Gail Carriger - Heartless

Lady Maccon wished fervently at that moment that she had her parasol with her. She would have greeted the Frenchwoman with one very hard whack to the head, friend or no, for getting them all into such a pickle. Justified or not, the inventor had caused everybody a good deal of unnecessary bother.

“Professor Lyall. Yes?”

“Lady Maccon, to see her husband.” The Beta stepped aside to allow the Frenchwoman to catch sight of the sweating and clearly distressed Alexia and her improvised transport.

“Alexia? Are you unwell?”

Alexia was quite definitely at her limit. “No, no, I am not. I have been gallivanting all over London chasing you or being chased by you. I have watched the city burn and the hive house collapse and have fallen out of a dirigible— twice ! I am in imminent danger of giving birth. And I have lost my parasol !” This last was said on a rather childish wail.

A different voice came from inside—deep, commanding, and tinged with a Scottish accent. “That my wife? Capital. She’s just the thing to get the pup his legs back.”

Genevieve’s head disappeared with an “oof” as though she had been dragged forcibly backward, and Lord Maccon’s head emerged instead.

The earl was looking perfectly fine, if a little sleepy. Werewolves usually slept the full day through after a full moon. It was testament to both Conall’s and Lyall’s strength that they were up and moving, although both were rather clumsy about it. Conall described being awake the night after as akin to playing tiddlywinks, drunk, with a penguin—confusing and slightly dreamlike. His hair was wild and unkempt, and his tawny eyes were soft and buttery, mellowed by battle and victory.

He caught sight of his wife. “Ah, my love, get inside, would you? No way to get Biffy back to safety without your touch. Good of you to come. Interesting choice of transport.”

At which juncture, his wife threw back her head and screamed.

Lord Conall Maccon’s expression changed instantly to one of absolute panic and total ferocity. He charged out of the octomaton and bounded to his mate. He tossed poor Boots out of his way with a mere flick of the wrist and took Lady Maccon into his own arms.

“What’s wrong? Are you—You canna! Now isna a good time!”

“Oh, no?” panted his wife. “Well, tell that to the child. This is all your fault, you do realize?”

“My fault, how could it possibly . . . ?”

He trailed off as a different howl of agony came from inside the octomaton’s head and Madame Lefoux looked back out. “Young Biffy could use your presence, my lord.”

The earl growled in annoyance and made his way over to the door. He shoved Alexia inside first, following after.

It was very cramped quarters. Madame Lefoux had designed the guidance chamber for only two occupants, herself and Quesnel. Lord Maccon accounted for about that number on his own, plus the pregnant Alexia, and Biffy sprawled on the floor.

It took a moment for Lady Maccon’s eyes to adjust to the inner gloom, but she saw soon enough that Biffy was burned badly down one leg. Much of the skin was gone—blistered and blackened most awfully.

“Should I touch him? He might never heal.”

Lord Maccon slammed the door closed against the wicked sun. “Blast it, woman, what possessed you to come down here in such a state?”

“How is Quesnel?” demanded Madame Lefoux. “Is he unharmed?”

“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.

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.”