Timeless

CHAPTER EIGHT Alexia Makes an Unexpectedly Damp Discovery

The sea voyage was an oddly peaceful affair. This made Lady Maccon nervous. Because they kept to supernatural hours, the Maccons, the Tunstells, the collective progeny, and the acting troupe had nothing to do with the other travelers except at suppertime. During those convocations, when Alexia and her compatriots were commencing their waking hours, and the others their evening’s amusement before bed, all travelers were required to socialize. The steamer was outfitted with only first-class compartments, unlike some of the less dignified Atlantic lines, and Alexia was delighted to find passengers behaving as first-class frequenters ought. Everyone was civil and politics never came up at table. The actors provided much needed entertainment, either through the acceptable avenues of conversation and the occasional musical interlude or through more dramatic means, like engaging in mad, passionate affairs with some dish on the menu and then having the vapors when the cook ran out or stealing the skipper’s hat for a scandalous dance routine. They behaved themselves as much as could be expected and did not stray so far away from the upper crust as to commit any prank not already enacted by the young men of Oxford or Cambridge. Although one memorable evening of bread roll cricket certainly stretched the boundaries of propriety.

Trouble, when it inevitably came, originated in the most likely quarter—her husband and her daughter and her daughter’s favorite toy, a large mechanical ladybug.

Early on in Prudence’s life, Lady Maccon had written to her friend the clockmaker Gustave Trouvé, with an order for one of his mechanical ladybugs, only larger, slower, and less deadly. She’d had this outfitted with a small leather saddle and had, inadvertently, started a new craze in children’s toys that kept that good gentleman busy for the next year. Lucrative, as it turned out, the market for rideable ladybugs.

Prudence showed this particular toy such favor as to make it entirely necessary to pack the thing for any trip—let alone one of several weeks—despite its bulky size. Alexia and Prudence had taken to occupying the first-class lounge and music room every evening after supper, Alexia with a book and a weather eye to her daughter, and Prudence with her ladybug and a gratifying willingness to wear herself out by running after it, or on top of it, or, on several occasions, under it. Sometimes one or two of the actors would join them to play the piano. Either Prudence or her mother might pause in their respective activities to listen, Lady Maccon sometimes driven to glare in disapproval when songs strayed too far toward the “Old Tattooed Lady” and the like.

It was when Lord Maccon joined them on the third night and Prudence, in a fit of excitement, ran her ladybug into his foot and fell against him that things went askew. They had been very careful, but it was so unexpected that even Lord Maccon’s supernatural reflexes were not fast enough. This was compounded by the fact that, being a father, his instinct was to reach out and catch his daughter before she hit the floor, not, as it ought to have been, to leap away.

Prudence fell. Lord Maccon caught. And a werewolf cub dashed about the lounge causing chaos and panic. Prudence had been wearing a pretty pink dress with multiple frills, a nappy, and lace pantalettes. The nappy and the pantalettes did not survive the transition. The dress did. Prudence remained wearing it in wolf form, to Alexia’s unparalleled amusement.

Prudence’s werewolf nature seemed less driven by the need to hunt and feed than it was to run and play. Alexia and Conall had discussed whether this was a product of her youth or her metanatural nature. She also made for a very cute wolf cub, if Alexia did say so herself, so no one in the music lounge was afraid of her, but the unexpectedness of the cub’s appearance did cause surprise.

“Gracious me, where did you come from, you adorable little fuzzball?” exclaimed Mr. Tumtrinkle, the gentleman playing the villain in The Death Rains of Swansea. He made a grab for said fuzzball, missed, and flew forward, crashing into the well-endowed lady soprano sitting at the piano. She shrieked in surprise. He grappled for purchase and ripped the bodice of her raspberry and green striped dress. She pretended a faint from embarrassment, although Alexia noted she kept an eye on a nearby steward to ensure her corseted assets were fully appreciated, which, from the young man’s crimson blush, Alexia assumed they were.

Prudence the wolf cub made a circuit of the room, jumping up on people, trying to squirm under furniture and overturning it, and generally causing the kind of mayhem expected of an extremely energetic puppy wearing a pink frilly dress and confined to a small area. She completed her tour at her father’s feet, at which point, operating on some infant memory, she attempted to try to ride the ladybug that had caused the accident in the first place, all the while avoiding her parents’ grasp.

They probably would have caught her at some point. It was a large lounge, but it wasn’t that large. Unfortunately, a deck steward opened the door, carrying a long package under his arm.

“Lady Maccon? This package just arrived for you by dirigible. And this letter. And here is a missive for you, Lord Maccon, and—Oh my goodness!”

Which was when Prudence made a break for freedom between the unfortunate man’s legs.

“Catch her!” ordered Alexia, but it was too late. Prudence was off down the corridor. Alexia ran to the door, just in time to catch sight of the tip of her daughter’s fluffy tail as it disappeared around a corner.

“Oh, dear.”

“Lady Maccon,” said the lounge steward sternly from behind her, “unregistered animals are not allowed on board this vessel! Even well-dressed ones.”

“Oh, er, yes, of course. I will naturally pay any fine for the inconvenience or damages, and I assure you everything will be rectified the moment I get my hands on her. Now, if you will excuse me. Are you coming, Conall?”

With which Lord and Lady Maccon went dashing after their errant child.

Everyone left behind was very confused, especially when they found a torn child’s nappy next to the forgotten ladybug and no evidence of little Lady Prudence anywhere in the lounge.

“You look tired, Professor. No insult intended, of course. And you make it intentionally difficult to tell, but I am beginning to believe that that little wrinkle about the pocket of your waistcoat indicates exhaustion.”

“How very wise of you, young Biffy, to note my mood from the state of my waistcoat. Have you noticed anything else significant occurring around town of late?”

Biffy wondered if this was some kind of werewolf test to assess his skills of observation. Or perhaps Professor Lyall wanted to know what information Biffy might impart to a fellow pack member, or whether he would keep his own council, or whether he would tell Lord Akeldama, or whether he would tell Lady Maccon. He would, of course, tell all parties. He wouldn’t tell them all everything, or even all the same thing, but he would tell them all something. What other point could there be in gathering the information in the first place? In this, he and his former master disagreed. Lord Akeldama liked to know things for their own sake. Biffy liked to know things for the sake of others.

He answered Professor Lyall in a roundabout way. “London’s rove vampires are acting up. I had one in the shop this very evening, throwing his weight around like he was a queen. It’s a good thing the contrivance chamber is hidden. His drones were nosing about after something, and it wasn’t hats.”

Lyall looked Biffy up and down, assessing. “You’re coming along nicely, young Biffy. You’ll make an excellent replacement.”

“Replacement for what?”

“Ah, as to that, patience is a virtue, my dear boy. Now, this thing with the roves, how long has it been going on would you say?”

“They’ve been getting worse over the last few years, but it’s gone quite tannic indeed since our Alphas left. Why, one rove accused me of purposefully not stocking gaiters. Made quite a fuss over it. I never stock gaiters! And just this evening I saw one of them feeding in the street. Assuredly, it was down near the embankment. But still, in the open air? I mean to say, that’s almost as bad as picnicking in the park. Eating in public! It’s simply not done.”

Lyall nodded. “And the rove parties are getting rather wild as well. Do you know BUR had a missive from Queen Victoria on the subject? Bertie was seen at one of the Wandsworth events. She is a progressive, our dear Regina, but she is not all that progressive. Her son fraternizing with a hive on a regular basis—not at all acceptable. I understand the potentate got an earful on the subject.”

“Oh, dear. Poor Lord Akeldama.” Biffy brought all his new werewolf culture and his old vampire training to bear on the situation. “Is all this vampire ruckus because we werewolves are living inside their urban territory?”

“That is one theory. Any others?”

“Is it because Countess Nadasdy is no longer in Mayfair? There is no queen for London central. Could that be causing dissonance?” Biffy watched Professor Lyall’s face closely. He would never have called the Beta handsome, but there was something very appealing in the mildness of his expression.

“That is a thought. Lord and Lady Maccon and their Alpha nature might have held them back somewhat, but London is missing a queen, and the Grande Dame of Kentish Town is simply too far away to oversee matters in Westminster and the south side of the Thames.”

Biffy knew a little of London’s northern queen. “She also cares very little for the affairs of society. Not even fashion.”

“There are some vampires,” Lyall said, “very few, but some, gone off like that.” He sniffed in a way that suggested the odor of rotten meat that undercut the scent of all vampires.

If Biffy understood nothing else, he understood significant emphasis in speech. “What can we do about it?”

“I shall have BUR keep a close eye on the roves, call in the rest of our pack if I have to, but full-moon revels are likely to be overly fervent this month. And there is little I can do then. We can but hope that Lord and Lady Maccon complete their business quickly and return home before a second full moon, as one alone may tax us to our limits.”

Biffy said, off the cuff, “Or we could find a replacement queen.”

“Volunteering for the position?”

“Why, Professor, is that wittiness I detect?”

“Only for you.”

“Charmer.” Biffy tapped him on the arm playfully.

Professor Lyall started slightly and then actually looked embarrassed by the casual contact.

Prudence led them on a merry dance about the ship, ending her jaunt hidden in a lifeboat on the port side of the promenade deck. Conall managed to catch her. Despite her supernatural strength, he also managed to hold on to her long enough to transfer her to his wife.

“Mama!” said the wriggling girl who resulted from this transaction. And then, as they were on the outer deck and she was wearing only a pink party dress, “Brrrr!”

“Yes, well, dear, you have only yourself to blame for that. You know you have to avoid your father at night.”

“Dada?”

“Yes, precisely.”

Lord Maccon waved shyly at his daughter, standing a good distance away to forestall any additional accidents.

“Oh, now, Prudence, look at that,” said her mother, pointing up.

“No,” said Prudence, but she looked up.

Above them was the postal dirigible, lashed to the moving steamer and being dragged along as deliveries were transferred between the two. Mail was dropped down a taut silk chute. Alexia thought it looked like fun and wondered if people ever came aboard in such a manner.

“Any mail for Casablanca?” the assistant deck steward yelled, marching to-and-fro. “Mail for Casablanca? Departure in ten minutes! Any mail?” He continued his call and went down to the lower decks.

The floating post was a good deal different-looking from the passenger dirigibles Alexia was accustomed to utilizing. Prudence was duly fascinated. Lord Maccon took it as an opportunity to skulk off in pursuit of port in the smoke room, and possibly a nice game of backgammon.

“Bibble!” was Prudence’s opinion. The infant was excessively fond of air flight, although she had yet to try it personally. There was some fear that, like her father and other werewolves, she would fall victim to airsickness. Her fondness was merely exhibited in pointing at dirigibles and squeaking whenever she happened to spot one above the town or when she was taken on a walk to Hyde Park. Occasionally, she was even allowed to sit in Lord Akeldama’s private air transport, Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon, when it was at rest upon the roof of the vampire’s town house. And, of course, she had multiple toy dirigibles, including one that was an exact replica of Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon.

The postal dirigible was very sleek and stealthy in appearance. Alexia and her daughter were riveted. Its balloon section was narrowed for speed. It had six aether current propellers, and its barge section was mainly one massive steam engine. Any other available space was utilized by the post itself and a small number of passengers, mostly businessmen, who were willing to trade luxury and comfort for speed.

Prudence was enthralled and might have stayed a good deal longer, but her teeth started to chatter. Lady Maccon noticed and took her daughter to the nursemaid for a new nappy and some warmer clothing. It was some time before Alexia remembered that the deck steward had attempted to deliver mail to her.

Lady Maccon went in pursuit of her deliveries, finding them in good time and then, suspicious of the contents, went to find her husband. She guessed well what it was from the shape of the box and supposed Conall might want to witness the opening of her new parasol.

She found him at the backgammon tables, delivered to him his missives—one in Lyall’s tidy block lettering and the other in Channing’s untidy scrawl—and then turned her attention to her own mail. In addition to the box, there was a letter from Biffy. The front of this was addressed as required for float mail, but on the back, below the seal, the young werewolf had written, To be opened before the box! in block lettering.

Conall, dear man, got all bouncy when he saw the package. “Capital! It has arrived at last!”

Alexia had enough sensitivity not to blurt out her certain knowledge as to the contents. “I have a communication from Biffy. Silly boy seems to believe it important that I read his letter first.”

“By all means,” said her husband magnanimously, although his eyes were caramel colored with excitement.

Alexia duly seated herself, despite glares from various gentlemen at the presence of a female in the smoke room, and cracked open the seal. Inside, Biffy detailed not only the current state of the murder investigation (no appreciable change), Lord Akeldama’s latest waistcoat purchase (navy and cream striped with gold braid), and Floote’s odd behavior on the subject of roasted pheasant (dismissed from the larder forthwith), but also a visit from Gustave Trouvé (beard of substantial magnitude). He went into a colorful and very detailed description of her new parasol upon its initial arrival. And then into even more specificity over the improvements to its appearance that he had felt compelled to make. He apologized profusely for opening her mail without permission but articulated that he felt his actions were duly excused, as they spared her the horror of ever having to encounter the parasol in its original state. He signed the missive with his real name, but Alexia knew this was because this particular letter contained nothing delicate nor Parasol Protectorate related, aside, of course, from the parasol itself.

Thus forewarned, Lady Maccon opened the box.

What lay before her was as dissimilar a creature to Biffy’s description of the original as could be imagined. The talented boy had taken the monstrosity in hand and subdued it with as much finesse as might be brought to bear upon drab olive canvas.

He had covered the exterior with black silk. There were delicate white chiffon ruffles along the ribs and three layers of fine embroidered lace ruffles at the edge of the shade, completely disguising the multiple pockets hidden there. He had managed to drape the fabric overlay in such a way that when the parasol was closed, it puffed out, disguising any suspicious bulges. At the top, near the spike, was another bit of white lace and then a great puff of black feathers, cleverly hiding the springs and arming mechanism that allowed the tip to open and shoot various deadly objects and substances. Unfortunately, he’d had very little to work with on the handle. It was brass, very simple, with three nodules, the twisting of which, according to Gustave Trouvé’s notes, would cause different results. He hadn’t Madame Lefoux’s predilection for fancy hidden buttons or carved handles. Biffy, however, had fought back against the simplicity by wrapping pretty ribbon at various points about the handle, hopefully not interfering with its primary function. He had completed his decoration by lining the interior with white chiffon ruffles and looping two black pom-poms about the handle, which acted decoratively and, Alexia realized with delight, would allow her to fasten the accessory to her person so she might not misplace it.

It was a bit loud for her taste, but the clean black-and-white color scheme added an air of refinement, and all the additional froofs would better disguise the secrets within.

“Oh, Conall, isn’t it perfectly lovely? Didn’t Biffy do a splendid job?”

“Oh, yes, if you say so, my dear. But what of Mr. Trouvé?”

“What, indeed? To praise his side of the work, I must put it through its paces, must I not?”

Lord Maccon looked around at the still-glaring gentlemen whose peaceful card games and cigar puffs had been inexcusably disturbed by the brash Lady Maccon and her frivolous mail.

“Perhaps elsewhere, wife?”

“What? Oh. Of course, somewhere private, and in the open air. There’s no knowing what might come flying out of this little beauty.” Alexia stood eagerly.

They exited the smoking room, only to run into Mrs. Tunstell in the hallway.

“Alexia! Lord Maccon! How fortuitous! I was looking for you. Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk has put the children down, and Tunny and I were wondering if you would like to join us for a game of whist?”

“I don’t play whist,” said Conall, rather shortly.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” dismissed his wife at Ivy’s offended expression. “He’s difficult about cards. I might be able to, in a quarter of an hour or so, but I just this moment took delivery of a new parasol, and Conall and I are off to the promenade deck to test it.”

“Oh, how topping. But, Alexia, it isn’t sunny.”

“Not that kind of testing.” Lady Maccon gave Mrs. Tunstell a wink.

Ivy was taken aback for only a moment. “Oh! Ruffled Parasol?”

“Exactly, Puff Bonnet.”

Ivy was enthralled. “Oh, I say.” She raised her hand to her face and made a little finger wiggle toward the tip of her pert little nose. This was her not-so-subtle gesture for secrets afoot. Alexia counted her blessings. Ivy’s first suggestion had been that they each hop about in a small circle when they had clandestine information to impart, and then stop, face one another, and point both fingers at the mouth in a most ridiculous fashion.

Still, Lord Maccon was fascinated by Ivy’s absurdly wiggling fingers.

Lady Maccon poked him in the ribs to get him to stop staring.

Ivy stopped her odd gesture. “Can I see it?”

Lady Maccon proffered up the accessory.

Mrs. Tunstell was appropriately enthusiastic. “Black and white, very modish! And is that chiffon? Now, that is something like. Nicely done. Of course, you know scarlet and yellow are far more the thing for spring.”

Alexia gave her a look that said she was on very dangerous ground.

Ivy backpedaled hurriedly. “But black and white is more versatile, of course, and you want this one to last.”

“Exactly so.”

“May I join you on deck?”

“To view its anthroscopy?”

“Its anthro-what? No, my dear Alexia, to witness its”—Ivy paused and blushed, looking around to see if they were being overheard—“ emissions.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh, did you? Well?”

Alexia figured Ivy was officially part of her inner circle, and this parasol was that circle’s defining feature. “Of course you may, my dear Ivy.”

Ivy clapped her blue-gloved hands in excitement. “I’ll go fetch a wrap and my hairmuffs.”

“We shall see you up top.” Lady Maccon took her husband’s arm and led him away.

“My dear, what is the meaning of that…” Conall waved his fingers at his nose in a fair imitation of Ivy’s wiggle.

“Oh, let her have her fun, Conall.”

“If you say so, my dear. Odd behavior, though. Like she had a fly about her snoot.”

Accordingly, a good fifteen minutes later, Ivy, complete with wardrobe change, joined a shivering Alexia and an annoyed Lord Maccon on the promenade deck.

Ivy now sported an outrageous set of hairmuffs that Alexia had no doubt had been specially designed. They exactly matched Ivy’s hair and consisted of multiple corkscrew curls in the Greek style falling about her ears and a coronet of plaits. Gold braid was woven throughout, with a gilt dagger over the left ear with a spray of leaves and gold fruit falling at the back. It looked more like a headdress for a ball than anything else. It was all of a piece and worn like a helmet over Ivy’s own hair.

Because the hairmuffs entirely covered her ears as well as her head, Mrs. Tunstell was warm but also rather deaf.

“Ivy, finally, what could possibly have taken you so long?” Lady Maccon wanted to know.

“You want a song? I couldn’t possibly serenade you on an open deck. Perhaps later, in the lounge. You are meant to be anthropomorphizing the workings of that parasol, remember?”

“Yes, Ivy, I know. We have been waiting for you.”

“What are you to do? Well, I assume the accessory came with instructions. It can’t possibly be all that different from your original emissionous parasol.”

Alexia gave up and turned to proceed with her experiments. She stripped off her gloves and passed them to Ivy, who took them gravely and tucked them into her reticule. Alexia consulted the instruction sheet.

Of the three nodules on the handle, the first, when twisted, appeared to do nothing whatsoever. As she was pointing the parasol out to sea, and this was the magnetic disruption emitter, this was the best that could be hoped for. Even Alexia was not so bold as to trot aft and try the parasol on the steamboat’s engine.

“Nothing happened,” objected Ivy in disappointment.

“Shouldn’t with the emitter.”

“Mittens? I suppose that is sensible in case of snow,” replied Ivy.

The middle nodule, turned to the left, caused a silver spike to jut out, and to the right, a wooden one. Unlike Lady Maccon’s previous parasol, both could not pop out at once.

Alexia wasn’t certain about that change. “What if I need to fight off both vampires and werewolves together?”

Lord Maccon gave her a very dour look.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh!” Ivy was practically bouncing in excitement over some kind of revelation. “I had a thought,” she said, examining the edge of the wooden stake with interest.

“Oh, yes?” encouraged Alexia loudly.

Ivy stopped and frowned, her pert little face creased in worry. “I said I had one. It appears to have vanished.”

Alexia returned to her examinations. The bottom nodule, closest to the shade and nested in the puff of black feathers, was slightly more detailed. Alexia consulted her sheet and then opened and carefully flipped the parasol around. A twist to one direction and a fine mist spouted forth from the ends of the parasol’s ribs. From the smell and sizzle of the liquid as it hit the deck, that was lapis solaris diluted in sulfuric acid. A twist in the other direction and lapis lunearis and water came out, causing a brown discoloration to the already pockmarked deck.

“Oops,” said Lady Maccon, not very apologetically.

“There, you see, emissions! Really, Alexia, is there no more dignified approach?” Ivy stepped back from her friend and wrinkled her nose.

Finally, Alexia reached the very last point on Monsieur Trouvé’s list of instructions.

Gustave Trouvé had written: “My esteemed colleague included the two spikes in her original model, but I thought we might make additional use of them. Please ensure that you are well braced for this feature, my dear Lady Maccon, and that you have pointed the parasol at something substantial. Twist the nodule closest to the shade sharply clockwise while holding the parasol pointed steadily at your target.”

Alexia backed up, leaning against the railing of the ship, and pointed the parasol at the wall on the other side of the promenade deck. She handed Conall the instruction sheet, braced herself, gestured Mrs. Tunstell well out of the way, and fired.

Later, Conall was to describe to her how the parasol’s tip shot completely off, twisting slightly as it flew and pulling behind it a long, strong rope. The spike sank into the wall of the cabin and held. Alexia was to comment that this might have been quite useful the time she nearly fell off of the dirigible or out of the hive house. However, Gustave Trouvé had not exaggerated when he instructed her to be well braced, for the parasol jerked back against her violently, quite destroying her stability. Alexia let go of it in surprise.

Unfortunately, the railing was just low enough not to accommodate a woman of Lady Maccon’s stature, girth, and corsetry. She overbalanced entirely, flipped in graceless splendor backward over the railing, and plummeted down into the ocean below.

Alexia screamed in surprise and then in shock at the coldness of the water. She came up sputtering.

Without hesitating, her husband dove in after. He could swim better and catch up to her faster in wolf form, so he changed as he fell, hitting the water a massive brindled beast instead of man.

As the steamer churned swiftly away, Alexia heard Ivy screaming, “Woman overboard! Wait, no, man and woman overboard. Wait, no woman and wolf overboard. Oh, dash it, help! Help us please! Stop the ship! Man the lifeboats. Help! Summon the fire brigade!”

Conall arrowed through the icy black sea toward Alexia, his fur slicked back, seal-like. After only a few moments, he reached her.

“Really, husband, I can swim perfectly well. There’s no need for both of us to get all salty,” instructed Alexia tersely, although she was already shivering and she well knew the real danger in being cast adrift came not from drowning but from cold.

Conall barked at her and swam closer.

“No, don’t touch me! Then you’ll be human, too. Then we’ll both shiver to death. Don’t be silly.”

Ignoring her, the wolf came up next to her and wormed his way under one arm, clearly intending to help her stay afloat.

He did not change.

Not even slightly.

Alexia had removed her gloves for parasol examination and was gripping him reflexively with one bare hand. Nothing. He remained a werewolf.

“Well, would you look at that!”

Conall’s wolf face looked shocked. But then again, the markings about his eyes and muzzle often caused that expression, so there was no way to tell if he was truly registering the peculiarity or still acting on instinct to protect her. Whatever the case, at least he did not give in to his werewolf nature and try to eat her, which for the first time in their long association he might have been able to do.

Alexia’s teeth started to chatter. Conall was doing most of the work to keep them afloat. She figured she might as well let him, as he still had all his supernatural strength.

She cogitated upon this amazing occurrence, thinking back over her life and every preternatural touch: those times when she had been forced to use her naked flesh, and those times when it had functioned even through fabric.

“Wat-t-t-t-ter!” she chattered. “It’s all wat-t-t-t-t-ter. Just like ghosts and t-t-tethers.”

Conall appeared to be ignoring her, but Alexia was having a scientific breakthrough and being stranded somewhere near the Strait of Gibraltar in the Atlantic Ocean wasn’t going to stop her epiphany. “It all makes per-r-r-fect sense!” She wanted to explain but she was chattering so hard she could no longer understand herself. Also her extremities were going numb. Science would have to wait.

I’m going to freeze to death, she thought. I have figured out one of the greatest preternatural mysteries and no one will know the truth. It’s so very simple. It was there all along. In the weather. How annoying.

“Oh! There she blows!” she heard Ivy sing out in the dark night. A wave of displaced water crashed over her, and a second later a wooden box with handles splashed down next to her for her to latch on to. The box was followed by a knitted hammock she could use to pull herself inside.

Conall changed into his human form and pulled himself in next to her.

“Cover yourself with my skirts,” hissed his wife through still-chattering teeth, pushing the ruination of her evening gown at him.

Her husband only looked at her, mouth agape. “What just happened?”

“We have made a g-g-g-reat discovery! We may have to p-p-p-publish,” announced his wife, waving her goose-pimpled arms about. “Scientif-f-f-ic-c-c break-k-k-through!”

Conall threw his arm around her, hugging her close, and they were lifted to safety. By the time they reached the deck, he was mortal.