, had been working undercover for a vampire hive when she fel to her death out of the window of an obscure castle in Scotland. Not that such information was common knowledge, nor likely to become so, but the hives were not above recrimination. Angelique had failed her masters, and Madame Lefoux had involved herself unnecessarily in the matter. It was probably safer for Quesnel to be out of town and away from society, but Professor Lyal had a soft spot for the little ragamuffin, and would miss seeing him around the place.
“Formerly Lefoux must be missing him.”
Madame Lefoux dimpled at that. “Oh, I doubt that. My aunt never did like children very much, even when she was a child.”
The ghost in question, Madame Lefoux’s dead aunt and fel ow inventor, resided in the contrivance chamber and had been, until recently, responsible for Quesnel’s education—although, of course, not during the daytime.
Floote stood quietly while Professor Lyal and Madame Lefoux exchanged pleasantries. Tunstel did not. He began poking about the vast muddle, picking up containers and shaking them, examining the contents of large glass vials and winding up sets of gears. There were cords and wire coils draped over hat stands to investigate, vacuum tubes propped in umbrel a stands to tip over, and large pieces of machinery to rap on experimental y.
“Do you think I should warn him off? Some of those are volatile.” Madame Lefoux crossed her arms, not particularly concerned.
Professor Lyal rol ed his eyes. “Impossible pup.”
Floote went trailing after the curious Tunstel and began relieving him of his more dangerous distractions.
“I see there is a reason Lord Maccon never decided to bite him into metamorphosis.” Madame Lefoux watched the exchange with amusement.
“Aside from the fact that he ran away, got married, and left the pack?”
“Yes, aside from that.”
Tunstel paused to scoop up and put on a pair of glassicals as he walked. Since Madame Lefoux had entered the London market, the vision assistors were becoming ubiquitous. They were worn like spectacles but looked like the malformed offspring of a pair of binoculars and a set of opera glasses. More properly cal ed “monocular cross-magnification lenses with spectra modifier attachments,” Alexia cal ed them “glassicals,”
and Professor Lyal was ashamed to admit even he had taken to referring to them as such. Tunstel blinked at them, one eyebal hideously magnified by the instrument.
“Very stylish,” commented Professor Lyal , who owned several pairs himself and was often to be seen wearing them in public.
Floote gave Professor Lyal a dirty look, removed the glassicals from Tunstel , and prodded him back to where Madame Lefoux leaned against a wal , arms and ankles crossed. Large diagrams drawn in black pencil on stiff yel ow paper were haphazardly pinned behind her.
Professor Lyal final y realized what it was about the contrivance chamber that was so different from his last visit: it was quiet. Usual y the laboratory was dominated by the hum of mechanicals in motion, steam puffing out of various orifices in little gasps and whistles, gears clanking, metal chains clicking, and valves squealing. Today everything was silent. Also, for al its messiness, the place had an air of being put away.
“Are you planning a trip, Madame Lefoux?”
The Frenchwoman looked at the Woolsey Beta. “That rather depends on what Alexia has summoned us together to discuss.”
“But it is a possibility?”
She nodded. “A probability at this juncture, if I know anything about Alexia.”
“Another reason to send Quesnel away to boarding school.”
“Just so.”
“You understand much of Lady Maccon’s character, for such a comparatively short acquaintance.”
“You were not with us in Scotland, Professor; it encouraged intimacy. In addition, I have made her a bit of a pet research venture.”
“Oh, have you, indeed?”
“Before Alexia arrives, I take it you al read the morning papers?” Madame Lefoux switched the subject, levered herself upright from the wal , and took up a peculiarly masculine stance: legs spread, like a boxer at White’s awaiting the first blow.
The men around her al nodded their affirmation.
“I am afraid they do not lie, for once. Alexia shows every sign of increasing, and we must presume that a physician has corroborated my initial diagnosis. Otherwise, Alexia would likely be back at Woolsey Castle, chewing Lord Maccon’s head off.”
“I never noticed any of the aforementioned signs,” protested Tunstel , who had also traveled to the north with Madame Lefoux and Lady Maccon.
“Do you think said signs are general y something you’re likely to observe?”
Tunstel blushed red at that. “No. You are perfectly correct, of course; most assuredly not.”
“So are we agreed that the child is Lord Maccon’s?” Madame Lefoux clearly wanted to find out where everyone stood on the matter.
No one said anything. The inventor looked from one man to the next. First Floote, then Tunstel , and then Lyal nodded their assent.