“As your patroness, I feel it my duty to spread the deeply moving message inherent in your play. The bumblebee dance alone was a masterpiece of modern storytelling. I do not think we should deny it to others merely because of distance and questionable beverage options.”
Mrs. Tunstell nodded, her pert little face solemn at this profound statement.
“Besides”—Alexia lowered her voice significantly—“there is also a matter for the Parasol Protectorate to handle in Egypt.”
“Oh!” Ivy was overcome with excitement.
“I may call upon you in your capacity as Agent Puff Bonnet.”
“If that is the case, I shall speak to Tunny and we shall take measures and make preparations immediately! I shall need more hatboxes.”
Alexia blanched slightly at this ready enthusiasm. The Tunstells’ acting troupe numbered nearly a dozen, plus assorted sycophants. “Perhaps we could narrow the scope of your production down slightly? This is a delicate matter.”
“Such a thing might be possible.”
“Down to, perhaps, only you and Tunstell?”
“I don’t know. There is the wardrobe to consider. Who will look after that? And one or two of the supporting roles are perfectly vital to the story. And what about the twins? I couldn’t possibly leave my beloved poppets. We will need our nursemaid along, as I couldn’t manage without her. Then there is…”
Mrs. Tunstell continued to prattle on and Alexia let her. After a good long negotiation, Ivy concluded she could narrow her entourage down to ten, Tunstell and the twins not included, and she would collect the names and paperwork and send them on to Floote as soon as possible.
It was decided that they could leave by the end of the next week, all details being finalized. Lady Maccon departed feeling that the hard part was over and that all she need do now was persuade her husband as to the sensibleness of hiding themselves in plain sight among a bunch of actors.
She sent a note round to Countess Nadasdy instructing her to tell Queen Matakara that if the Alexandria Hive were to express particular interest in seeing a performance of The Death Rains of Swansea, it might also get a visit from Lord and Lady Maccon and their unusual child. Queen Matakara was to demand the play be performed before her in person, in her own home, and to that end was asking the Tunstells’ Acting Troupe a la Mode to travel to Egypt specially. Alexia and Conall would be invited along as patrons.
By the time Lady Maccon had completed this task, the pack was home and a general ruckus of large men had resulted. Conall stuck his head round the doorjamb to say there was nothing new concerning Dubh and did she know where Biffy had gotten to?
Alexia replied that, no, she didn’t and would he please come in and let her explain her plan before he gallivanted off again. He did, and she did, and after a good deal of grumbling, he accepted the necessity of traveling under cover of thespians.
“And now,” announced Alexia, “I am going to have a chat with Lord Akeldama. I want his perspective on this summons from Queen Matakara, and I should inform him of my imminent protracted absence from the Shadow Council. He will have to handle the dewan on his own.”
“If you think it necessary.”
“My dear, you really must come around to the fact that Lord Akeldama knows useful things. Things even you and BUR don’t know. Plus, he is Prudence’s legal guardian. If we wish to take her out of the country, even at a vampire’s request, we must ask his permission. It is the way of things.”
Lord Maccon gestured her on magnanimously, and Alexia took herself next door without further ado.
Upon waking that evening Biffy was understandably bothered to hear of Dubh’s death. However, it was a middling bother. He had never met the man, and, if the rumors were to be believed, he hadn’t missed out on much. Besides, it was difficult to mourn the loss of anyone who had spent a good deal of his life in Scotland. Biffy was tolerably more disturbed by the fact that he had developed a cowlick while asleep that would not lie flat no matter what he did.
Biffy wondered if this attitude might be considered crass. He wouldn’t want to be thought crass. It was simply that he still felt disconnected from his werewolf brethren. They had little conversation that did not revolve around sports or ballistics. Major Channing had a well-tied cravat, but really, even Biffy could not forge a relationship based solely upon attractive neck gear.
Biffy skirted off early to see to the hat shop and returned for a midnight snack to find Lord and Lady Maccon out and those few others still in residence dressed in black waistcoats. With a sigh, he went to change, disliking Dubh more for the alteration in his wardrobe than the poor man probably deserved.
He was picking idly at a plate of kippers when Professor Lyall wandered in, spotted him, and said, “Oh, good, Biffy, just the man I was looking for.”
Biffy was startled. Professor Lyall had always been scrupulously kind to him, but other than doling out responsibility for the contrivance chamber and associated paperwork, the Beta had had very little to do with Biffy. Taking care of Lord Maccon was a full-time job, a fact Biffy understood all too well. He was such a very large and fearsome man, and so very scruffy. Biffy was part afraid of the Alpha, part in awe, and part driven by a pressing need to get him to a tailor.
He swallowed his bit of kipper and rose slightly out of his seat in deference to rank. “Professor Lyall, how can I be of service?” Biffy was hoping someday to learn the secret of the Beta’s tame coiffure. It showed such admirable restraint.
“We’re hitting a spot of bother getting anything substantial in the way of onlookers from Fenchurch Street. I was wondering if perhaps you might have some contacts in that area, from your before days?”
“Lord Akeldama did have me visit a pub near there upon occasion. One of the barmaids might remember me.”
“Barmaids? Very well, if you say so.”
“Would you like me to inquire now?”
“Please, and if you wouldn’t mind some company?”
Biffy looked the Beta over—quiet, unassuming, with excellent if understated taste in waistcoats and a generally put-upon expression. Not the type of company Biffy would have chosen in his past, but that was the past. “Certainly, Professor, delighted.” Perhaps they might discuss the matter of controlling cowlicks.
“Now, Biffy, don’t tell fibs. I know I’m not up to your standards.”
If he still had the capacity, Biffy would have colored at that bold statement. “Oh, sir, I should never even hint that you were anything but ideally suited to—”
Professor Lyall cut him short. “I was only teasing. Shall we?”
Biffy finished his last mouthful of kipper, wondering if the Beta generally teased at table. Then he stood, grabbed his hat and cane, and followed the professor out into the night.
They walked in silence for a long moment. Finally Biffy said, “I was wondering, sir.”
“Yes?” Professor Lyall had a very gentle voice.
“I was wondering if perhaps your appearance were not as calculated to be unobtrusive as that of Lord Akeldama’s drones, only in a far more subtle way.” Biffy saw white teeth flash in a quick smile.
“Well, it is a Beta’s job to take to the background.”
“Did Dubh do that?”
“Not as I understood it. But he was a far fly from a true Beta. Lord Maccon killed his Kingair Beta for treason before he left the pack. Dubh stepped in because there was no one better.”
“What an awful mess that must have been.”
Next to him, Professor Lyall’s footsteps paused one infinitesimal minute. Without his supernatural hearing, Biffy never would have caught the hesitation. “For the Kingair Pack? Yes, I suppose it was. You know, at the time, I never even gave them a thought. The Woolsey Pack had its own problems.”
Biffy had heard the rumors. He had also done his best to learn the history of his pack. “The Alpha prior to Lord Maccon had gone sour, I understand.”
“That’s a rather elegant way of putting it—as though he were curdled milk.”
“You didn’t like him, sir?”
“Oh, Biffy, don’t you think you could call me Randolph by now?”
“Goodness, must I?”
“Everyone else in the pack does.”
“Doesn’t make it palatable. Can I rename you?”
“How very Lord Akeldama of you. Not Dolly, though, please.”
“Randy?”
Sour silence greeted that.
“Lyall, then. Are you going to answer my question, sir, or avoid it?”
Lyall cast him a sharp look. “You’re right. I didn’t like him.”
Biffy felt a small frisson of horror. “Do all Alphas go sour?”
“All of the old ones, I’m afraid. Fortunately, most of them die fighting off challengers. But the really strong ones, the ones who live past three or four hundred, they all go—as you say—sour.”
“And how old is Lord Maccon?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about him.”
“But he’ll get there?”
“I suspect he might be one of the ones who does.”
“And you have a plan?”
Professor Lyall gave a small huff of amusement. “I believe he does. You believe ours is a far more ugly world than that of the vampires, don’t you, young pup?”
Biffy said nothing at that.
“Perhaps they simply hide it better. Had you considered that?”
Biffy thought of his dear Lord Akeldama, all light heart, pale skin, and sweet fanged smiles. Again, he said nothing.
Professor Lyall sighed. “You’re one of us now. You made it through the first few years. You’re controlling the change. You’re taking on pack responsibility.”
“Barely. Have you seen the way my hair is behaving of late? Practically scruffy.”
They hailed a hansom cab and slung themselves inside. “Fenchurch Street, please, my good man, the Trout and Pinion Pub.”
The fly got them there in good time, and they alighted before a questionable-looking establishment. For this part of town, near the docks, being more of a mind to cater to the daylight folk, it was quiet late at night. Nevertheless, the pub looked unfortunately popular.
The locals quieted at the advent of strangers, especially one dressed as flawlessly as Biffy. A murmur of suspicious talk circulated as they made their way to the bar.
The barmaid remembered Biffy. Most women of her class did. Biffy was a good tipper and he never groped or expected anything. Plus he dressed so well he tended to make a favorable impression on females of the species.
“Well there’s my fine young gentleman, and ain’t it been an age since I clapped eyes on you last?”
“Nettie, my dove”—Biffy put on his most extravagant mannerisms—“how are you this delightful evening?”
“Couldn’t be better, ducky. Couldn’t be better. What can I get you boys?”
“Two whiskeys, please, my darling, and a little of your company if you have a mind.”
“Make that three and I’ll sit on your knee while we drink ’em.”
“Done!” Biffy slapped down the requisite coin, plus a generous gratuity, and he and Lyall made their way over to a small side table near the fire.