Today I Read…Heartless

Today I read Heartless, the fourth book in the Parasol Protectorate seriHeartlesses by Gail Carriger. Check out my reviews of the first three books, Soulless, Changeless, and Blameless.

Lady Alexia Tarabotti Maccon is not enjoying her delicate condition. The infant-inconvenience kicks her, disrupts her appetite, and the vampires want to kill her to prevent the baby from being born. It’s been a very trying eight months (particularly for the men in her life: chiefly, her werewolf husband, Lord Conall Maccon; his beta, Professor Lyall; and her close friend, the vampire Lord Akeldama). And now they’ve come up with the most outrageous scheme: to let Lord Akeldama adopt and raise her child! Of course, it would pacify the vampires, and Akeldama is even willing to remodel his second closet into a nursery–you simply can’t ask more of him than to relocate clothing. And the house next door is for sale, so Alexia could stay close. And it will put Biffy, the most recent member of the werewolf pack in close quarters with his former master and, er, special friend, Lord Akeldama, which is nice since Biffy isn’t quite adjusting to his emergency werewolfification as well as could be hoped… Perhaps it isn’t so foolish an idea after all.

Then Alexia and Conall get attacked by poisoned porcupines. A deranged ghost is claiming there is a plot to assassinate the queen. Alexia’s best friend Ivy and her husband have formed an acting troupe, and requested Lady Maccon become their patroness. The French inventor Madame Lefoux has created an enormous mechanical brass octopus and is attacking the home of the vampire queen Countess Nadasdy in an effort to retrieve her son Quesnel. And worst of all, Alexia’s sister Felicity is claiming to have thrown over gowns and gossip for tweed and suffrage, and is moving in with the Maccons.

When people say that Lady Maccon is in an interesting condition, they are not exaggerating in the slightest.


Alexia continues to be thoroughly incapable of not having an adventure, and proves that just because she is pregnant most certainly does not mean that she will be slowing down in any way. She may be barely able to waddle around, but she will still vigorously investigate the threat against the queen’s life. Even if she does initially mistake which queen the threat is against. We learn a bit more about preternaturals and supernaturals, and why the vampires feel so threatened by Alexia and Conall’s child, as well as about the former Kingair assassination plot which drove Conall away from his original pack.

Biffy the new werewolf is one of my favourite characters, and it’s interesting to see his struggle with his new curse of lycanthropy. He used to be a drone and lover of Lord Akeldama, and had once hoped to become a vampire himself in time. Unfortunately, in the last book Conall was forced to bite him to save his life, and being a werewolf is very different from being a vampire, even though both are immortal. He still loves Akeldama, even though a romance between a vampire and a werewolf is unheard of, and they both know they must part. Still, the heart is harder to convince than the head is.

All of the books in the series follow a formula: mystery, danger, witty banter, but it’s a formula that works very well. Alexia and Conall’s eternal arguments are always entertaining, as are the perfectly proper and extremely absurd Victorian manners. It’s not quote what I would call British humour, as exemplified by Monty Python and Douglas Adams, but it is a genteel cousin. Carriger continues to describe Victorian society, clothing, and manners very well, but it is her more than lively characters (Alexia certainly is) that shine.


Alexia had only a moment of reprieve to appreciate the macabre sight of a wolf luring away a flock of porcupines like some Aesop’s version of the Pied Piper. A thud resounded on the driver’s box on the outside of the carriage. Something far larger than a porcupine had hit the claviger coachman and knocked him out. Seconds later, for speed was always their strong point, the parasol was bashed out of Alexia’s grasp and the carriage door yanked open.

“Good evening, Lady Maccon.” The vampire tipped his top hat with one hand, holding the door with the other. He occupied the entrance in an ominous, looming manner.

“Ah, how do you do, Lord Ambrose?”

“Tolerably well, tolerably well. It is a lovely night, don’t you find? And how is your”—he glanced at her engorged belly—“health?”

“Exceedingly abundant,” Alexia replied with a self-effacing shrug, “although, I suspect, unlikely to remain so.”

“Have you been eating figs?”

Alexia was startled by this odd question. “Figs?”

“Terribly beneficial in preventing biliousness in newborns, I understand.”

Alexia had been in receipt of a good deal of unwanted pregnancy advice over the last several months, so she ignored this and got on to the business at hand.

“If you don’t feel that it is forward of me to ask, are you here to kill me, Lord Ambrose?” She inched away from the carriage door, reaching for Ethel. The gun lay behind her on the coach seat. She had not had time to put it back into its reticule with the pineapple cut siding. The reticule was a perfect match to her gray plaid carriage dress with green lace trim. Lady Alexia Maccon was a woman who liked to see a thing done properly or not at all.

The vampire tilted his head to one side in acknowledgment. “Sadly, yes. I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, really, must you? I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“That’s what they all say.”


Miss Felicity Loontwill sat in Lord Akeldama’s drawing room in a dress of sensible heathered tweed with only one layer of trim and six buttons, a hat with minimal feathers, and a gray knit shawl with a ruffled collar.

“Oh, my heavens,” exclaimed Lady Maccon upon seeing her sister in such a state. “Felicity, are you quite all right?”

Miss Loontwill looked up. “Why, yes, of course, sister. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Is there something amiss with the family?”

“You mean, aside from Mama’s predilection for pink?”

Alexia, blinking in flabbergasted shock, lowered herself carefully onto a chair. “But, Felicity, you are wearing last season’s dress!” She lowered her voice, in genuine fear that her sister might be deranged. “Andknitwear.”

“Oh.” Felicity wrapped the ghastly shawl tighter about her neck. “It was necessary.”

Lady Maccon was only further shocked by such an unexpected statement. “Necessary? Necessary!”

“Well, yes, Alexia, do pay attention. Have you always been this frazzled, or is it your unfortunate condition?” Felicity lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Necessary because I have been fraternizing.”

“You have? With whom?” Alexia became suspicious. It was very late at night for an unmarried young lady of quality to be cavorting about unchaperoned, especially one who kept daylight hours and whose parents shunned association with the supernatural set.

“I am wearing tweed. With whom else? Some poor unfortunates of the middle class.”

Lady Maccon would have none of it. “Oh, really, Felicity, you can hardly expect me to believe that you have had anything whatsoever to do with the lower orders.”

“You may choose to believe it or not, sister.”

Alexia wished for a return of her ability to stride about and loom threateningly. Sadly, striding was several months behind her, and should she attempt to loom, she would undoubtedly overbalance and pitch forward in graceless splendor. She settled for glaring daggers at her sibling. “Very well, then, what are you doing here? And how did you know to find me at Lord Akeldama’s residence?”

“Mrs. Tunstell told me where to find you.” Felicity looked with a critical eye at the golden magnificence surrounding her.

“Ivy? How did Ivy know?”

“Madame Lefoux told her.”

“Oh, she did, did she? And how—”

“Apparently someone named Professor Lyall told Madame Lefoux your relocation was taking place this evening and that you would hole up at Lord Akeldama’s, in case there were any orders pending delivery. Have you commissioned a new hat, sister? From that crass foreign female? Are you certain you should be patronizing her establishment after what happened in Scotland? And who is this Professor Lyall person? You haven’t taken up with academics, have you? That cannot possibly be healthy. Education is terribly bad for the nerves, especially for a woman in your state.”

Lady Maccon grappled for some appropriate response.

Felicity added, in a blatant attempt at distraction, “Speaking of which, you have gotten tremendously portly, haven’t you? Is increasing supposed to cause you to swell quite so much as all that?”

Lady Maccon frowned. “I believe I have increased, as it were, to the maximum. You know me—I always insist on seeing a thing done as thoroughly as possible.”

“Well, Mama says to make certain you don’t get angry with anyone. The child will end up looking like him.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, emotional mimicking they call it, and—”

“Well, that’s no trouble. It will simply end up looking like my husband.”

“But what if it is a female? Wouldn’t that be horrible? She’d be all fuzzy and—”

Felicity would have continued but Lady Maccon lost her patience, a thing she was all too prone to misplacing. “Felicity, why are you visiting me?”

Miss Loontwill hedged. “This is quite the remarkable abode. I never did think I should ever see inside of a vampire hive. And so charming and gleaming and full of exquisite collections. Almost up to my standards.”

“This is not a hive—there is no queen. Not in the technical definition of the word. I will not be so easily detoured, Felicity. Why have you shown up at such a time of night? And why would you undertake such pains to discover my whereabouts?”

Her sister shifted on the brocade settee, her blond head tilted to one side and a small frown creased her perfect forehead. She had not, Alexia noticed, modified her elaborately styled ringlets to match her lowbrow outfit. A row of perfect flat curls were gummed to her forehead in the very latest style.

“You have not paid the family much mind since your return to London.”

Lady Maccon considered this accusation. “You must admit, I was made to feel rather unwelcome prior to my departure.” And that is putting it mildly. Her family had always been a mite petty for her taste, even before they unilaterally decided to expel her from their midst at the most inconvenient time. Since her ill-fated trip to Scotland and subsequent dash across half the known world, she had simply elected to avoid the Loontwills as much as possible. As Lady Maccon, denizen of the night, who fraternized with werewolves; inventors; and, horror of horrors, actors, this was a relatively easy undertaking.

“Yes, but it’s been positively months, sister! I did not think you the type to hold a grudge. Did you know Evylin has renewed her engagement to Captain Featherstonehaugh?”

Lady Maccon only stared at her sister, tapping one slipper lightly on the carpeted floor.

Miss Loontwill blushed, looking toward her and then away again. “I have become”—she paused as though searching for the correct way of phrasing it—“involved.”

Alexia felt a tremor of real fear flutter through her breast. Or is that indigestion? “Oh, no, Felicity. Not with someone unsuitable? Not with someone middle class. Mama would never forgive you!”

Felicity stood and began to wander about the gilded room showing considerable agitation. “No, no, you misconstrue my meaning. I have become involved with my local chapter of the”—she lowered her voice dramatically—“National Society for Women’s Suffrage.”

If Lady Maccon hadn’t already been sitting down, she would have had to sit at such a statement. “You want to vote? You? But you can’t even decide which gloves to wear of a morning.”

“I believe in the cause.”

“Poppycock. You’ve never believed in anything in your whole life, except possibly the reliability of the French to predict next season’s color palette.”

“Well. Still.”

“But, Felicity, really this is so very common. Couldn’t you start up a ladies aid society or an embroidery social?You? Politically minded? I cannot deem such a thing feasible. It has only been five months since I met with you last, not five years, and even then you could not change your character so drastically. A feathered bonnet does not molt so easily as that.”


Lady Maccon hesitated, wondering exactly how much to reveal. Ivy was a dear little soul, but was she reliable? She decided to buck up and take the plunge. “Ivy, have you ever wondered if there might, just possibly, be something slightly unusual about me?”

“Well, Alexia my dear, I never liked to say, but I have always wondered about your hat preferences. They have struck me as mighty plain.”

Lady Maccon shook her head. The long blue ostrich feather of her not-at-all-plain hat wafted back and forth behind her. “No, not that, I mean . . . Well, dash it, Ivy, there’s nothing for it.”

Mrs. Tunstell gasped in enchanted shock at Lady Maccon’s lowbrow language. “Alexia, you have been fraternizing with werewolves overmuch! Military men can be terribly bad for one’s verbal concatenation.”

Alexia took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I’m preternatural.”

Ivy’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no! Is it catching?”

Alexia blinked at her.

Ivy donned a sympathetic expression. “Is it a terribly painful condition?”

Lady Maccon continued to blink.

Ivy put a hand to her throat. “Is it the baby? Will you both be well? Should I send for barley water?”

Alexia finally found her voice. “No, preternatural.You might know the term, as in soulless? Or curse-breaker. I have no soul. None at all. As a matter of fact, I can cancel it out in supernatural creatures given half a chance.”

Ivy relaxed. “Oh, that. Yes, I knew. I shouldn’t let it concern you, my dear. I doubt anybody minds.”

“Yes, but . . . Wait, you knew?”

Ivy tut-tutted and shook dark ringlets at her friend in mock amusement. “Of course I knew—have done for simply ages.”

“But you never mentioned a thing to me on the subject.” Alexia was not often flummoxed. She found it an usual sensation and wondered if this was what Ivy felt like most of the time. Her friend’s revelation did, however, give her some degree of confidence in her next move. Despite all her frivolities, Ivy could clearly keep a secret and, it turned out, was more observant than Alexia had previously given her credit for.

“Now, Alexia, I thought you were embarrassed about it. I didn’t want to bring up an uncomfortable personal disability. I have more sensitivity and care for the feelings of others than that!”

“Ah, oh, well. Of course you do. Regardless, as a preternatural, I am currently engaged in some investigations. I was hoping to enlist your aid. It has to do with my husband’s work.” Alexia didn’t want to tell Ivy absolutely everything, but she didn’t want to fib outright either.

“For BUR? Espionage! Oh, really? How terribly glamorous.” Ivy clasped yellow-gloved hands together in delight.

“To which end I was hoping to, well, induct you into a kind of secret society.”

Ivy looked as though she had not heard anything so thrilling in all her life. “Me?” she squeaked. “Really? How marvelous. What’s it called, this secret society?”

Alexia hesitated and then, recalling a phrase her husband had once offered up in the heat of annoyance, suggested tentatively, “The Parasol Protectorate?”

“Oooh, what a perfectly splendid name. So full of ornamentation!” Ivy practically bounced up and down on the lavender settee in her excitement. “Must I make a pledge, or memorize a sacred code of conduct, or engage in some pagan ritual or other?” Ivy had an expectant look on her face that suggested she would be very disappointed if this were not the case.

“Well, yes, of course.” Lady Maccon floundered, trying to come up with something appropriate to the occasion. She couldn’t make Ivy kneel, not in that dress—a periwinkle muslin day gown with an extremely long, tight bodice of the style favored by actresses.

After a moment’s thought, Alexia stood laboriously and waddled over to the umbrella stand to retrieve her parasol. This she opened and placed point downward in the center of the room. Since the room was so very small, this did manage to take up most of the free space. Motioning Ivy to stand, Alexia handed her the handle and said, “Spin the parasol three times and repeat after me: I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

Ivy did as she was told, face serious and concentrated. “I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

“Now pick the parasol up and raise it, open, to the ceiling. Yes, just like that.”

“Is that all? Shouldn’t the vow be sealed in blood or something like?”

“Oh, do you think?”

Ivy nodded enthusiastically.

Alexia shrugged. “If you insist.” She took back her parasol, snapped it closed, and twisted the handle. Two wickedly sharp spikes projected out of the tip, one of silver, the other of wood.

Ivy inhaled in appreciation.

Lady Maccon flipped the parasol about. Then she took off one of her gloves. After a moment’s hesitation, Ivy did the same. Alexia nicked the pad of her thumb with the silver spike and then did the same for Ivy, who gave a little squeak of alarm. Then Alexia pressed their two thumbs together.

“May the blood of the soulless keep your own soul safe,” intoned Alexia, feeling appallingly melodramatic but knowing Ivy would love this better than anything.

Ivy did. “Oh, Alexia, this is so very stirring! It should be part of a play.”

“I shall have a special parasol made up for you, similar to mine.”

“Oh, no, but thank you for the thought, Alexia. I couldn’t possibly carry an accessory that emitted things all willy-nilly like that. Really, I’m much obliged, but I simply couldn’t bear it. You, of course, manage to carry it off with aplomb, but it would be too vulgar on someone like me.”

Lady Maccon frowned, but knowing her friend’s true weakness, she made another suggestion. “A special hat, perhaps?”

Ivy hesitated.

“Madame Lefoux designed my parasol.”

“Well, perhaps a small hat. One that isn’t too oozy?”

Alexia smiled. “I am convinced that could be arranged.”


Today I Read…Changeless

Today I read Changeless, the second Parasol Protectorate book by Gail Carriger. Her website is here, and you can find all kinds of information about steampunk, Victorian London, and extra bits about Alexia and her friends. You can also find my review of the first book in the series, Souless, here. Print

Alexia Tarrabotti’s recent marriage to Lord Conall Maccon, the Alpha Werewolf of the Woolsey pack, has brought about a lot of changes in her life: her very welcome distancing from her not-so-loving family (unfortunately, it’s not a long enough distance); her appointment by the Queen to the secret Shadow Council, royal advisors on all supernatural matters; and of course, an often naked, commonly furry, and always infuriating husband in her bed. Said husband has suddenly run off (literally–he turned wolf and ran) all the way to Scotland of all barbarous places to visit his former pack–the ones he abandoned more than 20 years ago after they betrayed him. And he does this right when there is a mysterious plague spreading across Europe affecting supernaturals–ghosts permanently lose their tether to the mortal world, and vampires and werewolves lose their special abilities and become human.

Now the new Lady Maccon is off to dreary, wet, uncivilized Scotland via floating dirigible to find her missing (all right, and somewhat missed) husband, complete with efficient butler, impetuous valet, stylish French maid, annoying half-sister, atrociously-behatted best friend, and a French lesbian inventor. Who just made her the most wonderful new parasol, at Conall’s behest. A lot can be forgiven of a man who knows you well enough to commission a weaponized parasol.


This is an excellent chapter in the continuing adventures of Lady Alexia Tarrabotti Maccon. We find out more about why Conall Maccon left his previous pack, and about how preternaturals affect supernaturals. We meet more fascinating characters, including the Kingair pack, Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings, and of course Madame Genevieve Lefoux, the brilliant inventor who dresses like a man and runs a hat shop with her young son and her ghostly aunt. And we get the setup for the next book, when Alexia is revealed to be pregnant, despite the fact that everybody knows werewolves can’t have children. And Everybody Knows is always right, right? Right.

The God-Breaker plague is interesting as the mystery of the book, the way that the Order of the Brass Octopus abducting supernaturals was in the first book. Carriger does a good job of treating the series like a television mini-series–each book has a stand-alone problem that needs to be solved, while gradually building an arc that spans all five novels. Alexia’s world has greatly expanded since her marriage to Conall, and the reader follows her along on her first dirigible ride, her first trip out of England, her first meeting with the Kingair werewolf pack, including their leader, Conall’s great-great-great-granddaughter Lady Sidheag Maccon, her first serious fight with Conall (not counting their constant smaller quarrels), and of course her first pregnancy. This book is particularly well-named, since everything changes.


“They are what?”

Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, was yelling. Loudly. This was to be expected from Lord Maccon, who was generally a loud sort of gentleman—the ear-bleeding combination of lung capacity and a large barrel chest.

Alexia Maccon, Lady Woolsey, muhjah to the queen, Britain’s secret preternatural weapon extraordinaire, blinked awake from a deep and delicious sleep.

“Wasn’t me,” she immediately said, without having the barest hint of an idea as to what her husband was carrying on about. Of course, it usually was her, but it would not do to fess up right away, regardless of whatever it was that had his britches in a bunch this time. Alexia screwed her eyes shut and squirmed farther into the warmth of down-stuffed blankets. Couldn’t they argue about it later?

“What do you mean gone?” The bed shook slightly with the sheer volume behind Lord Maccon’s yell. The amazing thing was that he wasn’t nearly as loud as he could be when he really put his lungs into it.

“Well, I certainly did not tell them to go,” denied Alexia into her pillow. She wondered who “they” were. Then she came about to the realization, taking a fluffy-cottony sort of pathway to get there, that he wasn’t yelling at her but at someone else. In their bedroom.

Oh dear.

Unless he was yelling at himself.

Oh dear.

“What, all of them?”

Alexia’s scientific side wondered idly at the power of sound waves—hadn’t she heard of a recent Royal Society pamphlet on the subject?

“All at once?”

Lady Maccon sighed, rolled toward the hollering, and cracked one eyelid. Her husband’s large naked back filled her field of vision. To see any more, she’d have to lever herself upright. Since that would probably expose her to more cold air, she declined to lever. She did, however, observe that the sun was barely down. What was Conall doing awake and aloud so freakishly early? For, while her husband roaring was not uncommon, its occurrence in the wee hours of late afternoon was. Inhuman decency dictated that even Woolsey Castle’s Alpha werewolf remain quiet at this time of day.

“How wide of a radius, exactly? It canna have extended this far.”

Oh dear, his Scottish accent had put in an appearance. That never bode well for anyone.


Alexia threw her head back and yelled, “Tunstell!” She had not quite the lung capacity to match that of her massive husband, but neither was she built on the delicate-flower end of the feminine spectrum. Alexia’s father’s ancestors had once conquered an empire, and it was when Lady Maccon yelled that people realized how that was accomplished.

Tunstell came bouncing over, a handsome, if gangly, ginger fellow with a perpetual grin and a certain carelessness of manner that most found endearing and everybody else found exasperating.

“Tunstell,” Alexia said calmly and reasonably, she thought, “why are there tents on my front lawn?”

Tunstell, Lord Maccon’s valet and chief among the clavigers, looked about in his chipper way, as if to say that he had not noticed anything amiss and was now delighted to find that they had company. Tunstell was always chirpy. It was his greatest character flaw. He was also one of the few residents of Woolsey Castle who managed to remain entirely unfazed by, or possibly unaware of, either Lord or Lady Maccon’s wrath. This was his second-greatest character flaw.

“He didn’t warn you?” The claviger’s freckled face was flushed with exertion from helping to raise one of the tents.

“No, he most certainly did not.” Alexia tapped the silver tip of her parasol on the front stoop.

Tunstell grinned. “Well, my lady, the rest of the pack has returned.” He flipped both hands at the canvas-ridden chaos before her, waggling his fingers dramatically. Tunstell was an actor of some note—everything he did was dramatic.

“Tunstell,” said Alexia carefully, as though to a dim child, “this would indicate that my husband possessed a very, very big pack. There are no werewolf Alphas in England who can boast a pack of such proportions.”

“Oh, well, the rest of the pack brought the rest of the regiment with them,” explained Tunstell in a conspiratorial way, as though he and Alexia were partners engaged in the most delightful lark.

“I believe it is customary for the pack and fellow officers of a given regiment to separate upon returning home. So that, well, one doesn’t wake up to find hundreds of soldiers camping on one’s lawn.”

“Well, Woolsey has always done things a little differently. Having the biggest pack in England, we’re the only ones who split the pack for military service, so we keep the Coldsteam Guards together for a few weeks when we get home. Builds solidarity.” Tunstell gestured expansively once more, his fine white hands weaving about in the air, and nodded enthusiastically.

“And does this solidarity have to occur on Woolsey’s front lawn?” Tap tap tap went the parasol. The Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR) was experimenting with new weaponry of late. At the disbanding of the Hypocras Club several months previous, a small compressed steam unit had been discovered. It apparently heated continually until it burst. Lord Maccon had shown it to his wife. It made a ticking noise just prior to explosion, rather like that of Alexia’s parasol at this precise moment. Tunstell was unaware of this correlation or he might have proceeded with greater caution. On the other hand, being Tunstell, he might not.

“Yes, isn’t it jolly?” crowed Tunstell.

“But why?” Tap tap tap.

“It is where we have always camped,” said a new voice, apparently belonging to someone equally unfamiliar with the ticking, exploding steam device.


Ivy was immediately entranced by the ugliest of the bunch: a canary-yellow felt toque trimmed with black currants, black velvet ribbon, and a pair of green feathers that looked like antennae off to one side.

“Oh, not that one!” said both Alexia and another voice at the same time when Ivy reached to pull it off the wall.

Ivy’s hand dropped to her side, and both she and Lady Maccon turned to see the most remarkable-looking woman emerging from a curtained back room.

Alexia thought, without envy, that this was quite probably the most beautiful female she had ever seen. She had a lovely small mouth, large green eyes, prominent cheekbones, and dimples when she smiled, which she was doing now. Normally Alexia objected to dimples, but they seemed to suit this woman. Perhaps because they were offset by her thin angular frame and the fact that she had her brown hair cut unfashionably short, like a man’s.

Ivy gasped upon seeing her.

This was not because of the hair. Or, not entirely because of it. This was because the woman was also dressed head to shiny boots in perfect and impeccable style—for a man. Jacket, pants, and waistcoat were all to the height of fashion. A top hat perched upon that scandalously short hair, and her burgundy cravat was tied into a silken waterfall. Still, there was no pretense at hiding her femininity. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and melodic, but definitely that of a woman.

Alexia picked up a pair of burnt umber kid gloves from a display basket. They were as soft as butter to the touch, and she looked at them to stop herself from staring at the woman.

“I am Madame Lefoux. Welcome to Chapeau de Poupe. How may I serve you fine ladies?” She had the hint of a French accent, but only the barest hint, utterly unlike Angelique, who could never seem to handle the “th” sound.

Ivy and Alexia curtsied with a little tilt to their heads, the latest fashion in curtsies, designed to show that the neck was unbitten. One wouldn’t want to be thought a drone without the benefit of vampiric protection. Madame Lefoux did the same, although it was impossible to tell if her neck was bitten under that skillfully tied cravat. Alexia noted with interest that she wore two cravat pins: one of silver and one of wood. Madame Lefoux might keep night hours, but she was cautious about it.

Lady Maccon said, “My friend Miss Hisselpenny has recently become engaged and is in dire need of a new hat.” She did not introduce herself, not yet. Lady Maccon was a name best kept in reserve.

Madame Lefoux took in Ivy’s copious flowers and feather bees. “Yes, this is quite evident. Do walk this way, Miss Hisselpenny. I believe I have something over here that would perfectly suit that dress.”

Ivy dutifully trotted after the strangely clad woman. She gave Alexia a look over her shoulder that said, as clearly as if she had the gumption to say it aloud, what the deuce is she wearing?

Alexia wandered over to the offensive yellow toque she and Madame Lefoux had so hastily warned Ivy off of. It completely contrasted with the general sophisticated tenor set by the other hats. Almost as though it wasn’t meant to be purchased.

As the extraordinary patroness seemed to be thoroughly distracted by Ivy (well, who wouldn’t be?), Alexia used the handle of her parasol to gently lift the toque and peek underneath. It was at that precise moment she deduced why it was her husband had sent her to Chapeau de Poupe.

There was a hidden knob, disguised as a hook, secreted under the hideous hat. Alexia quickly replaced the hat and turned away to begin innocently wandering about the shop, pretending interest in various accessories. She began to notice that there were other little hints as to a second nature for Chapeau de Poupe: scrape marks on the floor near a wall thatseemed to have no door and several gas lights that were not lit. Alexia would wager good money that they were not lights at all.

Lady Maccon would not have thought to be curious, of course, had her husband not been so insistent she visit the establishment. The rest of the shop was quite unsuspicious, being the height of la mode, with hats appealing enough to hold even her unstylish awareness. But with the scrapes and the hidden knob, Alexia became curious, both about the shop and its owner. Lady Maccon might be soulless, but the liveliness of her mind was never in question.

She wandered over to where Madame Lefoux had actually persuaded Miss Hisselpenny to don a becoming little straw bonnet with upturned front, decorated about the crown with a few classy cream flowers and one graceful blue feather.

“Ivy, that looks remarkably well on you,” she praised.

“Thank you, Alexia, but don’t you find it a tad reserved? I’m not convinced it quite suits.”

Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux exchanged a look.

“No, I do not. It is nothing like that horrible yellow thing at the back you insisted on at first. I went to take a closer look, you know, and it really is quite ghastly.”

Madame Lefoux glanced at Alexia, her beautiful face suddenly sharp and her dimples gone.

Alexia smiled, all teeth and not nicely. One couldn’t live around werewolves and not pick up a few of their mannerisms. “It cannot possibly be your design?” she said mildly to the proprietress.

“The work of an apprentice, I do assure you,” replied Madame Lefoux with a tiny French shrug. She put a new hat onto Ivy’s head, one with a few more flowers.

Miss Hisselpenny preened.

“Are there any more… like it?” wondered Alexia, still talking about the ugly yellow hat.

“Well, there is that riding hat.” The proprietress’s voice was wary.

Lady Maccon nodded. Madame Lefoux was naming the hat nearest to the scrape marks Alexia had observed on the floor. They understood one another.