Timeless

CHAPTER TEN Wherein Our Intrepid Travelers Ride Donkeys

It was Sunday tea aboard ship and the Tunstells had been persuaded to perform their rendition of Macbeth to rousing applause and much comedic effect in the dining hall when the port of Alexandria was sighted. Ten days of familiarity will make strangers traveling together more friendly with one another than an entire season of town socialization. Alexia was not certain how she felt about such familiarity—it led to homegrown theatricals while at table, but the other passengers were enjoying themselves.

Ivy was dressed in a corseted medieval gown and lamenting her blood-covered hands—beet juice from a most excellent stewed vegetable tureen—and wearing a blond wig of epic proportions and ratty state. She was giving the tragedy her all, in a rather misguided and decidedly impressionistic take on the famous knife scene. Tunstell lay prone over a potted plant stage right—also known as the kitchen entrance. Mr. Tumtrinkle, sporting a substantial fake mustache and a waistcoat so tight it was near to popping over his well-padded circumference, was tiptoeing across the stage wielding another potted plant, Macduff with Birnam Wood, and carrying a baguette sword.

The diners were riveted. Particularly by the antics of the waitstaff, who had to dodge through the climactic fight scene carrying scones and jam.

It was no wonder, then, that Alexandria snuck up on all of them. The first thing that signified the momentous event was a slowing in their speed and a loud tooting noise. The captain hurriedly excused himself, tea unfinished, and the Tunstells stopped their antics and stood about dumbly.

The proximity bells clanged out and everyone made busy finishing their conversation and foodstuffs without the appearance of excitement or hurry, although clearly under the influence of both.

“Have we arrived?” Alexia asked her husband. “I do believe we have.”

Conall, for whom high tea was an exercise in futility, there being little protein on offer and too many small fiddly sandwiches expressly designed to thwart a man of his ilk, stood without prompting. “Well, come along, my dear, to the upper deck!”

Alexia took up Prudence, who was ostensibly the excuse for awakening early and attending the tea. The toddler had yet to experience such an occasion as Sunday tea in a public assembly on a steamer, and Alexia had thought she might enjoy the treat. Prudence had indeed, although her good behavior might be better attributed to the performance than the comestibles. Prudence found the Tunstells’ rendition of Macbeth more fascinating than anyone else, possibly because the antics were right about her education level or possibly because life with Lord Akeldama had given her to expect a certain degree of extravagant theatricality.

Prudence was particularly taken with the idea that Mr. Tumtrinkle now answered to the name Macduff, possibly because she could say Macduff but not Tumtrinkle. She was also hypnotized by his mustache, a fact made clear as they climbed out onto the promenade and the actor stood behind them. Prudence somehow ended up leaning over her mother’s shoulder, misappropriating the mustache and wearing it rather proudly on her own tiny, fat face.

“Oh, really!” was her mother’s comment, but she did not try to remove it.

Madame Lefoux came up next to them and gave Prudence a green-eyed look of approval. “Child after my own heart.”

“Don’t you start,” said Alexia, possibly to both of them. “Prudence, darling, look: Egypt!” She pointed before them as the rays of the slowly setting sun caught the beige buildings of the last great Mediterranean port. The first thing to appear was the famous lighthouse, rising above the level of a colorless line of coast. Although, to Alexia’s mind, it seemed a little smaller than one would hope.

“No,” said Prudence, but she looked.

The steamer chugged to a halt, disappointing everyone.

“We have to wait to take a pilot on board,” explained, of all people, Ivy Tunstell.

“We do?” Alexia looked down at her friend, mystified. Ivy had come to stand next to them still garbed in her medieval dress and long blond wig.

Ivy nodded sagely. “The channel into the harbor is narrow, shallow, and rocky. Baedeker says so.”

“Well, then, it must be true.” They spotted a small tug chugging through the water toward them. A sprightly, dark-skinned fellow in very ill-fitting and baggy clothing was allowed aboard. He saluted the watching passengers in a casual manner and then disappeared toward the captain’s lookout.

Moments later, the steamer puffed back up into rumbling action and began making its way sedately into the port of Alexandria.

Lady Maccon was pleased to say the city quite lived up to her expectations. While Ivy prattled on about Pompey’s Pillar, the Cape of Figs, the Arsenal, and various other guidebook sights of note, Alexia simply absorbed the quality of the place: the subdued tranquility of exotic buildings, broken only occasionally by the white marble turrets of mosques or the sharp knitting-needle austerity of an obelisk. She thought she could make out ruins in the background. It was mostly sand colored, lit up orange by the sun—a city carved out of the desert indeed, utterly alien in every way. The thing it most resembled was a sculpture made of shortbread.

Ivy excused herself, remarking that they, too, ought to go below, or at least in out of the sea air. “Too much sea air can detrimentally affect the mental stability, or so I’ve read.”

“Why, Mrs. Tunstell, you must have traveled by boat before,” said Lord Maccon.

Lady Maccon stifled a chuckle and returned her attention to the shore. She felt the heat for the first time as well, rolling at them off the land. True, it had been getting hotter over the last few days, but this heat brought new smells with it.

“Sand, and sewage, and grilled meat,” commented her husband, rather ignoring the romance of it all.

Alexia shifted against him and took his hand with her free one, bracing Prudence against the railing.

The baby frowned at the city, which loomed larger and larger as they moved in to dock. “Ick,” she said, and then, “Dama.”

Alexia wasn’t certain if the toddler was simply missing her adopted father or if somehow the ancient city reminded Prudence of the ancient vampire. The little girl shivered despite the heat and buried her mustachioed face in her mother’s neck. “Ick,” she said again.

As complicated and difficult as it had been getting on board the steamer, it was twice as problematical getting off of it. Of course, it was intended that passengers spend that last night aboard, to awaken the next morning in a new land and begin their adventures well rested and fully packed. But Alexia and her party were on a night schedule and had no intention of wasting precious evening hours by staying on the ship. They hurried back to their respective rooms and threw a collective tizzy gathering up attendants to help them pack, tracking down multiple missing items, paying steward’s fees, and eventually disembarking.

Even after they were safely ashore and getting their land legs back, Ivy Tunstell had to return to her quarters no less than three times. The first under the impression that she had misplaced her favorite gloves—they were in a hatbox with her green turban, as it turned out. The second because she was assured her Baedeker’s was left on the bedside table, only to discover it in her reticule. The third because she panicked, convinced she had forgotten Percy, asleep in his bassinet.

The nursemaid, who had charge of the twins, safely ensconced in a rather impressive sling contraption, held Percy up for his frantic mother to see, at which juncture the baby spit up on the strikingly large turban of a native gentleman as he injudiciously cut through their assembled party.

The gentleman made a very rude gesture and said something rapid-fire in Arabic before dashing on.

Ivy tried desperately to apologize to the man’s retreating back. “Oh, my dear sir, how terrible. He’s only a very little boy, of course, not yet under his own power so far as the proper operation of the digestive centers. I am so very sorry. Perhaps I could—”

“He is long gone, Ivy dear,” interrupted Alexia. “Best turn our attention to our hotel. Where are we headed?” She looked at Conall hopefully. It really was rather a bother to travel without Floote; nothing went smoothly, and no one seemed to know exactly what to do next.

Madame Lefoux stepped into the breach. “The custom house is over there, I believe.” She gestured at an ugly square building to their right, from which a military-looking group of local gentlemen were charging in their direction. Alexia squinted, attempting to discern the details of the group. The sun was mostly set at this point, the exotic buildings around them blanketed in shadow.

The customs officials, for that is what they proved to be, practically crashed into them and began garbling unintelligibly in Arabic. Ivy Tunstell whipped out her travel guide and began trilling some, quite probably, equally unintelligible phrases in, for some strange reason known only to Ivy, a lilting falsetto and what appeared to be Spanish. Tunstell began prancing about trying to be helpful, his red hair attracting a good deal of unwarranted attention. When one of the men tried grabbing at Mr. Tumtrinkle’s carpetbag, Lord Maccon began yelling and gesticulating in English, descending rapidly into Scottish as he became increasingly annoyed.

During the hubbub, Madame Lefoux sidled up to Lady Maccon.

“Alexia, my dear, might I recommend relocating your gun to an inaccessible part of your apparel and opening the parasol as though the sun were quite up?”

Lady Maccon looked at the inventor as though she were mad. It was now evening, no time for a parasol, and Ethel was tucked away in her reticule, where any good firearm should be.

Madame Lefoux nodded significantly at one of the customs men just as he upended Mr. Tumtrinkle’s carpet bag onto the dock, much to that gentleman’s annoyance, and produced a prop musket triumphantly from within. Mr. Tumtrinkle’s efforts to demonstrate that the firearm was, in fact, a fake did not meet with any kind of approval. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Using Prudence’s body to hide her actions, Lady Maccon took her own tiny gun out of her reticule and shoved it down the front of her bodice. Then she reached for her parasol, dangling from a chatelaine hook at her waist, and opened it above her head. Prudence clung on dutifully while she did this and then insisted on holding the parasol handle herself. This delighted Alexia, as now it appeared as though the parasol were up at her daughter’s childish whim, rather than her own eccentricity.

Lord Maccon was becoming red in the face as he argued violently with the customs officials over the rudeness of actually opening and looking through their luggage right there in public. The men were not intimidated by Lord Maccon’s size, rank, or supernatural state. The first being the only thing they had any direct contact with, the second being irrelevant in Egypt, and the last virtually unknown. It was quite dark, and Conall looked to be in imminent danger of losing his temper altogether when the most curious savior appeared.

A medium-sized, medium-girthed native fellow arrived in their midst. He wore voluminous dark bloomers tucked into suede boots, a high-neck dark shirt of muslin, a wide yellow sash about his waist, and a fez upon his head with a long tassel. He had a beard neatly trimmed into sharp pointed aggressiveness and a serious expression. Alexia wasn’t sure about the beard, nor the bloomers, but she did think that with a different hat and a very long sword, he would look most appealingly piratical. Except that with his figure, that would be more along the lines of a banker at a masquerade.

The newcomer introduced himself politely as Chancellor Neshi in perfect English. He interposed himself between Lord Maccon’s bluster and the customs official’s efficaciousness. Alexia saw her husband’s nose wrinkle in a telltale way and noticed that slight wince that he never could hide if he wasn’t anticipating a bad smell. She sidled up next to him, careful not to touch him just in case they needed all of his supernatural abilities.

“Vampire?” she whispered into his ear.

He nodded, not taking his eyes off of the stranger.

Chancellor Neshi said something in rapid staccato fashion to the officials and they instantly backed away and stopped fussing.

“This must be Lady Maccon? And the miracle progeny?” Their savior leaned forward a little too close for Alexia’s comfort, staring hard at Prudence, and then looked away as though he could not tolerate the sight of the child.

The toddler pursed her little lips in consideration. “Dama,” she said with certainty.

Alexia would wager her right glove that her daughter was picking up on the man’s vampire nature and utilizing the only word in her vocabulary capable of articulating it. So she said, “Yes, my dear, very like.”

Prudence nodded. “Dama Dama duck!”

“Queen Matakara has sent me to be your guide to Alexandria. One might say, perhaps, your dragoman. This is acceptable? I will see you through this business of customs and then safely to your hotel. I have arranged for your audience, and performance, later tonight. If that’s not too soon?” He looked at the actors around him. “This is the famous troupe, I take it?”

Ivy and Tunstell pushed forward.

Alexia said, “Yes, indeed, Chancellor. This is Mrs. Tunstell and Mr. Tunstell, owners, performers, and artists extraordinaire. Your queen is in for a treat.”

Tunstell bowed and Ivy curtsied. “She commands the performance right away? It is a good thing we have been practicing on the journey.”

The dumpy man took in Ivy’s hat and Tunstell’s trousers and could only nod. Ivy had selected a gray felt chapeau with steel braid around the crown, a long gray feather, and a turned-up brim that showed off a turban of striped surah silk wound underneath. That went around her head to form a bow over the left ear, ending in a fringe down the back. The hat, Ivy no doubt felt, went with the Egyptian aesthetic, and it was her way of honoring their host country. Although, Alexia thought, looking about at the peasants and dockworkers engaging in various tasks around them, it was a little off the mark. Tunstell’s trousers were, naturally, of a very aggressive purple and teal plaid and quite tight enough to be a second skin.

They were led into the custom house at that point and permitted to take seats in comparative comfort. Despite their objections, they then had to witness their bags, hatboxes, and trunks opened and examined in detail. The dragoman explained that it was best not to protest and that everything would be put back except for items of contraband. Apparently they were looking particularly for cigars and chewing tobacco, which was subjected to a high tariff. Prudence held on to the parasol firmly. No one gave it a second glance. They also did not check the gentlemen’s hats, which was where, Alexia had no doubt, her husband had stashed his sundowner and Madame Lefoux her more nefarious gadgets.

Madame Lefoux’s hatbox, full of tools and mysterious widgets, did cause some consternation. Until, with her usual aplomb, the Frenchwoman produced papers claiming she had special dispensation from the Pasha to work on water pumps in Asyut. The officials seemed either to not know or not care that she was a woman dressed as a man. The vampire dragoman referred to her as Mr. Lefoux and spoke and addressed her as though she were male. He also continually referred to her as a Hawal, whatever that meant.

Ivy’s many hats and some of the props and costumes came under close scrutiny, until the dragoman explained at great length about Queen Matakara’s request for a performance. Or Alexia assumed that was what he was doing. Queen Matakara’s favor acted as some kind of oil to soothe the balm of quarantine, for it was only another hour more of questions before they were permitted to leave. One of the younger officials was particularly taken with one of Ivy’s hats, a large straw affair, covered in silk fruit, grapes, strawberries, and a large knitted pineapple. He seemed to find it not so much suspicious as fascinating. Eventually, Alexia took off her own hat, a practical little brown bowler meets pith helmet, and put the fruity one on to demonstrate its proper use.

This gave the customs man in question a case of the giggles, and they were waved off with much good humor and goodwill. Alexia had a quick word with Ivy, promising reparations, and gifted the hat to the gentleman in question. Laughingly, he put it atop his own turbaned head. Then he bowed and kissed Lady Maccon’s hand. Alexia was left with the distinct feeling that she had made an ally for life.

The street outside was an entirely different world from the dockyard. It was bustling with humanity. People walked, talked, dressed, and interacted like no people Alexia had ever seen before. She had traveled through Europe, but this… this was a different world! She was instantly and completely in love.

Ivy was equally enthralled. “Oh my goodness, look at all the men in gowns!”

There were old-fashioned oil streetlamps about, and even a few torches, but no gas, and it was now dark enough to make any estimation of color difficult. Nevertheless, Lady Maccon had a feeling that the clothing about them was quite as colorful as the buildings were monotonously drab.

Lord Maccon sniffed and then gave a little cough.

Alexia’s own senses were so assaulted she could only imagine what her husband smelled. There was the intoxicating scent of honey, cinnamon, and roasted nuts. There was also a rather noxious gas emanating from various water-based smoking devices, hoarded by elderly men crouching on stone steps to either side of the narrow street. Underneath the other smells came the unmistakable odor of sewage, not unlike that of the Thames during a hot summer.

Conall turned to her with a wide grin on his handsome face. “That smells like you!” he said as though he had made some great discovery.

“Husband, I do hope you aren’t referring to that noxious smoke nor the scent of bodily waste.”

“Of course not, my love. Those pastries over there. They smell like you. Would you like to try one?” He knew his wife so well.

“Is Ivy fond of hats? Of course I would love to try one!”

The earl moved with alacrity over to the cleanest looking of the street vendors and in short order returned bearing a small sticky, flaky object. Alexia popped it into her mouth without hesitation, only to have her sense of taste assaulted by honey, nuts, exotic spices, and crisp flakes of some impossibly thin pastry.

She chewed in silence. It was far too sticky for anything else. “Amazing!” was her official pronouncement once she had finally swallowed. “Remember what it is called, would you, dear? Then I can order more when we arrive at the hotel. I’m delighted you think I smell like something so delicious.”

“You are delicious, my dear.”

“Flatterer.”

The dragoman took charge of their highly distracted and distractible party and shepherded them toward a long string of donkeys with companion donkey boys who stood waiting under a nearby awning.

“Oh, aren’t they perfectly sweet!” exclaimed Mrs. Tunstell.

“They are very fine donkeys, aren’t they, Ivy? Such long velvet ears. Look, Prudence.” Lady Maccon directed her daughter’s attention to the string.

“No!” said Prudence.

Ivy shook her head. “No, Alexia, I mean the donkey boys. Look at those lovely almond-shaped eyes and such thick lashes. But, Alexia, is their skin meant to be so dark?”

Alexia didn’t dignify this question with an answer.

At which point Mrs. Tunstell came upon a realization that proved even more startling. “Are we expected to ride those donkeys?”

“Yes, Ivy dear, I do believe we are.”

“Oh, but, Alexia, I don’t ride!”

Despite Ivy’s protestations, which continued vociferously, there commenced a great round of strapping bags onto donkeys and climbing aboard donkeys, while Alexia and the other ladies of the party attempted to negotiate sidesaddle. The toddlers were popped into woven baskets, which the donkeys wore like panniers. The Tunstell twins were suspended together in one set, and Prudence in another, counterbalanced by her mechanical ladybug, which peeked its little antennae over the edge of the basket coyly. Mr. Tumtrinkle went on one side of his donkey and immediately off the other, so that he, like the luggage, had to be strapped into place. After seeing his wife safely up top, Tunstell threw his leg over easily enough, for he was quite nimble and athletic. Unfortunately, his trousers were not so flexible. They ripped loudly, exposing much of his scarlet drawers to the evening air and causing his wife to shriek in horror and faint forward onto the neck of her donkey. Lord Maccon guffawed loudly. Prudence clapped in appreciation. Madame Lefoux made her way genteelly to a nearby stand where she purchased one of the robes so favored by the locals. This Tunstell donned with all the enthusiasm and amiability of an actor accustomed to odd apparel in front of a large audience.

Ivy awoke from her swoon, noted her husband now wore what amounted to a dress, in public, and fainted again. The donkey beneath her was composed and unimpressed by her histrionics.

Conall refused donkey transport, as did their vampire dragoman. Even donkeys, placid creatures as they were, preferred not to carry werewolves or vampires. Lord Maccon perfectly understood this. After all, he was a good deal faster on four paws anyway, so the very idea was preposterous, and he would far rather snack upon the beast than ride it—particularly at this moment with ten days at sea and no live meat the entire time. Lastly, riding a donkey was pointless even when he had been mortal, for his long legs would touch the ground on either side of the wee thing. So he and the guide walked at the front, leading the way and chatting in a forced manner that had nothing to do with the fact that they were from different cultures and everything to do with the fact that one was a vampire and the other a werewolf.

As they trundled through the street, it became clear that they were as much a spectacle for Alexandria as Alexandria was for them. The great port city had been made much of over the last few decades, and the British army called there regularly, but high lords and ladies, small pale children, and troupes of English actors were practically unheard of and quite enthralling as a result.

Many Egyptians came to watch them. The natives pointed with interest at the ladies’ hats, the gentlemen’s top hats, Alexia’s parasol, the odd shapes made by wardrobe and props, as though they were some kind of circus come to parade among them.

Alexia spent a good deal of her time trying to absorb every aspect of the city in the dim light of evening. They arrived at their abode, Hotel des Voyageurs, all too quickly for her, and she could not wait until the next day when she might see Egypt in all its glory. There was the expected chaos once more that saw them all, after much discussion and exchange of moneys, settled into a single floor of the hotel. The ladies took to their rooms for tea and rest, the children went down for naps, and the gentlemen retired to either the nearest bathhouses or the hotel’s dubious smoke room, as suited their individual natures.

Lord Maccon helped his wife disrobe, merely raising one eyebrow when a gun dropped out of her corset and clattered to the floor. One became accustomed to such things when one was married to Alexia. Then he reacquainted himself with every aspect of her body, as if he had not just done so onboard the SS Custard that morning. Alexia threw herself wholeheartedly into the activity, having learned early on in their marriage that this was an exercise she found both enjoyable and entertaining. It also left her, generally speaking, relaxed and pleased with the world. Not so her husband. Not on this particular night, for even lying next to her on what had proved to be quite a resilient bed, he was what could only be described as twitchy.

“Conall, my love, what is the matter?”

“Foreign land,” he said curtly.

“And you don’t know the lay of it?”

“Exactly so.”

“Well,” she said with a supportive smile, “go on, then. We shall be fine without you for a few hours.”

“Are you quite certain, my dear?”

“Yes, quite.”

“You aren’t trying to get rid of me?”

“Now, Conall, why would I want to do a thing like that?”

He grunted noncommittally.

“You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Of what, precisely?”

“Oh, I don’t know, random God-Breaker Plagues running amok? We only just arrived. I’d greatly prefer you not go missing or die quite yet.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

With which her husband gave her a passionate kiss, sprang naked from the bed, and exited their room rather spectacularly by way of the balcony in wolf form. Alexia wrapped the woven blanket about herself and made her way across the room rather less precipitously. She looked to see if she could spot him dashing through the streets off into the desert, but he was already out of sight. It was quarter moon, but he was restless from little exercise on board and he needed to hunt. She tried not to imagine what poor mangy desert creature he would end up eating. As the wife of a werewolf, one had to ignore certain unsavory aspects of cuisine and ingestion.

Lady Maccon felt only a slight twinge of concern. Conall Maccon could certainly take care of himself, and the one thing Alexandria boasted of in plenty was stray dogs. Her husband would simply look like a very large version thereof.

Alexia, thus consoled, drank her tea, which turned out not to be tea at all but that most ghastly of beverages, coffee. It was served with a great deal of honey, which rendered it drinkable if not entirely palatable. She then managed to dress herself. In honor of her trip, she had ordered up a nice mushroom-colored muslin blouse and matched tiny bowler hat, with a duster-style puff of brown feathers. The blouse was designed to be cool in hot weather, while still preserving her modesty. The fastenings at the back gave her some trouble, and the corset underneath could not be laced tight at all. But the draped brown overskirt and modest bustle went on easily enough. Her hair, in response to the desert heat, refused to obey any commands, coiling into great loglike curls. She fussed with it for a bit and then, figuring she was abroad where certain standards might be allowed to slip, pinned it half up and left the rest to flop about as it will.

Downstairs, supper had commenced and the front entrance to Hotel des Voyageurs was empty as all the residents descended upon the comestibles.

“Any messages for Lady Maccon?” she inquired of the desk clerk.

“No, my lady, but there is one for a Lord Maccon.”

Alexia took it, noted that the handwriting was not one she recognized, and figured it was a BUR report. She tucked it into her reticule.

“Can you arrange an aetheric transponder connection appointment for me? I have my own valve frequensors, but I understand there is only one transmitter for public access in the city.”

“Indeed, my lady. We are a little overtaxed as a result, but I am certain your rank will guarantee access. You’ll want the Boulevard Ramleh’s west end, opposite the street leading to the Exchange.”

Alexia determined she would have to borrow Ivy Tunsell’s guidebook in order to make sense of these directions, possibly attached to Ivy herself, but she made a mental note of the details.

“Thank you, my good man. I’ll need to book to send a message for just after sunset London time, from here to England. Can you arrange such a thing?”

“Certainly, my lady. That should be something on the order of six o’clock in the evening. But I will ascertain the particulars and make the appointment for you.”

“You are most efficient.” Alexia, missing Floote quite dreadfully, gave the man a generous gratuity for his pains and wandered into the dining room to see if any of her party were about yet.

Ivy, Tunstell, the nursemaid, and the children were all there causing a ruckus at one of the larger tables. Prudence had her mechanical ladybug and was trundling about banging into people’s chairs in a most indiscriminate manner. Alexia was mortified by such behavior. What was the nursemaid thinking, allowing the infant to bring the ladybug to a public eatery? Tunstell was explaining, in large expansive gestures, the thrilling plot of The Death Rains of Swansea to some poor unfortunate tourists at the adjoining table. Ivy was fretting over her Baedeker’s guidebook, and the nursemaid was busy with the twins.

Lady Maccon scooped up her errant child.

“Mama!”

“Have you eaten, poppet?”

“No!”

“Well, food, then. Have you tried one of those cinnamon pastry thingamabobs?”

“No!”

Still unsure if no was Prudence’s new favorite word or if she actually knew what it meant, Alexia guided the ladybug with her foot and made her way, baby on hip, to the Tunstells’ table.

“Oh, Lady Maccon, how delightful!” extolled Tunstell upon seeing her. “Lady Maccon, may I introduce our new acquaintances the Pifflonts? Mrs. Pifflont, Mr. Pifflont, this is Lady Maccon.”

One is never sure, upon being introduced, whether one should trust in the arranger of the association, particularly when that arranger was Tunstell. Nevertheless, it was Lady Maccon’s business to be gracious, so gracious she was. The Pifflonts turned out to be antiquities experts of some amateurish Italian extraction, quiet and well mannered and exactly the type of people one would like to meet in a hotel. Careful inquiry, and control over Tunstell’s exuberance, turned the conversation to the couple’s journey through Egypt, which was nearing its close. They were about to return home, abiding only one or two more days before catching a steamer to Naples.

The following unexpectedly intellectual discourse was interrupted by the advent of Lord Conall Maccon wearing a cloak and, so far as Alexia could tell, nothing else. She was horrified. First her daughter went around bumping into people with a ladybug and now her husband appeared without shoes. Well, there goes that acquaintance! She couldn’t even bear to look at the faces of those nice Pifflonts.

She stood and scuttled swiftly to the earl where he loomed in the doorway.

“Conall, really!” she hissed. “At least pull on some boots so you have a facade of decency!”

“I require your presence, wife. And the bairn.”

“But, darling, at least a top hat!”

“Now, Alexia. There is something I wish you to see.”

“Oh, very well, but do go away. There’s blood at the corner of your mouth. I can’t take you anywhere.”

Lord Maccon vanished around a corner of the hall and Alexia hurried back to the table. She made their excuses and scooped up Prudence, despite her daughter’s protestations.

“No! Mama. Nummies.”

“Sorry, darling, but your father has discovered something of interest he wishes us to see.”

Mrs. Tunstell glanced up. “Oh, is it a textile shop? I hear they produce the most lovely cottons in this part of the world.”

“Something more along the lines of ruffled parasols, I believe.”

Ivy was thick but not so thick as all that. “Oh, of course,” she said immediately, winking in a very overt manner. “Ruffled parasols. Naturally. Now, my dear friend, you won’t forget we have a private show in only a few hours. And while I know you are not integrated into the performance, your presence is desirable.”

“Of course, of course. This shouldn’t take very long.”

“Carry on, then,” said Mrs. Tunstell, although her friend was already trotting hurriedly away. Alexia heard Ivy say, “Lady Maccon is our particular patroness, don’t you know? Such a very gracious and grand lady.”

She was met outside the hotel by a large wolf. In order to make more of a thing of it, Alexia purchased a donkey rope off an obliging, though confused, donkey boy. This she clasped about Conall’s brindled neck, quite a feat of loops and twists, as she could not touch him and had to keep hold of Prudence. Eventually she was successful and it looked as though she were taking a very large dog for a walk.

Lord Maccon gave her a baleful look but submitted to the humiliation for the sake of propriety. They wended their way through the still-vibrant city; sunset seemed more an excuse to visit than an ending to daily activities. He led her a long way, due south down the Rue de la Colonne, past the bastions, through the outer slums of the city until they reached the canal. Alexia was beginning to worry about the time, concerned they might not make it back by the vampire visiting hour. Conall, in his wolf form, had little estimation of distance, and while Alexia was a great walker and never one to shirk exercise, traversing an entire city in the course of only an hour was really rather extreme, especially when carrying a disinterested toddler. Eventually, they developed a method by which Prudence rode astride her father, with Alexia gripping one hand firmly so as to keep everyone in their correct forms and fur.

The earl stopped imperiously at the bank of the canal, and it took Alexia only a moment to surmise they must cross it.

“Oh, really, Conall. Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?”

He barked at her.

She sighed and waved over a reluctant-looking lad in command of a kind of reed raft obviously utilized to cross the canal.

The raft boy refused, with many shakes of the head and wide eyes, to allow the massive wolf into his little craft but was charmed into unexpected delight when said wolf took to the water and simply dragged his raft across. He had no need of the pole normally employed for the crossing. Lady Maccon forbore to say anything on the subject of the cleanliness of the water.

Alexia gave the lad a few coins and gesticulated in such a way as she thought might convince him to wait for them, while Conall shook out his coat violently.

Prudence clapped and giggled at her father’s antics, twirling about in the spray of dirty water. Alexia caught her daughter’s hand before she touched him.

Alexia thought it a good thing the locals were accustomed to the eccentricities of the English, for such a thing as Lady Maccon alone in the baser end of a foreign city with her only daughter and a large wolf should never be tolerated in any other part of the empire.

Nevertheless, she followed her husband dutifully, reflecting that this was one of the reasons she had married him, with the certain knowledge that life would never be dull. She often suspected it was one of the reasons he had married her as well.

The sensation was barely recognizable at first, but then she began to feel it—a tingling push, a little like the aether breezes against her skin when she floated. Only this sensation felt like the reverse. Aether tingling was like very mild champagne bubbles against the skin; this felt as though those bubbles were being generated by her own flesh. It was a faint sensation and it was almost pleasant, but it was odd. Had she not been alert for some new experience, she might not have even noticed.

Waving her arms about excitedly, Prudence said, “Mama!”

“Yes, dear, odd, isn’t it?”

“No.” Prudence was very decided on this. She patted Alexia on the cheek. “Mama and—” She waved her arms about. “Mama!”

Alexia frowned. “Are you saying that to you the air feels like me? How very odd.”

“Yes,” agreed Prudence, using a word Alexia hadn’t until that moment realized she possessed.

“Conall, is that what I think it is?” Alexia asked the wolf, her attention still on her wiggling daughter.

“Yes, my love, I believe it is,” said her husband.

Lady Maccon nearly dropped Prudence in startlement, looking up to confirm that her ears were not playing tricks on her and that her husband was standing a short distance away, fully naked and fully human.

Lady Maccon set down her daughter. The child toddled eagerly over to Conall, who scooped her right up, without fear. No need of it—Prudence remained her own precocious human self.

Lady Maccon went to stand next to him. “This is the God-Breaker Plague?”

“Indubitably.”

“I thought I should feel more repelled by it.”

“So did I.”

“On the other hand, when the mummy was in London—do you recall?—and caused half the city to come over all mortal, I didn’t register any sensations at all. This is almost as mild. It was only when I was in the same room as that awful mummy that I felt true repulsion.”

The earl nodded. “Sharing the same air. I believe that was the Templar’s phrasing for two preternaturals in the same place.”

Alexia looked out over the low mud brick houses of Alexandria’s poorest residents to the wide low black of nothingness beyond. “Is that the desert?”

“No. Desert has more sand. I believe that used to be a lake, all dried up now. It’s wasteland.”

“So there once was water and now there is none. Is it possible that the God-Breaker Plague has moved close to the city only since then? After all, we know preternatural touch is affected by water.”

“That is a thought. Hard to know. Of course, it is also possible that the city has expanded toward it. But if it has moved closer, you can bet the local vampires would not be happy about it.”

“Matakara’s real reason for summoning us?”

“Anything is possible with vampires.”