Lady Maccon was not quite certain how to converse with Miss Hisselpenny when she was in such a mood. She was accustomed to Ivy-overset and Ivy-chatterbox, but Ivy-full-of-wrath was a new creature altogether. She opted for the fallback position. “You are clearly in need of a fortifying cup of tea, my dear. Shall we go and see if we can hunt one down? Even the Scots must stock some form of libation.”
Miss Hisselpenny took a deep breath. “Yes, I think you may be right. Excellent notion.”
Lady Maccon solicitously shepherded her friend down the stairs and into one of the smaller drawing rooms, where they ran into two clavigers. The young gentlemen were more than eager to hunt down the requisite tea, see to Miss Hisselpenny’s every whim, and generally prove to the ladies that all good manners had not fled the Highlands along with its complement of trousers. As a result, Ivy forgave them their kilts. Lady Maccon left her friend to their stimulating accents and tender care and went in search of Madame Lefoux and the broken aethographor, hoping for a peek at its functional component parts.
It took her some time to track the massive machine down. Castle Kingair was a real castle, with none of Woolsey’s practical notions on conservation of space and gridlike layout. It was very large, with a propensity for confusing itself with additional rooms, towers, and gratuitous staircases. Lady Maccon was logical in her approach (which may have been her mistake). She surmised that the aethographor must be located in one of the many castle turrets, but which one proved to be the difficulty. There was a decided overabundance of towers. Very concerned with defensibility, the Scots. It took a good deal of time to climb the winding steps to each turret. She knew she was in the right area, however, when she heard the cursing. In French, of course, and not words that she was familiar with, naturally, but she was in no doubt as to their profane nature. Madame Lefoux appeared to be experiencing some form of inconvenience.
When she finally attained the room, Alexia came face-to-face, or as is were, face-to-bottom, with yet another good reason for the lady inventor to don trousers. Madame Lefoux was on her back, half underneath the apparatus, only her legs and backside visible. Had she been in skirts, it would have been a most indelicate position.
Kingair’s aethographic transmitter was raised up on little legs above the stone floor of the castle. It looked somewhat like two attached privy houses with footstool feet. Everything was brightly lit with gas lamps, as the pack had clearly spared no expense on this room. It was also clean.
Lady Maccon craned her neck to see into the darkened interior of the chamber that Madame Lefoux worked under. It appeared that the transmitting mechanicals were the ones being problematical. The Frenchwoman had with her a hatbox that appeared to be no hatbox at all but a cleverly disguised toolkit. Lady Maccon instantly coveted one herself—so much less obvious than a dispatch case.
The bespectacled claviger, with the ever-present expression of panic, crouched nearby, passing the inventor, one after another, a string of exciting-looking tools.
“The magnetomotor modulating adjustor, if you please,” Madame Lefoux would say, and a long, sticklike object with a corkscrew of copper at one end and a glass tube full of an illuminated liquid at the other was passed over. Shortly after, there would emit another curse, the tool would be passed back to the claviger, and a new one called for.
“Goodness gracious,” exclaimed Alexia. “What are you doing?”
There came the sound of a thump, Madame Lefoux’s legs jerked, and further cursing ensued. Moments later, the Frenchwoman wormed her way out and stood up, rubbing her head. The action only added to a vast collection of grease smudges covering her pretty face.
“Ah, Lady Maccon, how lovely. I did wonder when you would track us down.”
“I was unavoidably delayed by husbands and Ivys,” explained Alexia.
“These things, regrettably, are bound to occur when one is married and befriended.” Madame Lefoux was sympathetic.
Lady Maccon leaned forward and, using her parasol as a prop, tried to see underneath the contraption. Her corset made this action mostly impossible, so she turned back to the Frenchwoman. “Have you determined the nature of the problem?”
“Well, it is definitely the transmitting chamber that is malfunctioning. The receiving room seems fully operational. It is hard to tell without an actual transmission of some kind.”
Alexia looked to the claviger for confirmation, and the young man nodded. He did not appear to have much to say for himself, but he was eager to help. The best kind of person, felt Alexia.
“Well,” said Lady Maccon, “what time is it?”
The young gentleman took out a small pocket watch and flipped it open. “Half past ten.”
Lady Maccon turned to Madame Lefoux. “If you can get it ready by eleven, we can try to raise Lord Akeldama on his aethographor. Remember, he gave me the codes, a valve frequensor, and an eleven o’clock time slot for open-scan transmission.”
“But if he doesna have our resonance, what good is that? He willna be able to receive.” The claviger snapped his watch closed and stashed it once more in his waistcoat pocket.
“Ah,” Madame Lefoux jumped in, “he has a multiadaptive model that does not operate using crystalline compatibility protocol. All he need do is scan for a transmission to his frequency during the allotted time. We can receive back because Lady Maccon does have the appropriate valve component.”
The claviger looked even more surprised than usual.
“I understand they are dear friends.” Madame Lefoux appeared to feel this would explain everything.
Alexia smiled. “On the evening of my wedding, I held his hand so he could watch the sunset.”
The claviger looked confused. Again, more confused than usual (his was a difficult face for expressing the full range of human emotion).
Madame Lefoux explained, “Lord Akeldama is a vampire.”
The young man gasped. “He trusted you with his life?”
Lady Maccon nodded. “So trusting me with a crystalline valve, however technologically vital, is no very great thing by comparison.”
Madame Lefoux shrugged. “I do not know about that, my lady. I mean to say, one’s life is one thing; one’s technology is an entirely different matter.”
“Nevertheless, I can provide you the means to test this aethographor’s effectiveness, once it has been repaired.”
The claviger gave her a look of burgeoning respect. “Efficient female, aren’t you, Lady Maccon?”
Alexia was not certain whether she should be pleased or offended by the statement, so she chose to ignore it.
“So, I had better get to it, hadn’t I?” Madame Lefoux turned and crawled back under the transmitter, returning to her tinkering.
Muffled words emanated a few moments later.
“What was that?”
Madame Lefoux’s head reappeared. “I said, would you like to inscribe a message to Lord Akeldama while you are waiting?”
“Superb idea.” Lady Maccon turned to the claviger. “Would you mind finding me a blank scroll, a stylus, and some acid?”
The young man jumped to oblige. While she waited for the supplies, Alexia poked about looking for the pack’s valve frequensor library. Who did Kingair communicate with? Why had they bothered to invest in the aethographor at all? She found the crystalline valves in a small set of unlocked drawers off to one side. There were only three, but they were all entirely unlabeled and without any other identification.
“What are you doing, Lady Maccon?” The claviger came up behind her, looking suspicious (an expression entirely unsuited to his face).
“Just pondering why a Scottish pack would need an aethographor,” replied Alexia. She was never one to dissemble when forthrightness could keep others off guard.
“Mmm,” the young man replied, noncommittal. He handed her a metal scroll, a small vial of acid, and a stylus.
Lady Maccon set herself up in one corner of the room, tongue sticking out slightly as she attempted to be as neat as possible inscribing one letter into each grid square on the scroll. Her penmanship had never won her any school awards, and she wanted to make it as clear as possible.
The message read, “Testing Scots. Please reply.”
She removed Lord Akeldama’s crystalline valve from the secret pocket of her parasol, carefully using her copious skirts to shroud her movements so the claviger could not see where it was hidden.
Madame Lefoux was still puttering, so Lady Maccon entertained herself by exploring the receiving room, the part of the aethographor on which Madame Lefoux was not working. She tested her own memory on the parts. They were, in general, larger and less streamlined than on Lord Akeldama’s transmitter, but they were in the same place: filter to eliminate ambient noise, dial for amplifying incoming signals, and two pieces of glass with black particulate between.
Madame Lefoux surprised Alexia with a gentle touch on her arm.
“We are almost ready. It is five minutes until eleven. Shall we set the machine to transmit?”
“Will I be allowed to watch?”
“Of course.”
The three of them crammed into the tiny transmitting room, which, like the receiving room, was packed with machinery that looked like Lord Akeldama’s—except that the gadgetry was more tangled, something Alexia had not thought possible, and the dials and switches were more numerous.
Madame Lefoux smoothed out and slotted Alexia’s metal scroll into the special frame. Alexia placed Lord Akeldama’s valve into the resonator cradle. After confirming the time, Madame Lefoux pulled down on a large knob-ended switch and engaged the aetheric convector, activating the chemical wash. The etched letters began to phosphoresce. The two small hydrodine engines spun to life, generating opposing aetheroelectric impulses, and the two needles raced across the slate. Sparking brightly whenever they were exposed to one another through the letters, transmission commenced. Alexia worried about the rain causing delay, but she had faith that Lord Akeldama’s improved technology was capable of greater sensitivity and could cut though climatic interference.
“Testing… Scots… please… reply” sped invisibly outward.
And leagues to the south, at the top of a posh town house, a well-trained vampire drone, dressed like a candied orange peel, who looked as though his gravest concern was whether winter cravats permitted paisley or not, sat up straight and began recording an incoming transmission. The source was unknown, but he had been told to sweep on broad receiving at eleven o’clock for several nights straight. He took down the message and then noted the transmission coordination frequency and the time before dashing off to find his master.
“It is hard to know for certain, but I believe everything went smoothly.” Madame Lefoux switched off the transmitter, the little hydrodine engines spinning quietly down. “Of course, we will not know if communication has been established until we receive an answering transmission.”
The claviger said, “Your contact will have to determine the correct frequency from the incoming message so that he can dial it in from his end, without a companion valve frequensor. How long will such an endeavor take?”