There were no hansoms, nor any other ready form of public transportation. Indeed, the entire city was apparently possessed of only one means of locomotion: walking.
Alexia was a profuse walker. Even though she was a little sore from her mountaintop peril, she was equal to further exercise. After al , she had been asleep for three days.
Floote valiantly headed their expedition. He was suspiciously familiar with the city, leading them unerringly through a wide open plaza cal ed the Piazza Santa Maria Novel a, which Alexia thought sounded like an assembly of sainted literary pundits; down the Via dei Fossi, which sounded like a fascinating geological discovery; across a bridge; and down into Piazza Pitti, which sounded like a pasta dish. It was a long walk, and Alexia had reason to be grateful for her parasol, for Italy did not appear to notice that it was November and poured sun down upon them with unremitting cheerfulness.
As it turned out, the Italians beyond the wal s of the temple were a friendly, excitable bunch. Several of them waved to Alexia and her party. Alexia was mildly put out; after al , these were people to whom she had not been introduced and had no particular interest in knowing, yet they waved as she passed. It was most disconcerting. Also, it became quickly evident that Alexia’s capable governess had been remiss in the matter of the Italian tongue. She had never taught Alexia that a great majority of communication was achieved through hand gesticulations. Although sentiments were often expressed a tad too loudly for Alexia’s refined sensibilities, it was indeed as lovely to watch as it was to hear.
Even with such distractions as shirtless men kicking rubber bal s around the bank of the Arno and a language that danced, Alexia noticed something amiss.
“We are being fol owed, are we not?”
Madame Lefoux nodded.
Alexia paused in the middle of the bridge and looked casual y back over her shoulder, using her parasol to disguise the movement.
“Real y, if they wanted to hide, they ought not to wear those ridiculous white nightgowns. Imagine going out in public in such a state.”
Floote corrected his mistress. “Holy Tunics of Piety and Faith, madam.”
“Nightgowns,” insisted Alexia firmly.
They walked on.
“I counted six. Do you concur?” Alexia spoke in a low voice, although their fol owers were stil a considerable distance behind and well out of earshot.
Madame Lefoux pursed her lips. “Yes, about that many.”
“Nothing to be done, I suppose.”
“No, nothing.”
Florence’s dirigible landing green was part of Boboli Gardens, a robust and extensive terraced park that lay in resplendent glory behind the most imposing castle Alexia had ever seen. In truth, Pitti Palace looked more like a prison of unusual y fine proportions. They had to walk around the side of the massive edifice to get to the garden gate, where they were checked by a uniformed customs official.
The grounds were quite lovely, teeming with lush vegetation. The landing green was located directly behind the palace and on the same level. In its center stood an Egyptian obelisk, used as a tethering station, although no dirigibles were currently at rest. The luggage depot and waiting area took the form of a rebuilt ancient Roman gazebo. The official in charge was delighted to show them to the baggage storage area, where Alexia found her trunks, Madame Lefoux’s modest assortment of carpetbags, and Floote’s scruffy portmanteau, courtesy of Monsieur Trouvé.
As they began gathering up their possessions, Alexia thought she saw Madame Lefoux snatch at some smal item sitting atop her hatbox but could not be certain what it was. She was about to ask when the station clerk approached to have her sign a chit for their belongings.
Once she had done so, the clerk glanced down and made a sudden face as he read Alexia’s name. “La Diva Tarabotti?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. I ’ave ze”—he waved his hand in the air, apparently incapable of recal ing the appropriate English vocabulary—“thing, para you.”
At which he bustled off, returning a moment later to hand Alexia something that amazed the entire party.
It was a letter directed to La Diva Alexia Tarabotti in round, sprawling script. And it was not, as any person of sense might have surmised, from Monsieur Trouvé. Oh, no, this missive was from Mrs. Tunstel .
Alexia twisted the heavy folded paper about in her hand for a moment in surprise.
“Wel , doesn’t that just go to show that no matter where you go, Ivy wil always find you?”
“Perish the thought, madam,” replied Floote with feeling before bustling off to hire a cart.
The clerk kindly handed Alexia a letter opener, and she cut through the seal.
“My dearest, darlingest of Alexias,” it began in flamboyant style, and went on from there with no hope of sobriety. “Wel , it is al go around London with you gone. Al go, I tel you!” The missive employed Ivy’s preferred abuse of punctuation and reliance upon malapropisms. “Tunstel , my bril iant pip, has gotten himself the lead role in the Winter Season of Forthwimsey-Near-Ham’s operatic production of the HMS Pennyfarthing!
Can you envisage that?” Alexia tried desperately not to. “I am lathe to admit it”—Alexia imagined Ivy spinning round and round like a top—“but I am adapting quite comfortably to life in trade, rather too comfortably for my mother’s peace of mind. Please tel Madame Lefoux that her hat shop is doing extremely well , and I have even made one or two improvements.” Alexia relayed this information to the Frenchwoman, who blanched.
“It has been less than a week. How much damage can she possibly have done in such a short time?” Madame Lefoux sounded as though she were trying to convince herself.
Alexia read on. “‘I have even, I blush to admit it here in print, inadvertently precipitated a wildly popular new craze in earmuffs for dirigible travel. I had the notion to affix fake hair fal s from Paris to the exterior of the muffs so that the Young Lady Traveler might look as though she had an elaborate hairstyle while stil staying warm. Such hairmuffs, as I cal them, have the added benefit of bearing the brunt of the aether breezes’ mussing. well , I don’t mind tel ing you, Alexia, they are sel ing by the baker’s dozen! They have been heralded, only this morning, as the very latest in vital travel wardrobe accoutrements by no less than three leading fashion journals! Have enclosed clipping for your perusal.’ ” Alexia read this bit of the letter out for Madame Lefoux’s continued edification and then handed her the newspaper clipping.
“‘In other shocking news, the dashing Captain Featherstonehaugh has announced his engagement to Miss Wibbley, who real y is only just out of finishing school! This has had the unfortunate side effect of putting about the rumor that your younger sister was thrown over for a schoolroom chit, quite the persona au gratin, if you take my meaning.
You wil hardly be surprised when I tel you, London is al in uproars over the impending nuptials! I do hope this letter finds you well . As always, your dearest friend, Ivy.’ ”
Alexia folded the letter up, smiling. It was nice to be reminded of the mundanities of everyday life where there were no Templars stalking one through the streets of Florence, no drones in armed pursuit, and nothing was more worrisome than Miss Wibbley and her
“au gratin” antics. “Wel , what do you make of that?”
Madame Lefoux gave Alexia a particularly drol look. “Just out of finishing school, indeed.”
“I know. Shocking. Most girls recently out of finishing school are like soufflés: puffed up, not very substantial inside, and prone to col apsing at the slightest provocation.”
Madame Lefoux laughed. “And earmuffs with hair attached. How is it you English put it? I say!”
Floote returned with a pony and trap for their bags.
Alexia smiled, but she was, she hated to admit it, a little disappointed. She could not help noticing that there had been no mention of Lord Maccon, nor the Woolsey Pack, in Ivy’s letter. Either Ivy was being circumspect—which was about as likely as Floote suddenly dancing an Irish jig—or the London werewolves were staying well out of the social limelight.
“You may find yourself the exclusive owner of a highly profitable hairmuff business instead.”
Madame Lefoux flipped the newspaper clipping over and then stil ed, face drawn.
“What is it? Genevieve, are you unwel ?”
Mutely, the inventor passed the bit of paper back to Alexia.
It wasn’t the whole of the article, just a section of it, but it was enough.
“… surprised us al with a printed apology to his wife in the Morning Post. He has claimed that al previous rumors and accusations were not only false, but his fault, and that the child is not only his, but a miracle of modern science. Speculation is rampant as to the earl’s purpose in issuing this retraction. No one has seen Lady Maccon since…”
Alexia’s knees, previously quite reliable support structures, failed her, and she sat suddenly straight down onto the stone floor of the customs depot.
“Oh,” she said, because it was al she could think to say, fol owed by, “Blast.”
Then, surprising everyone, including herself, she started to cry. And not in the elegant, slow-dripping manner of true ladies of quality, but in loud embarrassing sobs like a little child.
Madame Lefoux and Floote stared down at her in stunned silence.
Alexia simply went on crying. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop.
Madame Lefoux final y reacted, crouching down to wrap her friend in a bony but comforting embrace. “Alexia, my dear, what is wrong? Isn’t this a good thing?”
“B-b-b-bastard,” blubbered Alexia.
Madame Lefoux was clearly at a loss.
Alexia, taking pity on her, tried desperately to control herself and explain. “I was doing so well , being angry at him.”
“So you are crying because you cannot be angry at him anymore?”
“No. Yes!” Alexia wailed.
Floote handed over a large handkerchief. “It is relief, madam,” he explained to the Frenchwoman.
“Ah.” Madame Lefoux applied said square of cotton to Alexia’s blotchy face with tender care.
Alexia realized she was making a spectacle of herself and tried to stand. Too many things were going on in her head at once, and it was causing her eyes to leak. She took a deep, shaky breath and blew her nose loudly into Floote’s handkerchief.
Madame Lefoux patted her back, stil looking at her in concern, but Floote’s attention had shifted.
Alexia fol owed his gaze. Four robust-looking young men were heading purposeful y in their direction across the garden.
“Those are definitely not Templars,” said Madame Lefoux with conviction.
“No nightgowns,” agreed Alexia, sniffing.
“Drones?”
“Drones.” Alexia stuffed the handkerchief up one sleeve and got shakily to her feet.
This time the drones looked to be taking no chances: each man held a wicked-looking knife and walked with decided purpose.
Alexia heard a faint shout and thought she could see, some way across the green, their group of Templar shadows running in their direction. They would in no way be fast enough.