“He’s safe.” Alexia did not mention he was currently locked in a dungeon with a vampire queen.
“Alexia”—Madame Lefoux clasped her hands together and opened her green eyes wide and looked pleading—“you know it was my only choice? You know I had to get him back. He’s all I have. She stole him from me.”
“And you couldn’t come to me for help? Really, Genevieve, what kind of feeble friend do you take me for?”
“She has the law on her side.”
Alexia clutched at her stomach and moaned. She was being flooded by the most overwhelming sensation—the need to push downward. “So?”
“You are muhjah.”
“I might have been able to come up with a solution.”
“I hate her more than anything. First she steals Angelique, and now Quesnel! What right has she to—”
“And your solution is to build a ruddy great octopus? Really, Genevieve, don’t you think you might have overreacted?”
“The OBO is on my side.”
“Oh, are they really? Now that is interesting. That plus taking in former Hypocras members?” Alexia was momentarily distracted by the need to give birth. “Oh, yes, husband, I meant to tell you this. It seems the OBO is developing an antisupernatural agenda. You might want to look into—“ She broke off to let out another scream. “My goodness, that is uncommonly painful.”
Lord Maccon turned ferocious yellow eyes on the inventor. “Enough. She has other things to attend to.”
Genevieve looked closely at Alexia. “True, that does seem to be the case. My lord, have you ever delivered a baby before?”
The earl paled as much as was possible, which was a good deal more than normal given he was holding on to his wife’s hand. “I delivered a litter of kittens once.”
The Frenchwoman nodded. “Not quite the same thing. What about Professor Lyall?”
Lord Maccon looked wild-eyed. “Mostly sheep, I think.”
Alexia looked up between contractions. “Were you there when Quesnel was born?”
The Frenchwoman nodded. “Yes, but so was the midwife. I think I remember the principles, and, of course, I’ve read a good deal on the subject.”
Alexia relaxed slightly. Books always made her feel better. Another wave washed through her and she cried out.
Lord Maccon looked sternly at Madame Lefoux. “Make it stop!”
Both women ignored him.
A polite tap came at the door. Madame Lefoux cracked it open.
Floote stood there, his back stiff, his expression one of studied indifference. “Clean cloth, bandages, hot water, and tea, madam.” He passed the necessities in.
“Oh, thank you, Floote.” The Frenchwoman took the items gratefully. After a moment’s thought, she rested them on top of the comatose Biffy, since he was the only vacant surface. “Any words of advice?”
“Madam, sometimes even I am out of options.”
“Very good, Floote. Keep the tea coming.”
“Of course, madam.”
Which was why, some six hours later, Alexia Maccon’s daughter was born inside the head of an octomaton in the presence of her husband, a comatose werewolf dandy, and a French inventor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In Which We All Learn a Little Something About Prudence
Later on, Lady Maccon was to describe that particular day as the worst of her life. She had neither the soul nor the romanticism to consider childbirth magical or emotionally transporting. So far as she could gather, it mostly involved pain, indignity, and mess. There was nothing engaging or appealing about the process. And, as she told her husband firmly, she intended never to go through it again.
Madame Lefoux acted as midwife. In her scientific way, she was unexpectedly adept at the job. When the infant finally appeared, she held it up for Alexia to see, rather proudly as though she’d done all the hard work herself.
“Goodness,” said an exhausted Lady Maccon, “are babies customarily that repulsive looking?”
Madame Lefoux pursed her lips and turned the infant about, as though she hadn’t quite looked closely before. “I assure you, the appearance improves with time.”
Alexia held out her arms—her dress was already ruined anyway—and received the pink wriggling thing into her embrace. She smiled up at her husband. “I told you it would be a girl.”
“Why isna she crying?” complained Lord Maccon. “Shouldna she be crying? Aren’t all bairns supposed to cry?”
“Perhaps she’s mute,” suggested Alexia. “Be a sensible thing with parents like us.”
Lord Maccon looked properly horrified at the idea.
Alexia grinned even more broadly as she came to a wonderful realization. “Look! I’m not repelled by her. No feelings of revulsion at all. She must be human, not a preternatural. How marvelous!”
A tap came at the octomaton door.
“Yes?” Lord Maccon sung out. He’d decided to stop worrying about the child and was crouched down cooing over her and making silly faces.
Professor Lyall looked in. He’d apparently found the time to change out of the improvised toga and into perfectly respectable attire. He caught sight of his Alpha, who looked up and beamed proudly.
“Randolph, I have a daughter!”
“Felicitations, my lord, my lady.”
Alexia nodded politely from her makeshift bed in the corner of the octomaton, only then noticing that she was resting against a pile of cords and springs, and there was some kind of valve digging into the small of her back. “Thank you, Professor. And it would appear that she is not a curse-breaker.”