“You know the young lady?” asked the shadowed man, pulling out his pipe and a small velvet tobacco pouch. There was an octopus embroidered on the outside of the pouch, golden thread on chocolate brown velvet.
Mr. MacDougall looked up from where he knelt. “I certainly do. This is Miss Alexia Tarabotti,” he said angrily before Miss Tarabotti could stop him.
Oh dear, Alexia thought philosophically, the cat is well and truly out of the bag now.
Mr. MacDougall continued speaking, a flush staining his pasty, pudgy cheeks and a small sheen of sweat lining his brow. “To treat a young lady of such standing as shabbily as this!” he sputtered. “It is a grave blow, not only to the honor of the club, but also to that of the scientific profession as a whole. We should remove her restraints this moment! Shame on you.”
How did that saying go? Alexia wondered. Ah, yes, “Brash as an American.” Well, they had won their independence somehow, and it was not with politeness.
The man with the muttonchops filled his pipe bowl and nipped back into the hallway briefly to light it with one of the oil lamps. “Why does that name sound familiar?” He turned back and puffed for a moment, blowing fragrant vanilla-scented smoke into the cell. “Of course— the BUR records! Are you telling me this is the Alexia Tarabotti?” He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the long ivory stem at Alexia for emphasis.
“The only one I've met in your country so far,” answered Mr. MacDougall, sounding unbelievably rude — even for an American.
“Of course.” The shadowed man finally put two and two together. “This explains everything: her involvement with BUR, her visiting the hive, and her association with Lord Akeldama!” He looked to Miss Tarabotti severely. “You have led us a merry dance, young lady.” Then he looked back at Mr. MacDougall. “Do you know what she is?”
“Aside from manacled? Which she should not be. Mr. Siemons, give me the keys this minute!”
Miss Tarabotti was suitably impressed by Mr. Mac-Dougall's insistence. She had not thought he would be such a champion or possess such backbone.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Mr. Siemons said. At last the shadow man had a name. He leaned backward out the doorway and yelled up the hallway. Then he came inside the cell and bent down toward Miss Tarabotti. He grabbed her face quite roughly and turned her toward the light in the hall. He continued to puff on his pipe, blowing smoke into her eyes.
Alexia coughed pointedly.
Mr. MacDougall was further shocked. “Really, Mr. Siemons, such crass treatment!”
“Amazing,” said Siemons. “She seems perfectly normal. One would never be able to tell simply by looking, would one?”
Mr. MacDougall finally got over his gentlemanly instincts enough to allow the scientific part of his mental faculties to participate in the conversation. In a voice colored with both hesitation and dread, he asked, “Why shouldn't she be?”
Mr. Siemons stopped blowing smoke in Miss Tarabotti's face and blew it instead at the American scientist. “This young lady is a preternatural: a Homo exanimus. We have been looking for her since we first deduced her existence here in London. Which, I might add, was only shortly after finding out that preternaturals existed at all. Of course, if you follow the counterbalance theorem, her kind seems perfectly logical. I am surprised we never before thought to look. And, of course, we knew the supernatural set had ancient legends pertaining to certain dangerous creatures that were born to hunt them. The werewolves have their curse-breakers, the vampires their soul-suckers, and the ghosts their exorcists. But we did not know they were all the same organism and that that organism was a scientific fact, not a myth. They are startlingly uncommon, as it turns out. Miss Tarabotti here is a rare beast, indeed.”
Mr. MacDougall looked shocked. “A what?”
Mr. Siemons did not share his shock; in fact, he looked particularly delighted all of a sudden—a lightning change of mood that did not strike Miss Tarabotti as entirely sane.
“A preternatural!” He grinned, waving his pipe about haphazardly. “Fantastic! There are so many things we need to know about her.”
Alexia said,” You stole the paperwork from BUR.”
Mr. Siemons shook his head. “No, my dear, we liberated and then secured important documents in order to prevent dangerous societal elements from fraudulently identifying themselves as normal. Our initiative in this matter will enhance our ability to assess threat and confirm identity of those enabling the supernatural conspiracy.”
“She is one of them?” Mr. MacDougall said, still stuck on Miss Tarabotti's preternatural state. He jerked away from her and thus stopped supporting Alexia in her seated position. Luckily, she managed not to fall backward.
He seemed almost repelled by her. Alexia began to wonder about the story of his brother becoming a vampire. How much of that had been truth?
Mr. Siemons slapped Mr. MacDougall's back delightedly. “No, no, no, my good man. Quite the opposite! She is the antidote to the supernatural. If you can think of an entire living organism as an antidote. Now that we have her, the opportunities for study are endless! Simply think of what we could accomplish. Such possibilities.” He was positively gregarious. His watery blue eyes shone with an excess of scientific enthusiasm.
Alexia shuddered at the idea of what such a study might entail.
Mr. MacDougall looked thoughtful and then stood and pulled his companion out into the hallway. They engaged in a whispered conversation. During their brief absence, Miss Tarabotti tried frantically to slip free of her handcuffs. She had a sinking suspicion that she would not like anything they wanted to do to her in this ghastly place. But she could not even manage to stand upright.
She heard Mr. Siemons say, “It is an excellent suggestion and could not hurt. If she is as intelligent as you purport, she may yet perceive the merits of our work. It would certainly be novel to engage with a willing participant. “
The most miraculous change in Miss Tarabotti's circumstances then proceeded to occur. She found herself gently lifted by a pair of subdued lackeys. She was carried upstairs into the lavish precincts of the foyer, with its plush Oriental carpets and luxuriant furnishings. Her restraints were unlocked and removed, and she was given a small private dressing room in which to wash and compose herself. Her ivory taffeta dress was a little worse for the experience; one of the puffed sleeves and some of the gold lace had ripped, and it was stained beyond redemption in several places. Alexia was annoyed. True, it was out of fashion, but she had liked the gown. She sighed and did her best to smooth out the wrinkles while looking with interest around the dressing room.
There was no means of escape, but there was a bit of ribbon for her to tie back her unruly hair and a looking glass in which she could check up on the generally disreputable state of her appearance. The mirror was ornate, framed but carved gilded wood, more suited to Lord Akeldama's house than a modern setting. The frame seemed to be made up of a long chain of octopuses, arms linked. Alexia was beginning to find the whole octopus prevalence slightly sinister.
She broke the looking glass as quietly as possible, tapping with the back of the ivory hairbrush she had been given. She wrapped a sharp shard of glass carefully in a handkerchief and tucked it down the front of her bodice, between dress and corset, for safekeeping.
Feeling slightly more the thing, she exited the changing room and was escorted downstairs back into the receiving area, with its brown leather armchair. There she found a hot cup of tea and an interesting proposition awaiting her.
Mr. MacDougall made introductions.
“Miss Tarabotti, this is Mr. Siemons. Mr. Siemons, Miss Alexia Tarabotti.”
“Enchanted,” said the pipe-smoking gentleman, bending over Alexia's hand as though he had not just abducted her, imprisoned her for several hours, and probably done unspeakable things to one of her dearest friends.
Miss Tarabotti decided to play whatever hand was dealt her, at least until she learned the rules of the game. It was typical of her character that she simply assumed she would, eventually, gain control over the situation. Only one man had ever consistently bested her in life's ongoing vocal scuffle, and Lord Maccon used underhanded nonverbal tactics. Thinking of Lord Maccon made Alexia cast a covert glance about the room, wondering if they had brought her parasol when they nabbed her.
“Let me come straight to the point, Alexia,” said her jailer. Alexia had no doubt that, while her immediate bonds had been removed, she was still very far from free.
He sat in the leather chair and gestured for her to sit opposite him on a red chaise lounge.
She did so. “Please do, Mr. Siemons. Directness is a very admirable quality in kidnappers”—she paused in thought—“and scientists.” She was nothing if not fair, and she had read her share of scientific articles that prevaricated and waffled most dreadfully. A strong thesis was very important.
Mr. Siemons proceeded on.
Miss Tarabotti sipped her tea and noted that the silver studs on the leather armchair were also very small octopuses. Really, why the obsession with invertebrates?
Mr. MacDougall hurried about worriedly while Mr. Siemons spoke, fetching this and that to make Alexia more comfortable. Would she like a cushion? Some sugar? Another spot of tea? Was she warm enough? Had the restraints harmed her wrists in any way?
Finally Mr. Siemons rounded on the young man and glared him into silent stillness.
“We should like very much to study you,” he explained to Alexia. “And we should like to do so with your cooperation. It would be much easier and more civilized for all concerned if you were a willing participant in the proceedings.” He sat back, a strange look of eagerness on his jowly face.
Alexia was confused. “You must understand,” she said at length, “that I have several questions. Although, as you intend my participation whether willing or not, you can naturally refrain from answering them.”
The man laughed. “I am a scientist. Miss Tarabotti. I appreciate a curious mind.”
Miss Tarabotti raised her eyebrows. “Why do you wish to study me? What information do you hope to acquire? And what would these studies entail, exactly?”
He smiled. “Good questions, all of them, but none very enlightened in essence. Obviously, we wish to study you because you are a preternatural. And while both you and BUR might know much of what that means, we know very little and are quite eager to comprehend the whole. We hope, most importantly, to understand the sum components of your ability to cancel out the supernatural. To distill that ability and harness it, what a weapon you might make!” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Also, it would be a true joy simply to watch you in action.”
“And the studies themselves?” Miss Tarabotti was beginning to feel most apprehensive, though she prided herself on the fact that it was not visible in her general demeanor.
“I understand you have heard some of Mr. MacDougall's theories?”
Miss Tarabotti thought back to that morning drive. It seemed to have occurred an age ago, to a different person, in a different time. However, she did remember much of the conversation, for it had been most diverting. “I recall some,” she replied cautiously, “to the best of my recollection and limited feminine capacities, of course.” Alexia hated to do it, but it was always advantageous to undermine one's enemy's confidence in one's intelligence.