Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second by Gail Carriger Page B

large steamer trunk. Eventually, she emerged with a long skinny wooden
     box.
    Lady Maccon held her breath in anticipation.
    Madame Lefoux carried it over and flipped open the lid.
    Inside was a not-very-prepossessing parasol of outlandish shape and indifferent style. Its shade was slate gray in color,
     edged in embroidered lace, with a thick cream ruffle trim. It had a peculiarly long spike at its tip, decorated with two egg-sized
     metal globules, like seedpods, one near the fabric and another closer to the tip. Its ribs were oversized, making it bulky
     and umbrella-like, and its shaft was extremely long, ending in a chubby, knobby, richly decorated handle. The handle looked
     like something that might top an ancient Egyptian column, carved with lotus flowers—or a very enthusiastic pineapple. The
     parasol’s parts were entirely of brass, in what looked to be variable alloys, giving it a wide-ranging coloration.
    “Well, Conall’s taste strikes again,” commented Alexia, whose own taste, while not particularly imaginative or sophisticated,
     at least did not tend toward the bizarre.
    Madame Lefoux dimpled. “I did my best, given the carrying capacity.”
    Alexia was intrigued. “May I?”
    The inventor offered her the box.
    Lady Maccon lifted out the monstrosity. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
    “That is one of the reasons I made it so very long. I thought it might serve double as a walking stick. Then you would not
     have to carry it everywhere.”
    Alexia tested it. The height was ideal for just that. “Is it likely to be something I must carry everywhere?”
    “I believe your esteemed husband would prefer it so.”
    Alexia demurred. It leaned heavily toward the ugly end of the parasol spectrum. Many of her favorite day dresses would clash
     most horribly with all that brass and gray, not to mention the decorative elements.
    “Also, of course, it had to be tough enough to serve as a defensive weapon.”
    “A sensible precaution, given my proclivities.” Lady Maccon had destroyed more than one parasol through the application of
     it against someone else’s skull.
    “Would you like to learn its anthroscopy?” Madame Lefoux became gleeful as she made the offer.
    “It has anthroscopy? Is that healthy?”
    “Why, certainly. Do you believe I would design an object so ugly without sufficient cause?”
    Alexia passed her the heavy accessory. “By all means.”
    Madame Lefoux took hold of the handle, allowing Alexia to maintain a grip on the top spire. Upon closer examination, Alexia
     realized the tip had a tiny hydraulic hinge affixed to one side.
    “When you press here”—Madame Lefoux indicated one of the lotus petals on the shaft just below the large handle—“that tip opens
     and emits a poisoned dart equipped with a numbing agent. And if you twist the handle so…”
    Alexia gasped as, just above where she gripped the end, two wickedly sharp spikes flipped out, one of silver and one of wood.
    “I did notice your cravat pins,” Lady Maccon said.
    Madame Lefoux chuckled, touching them delicately with her free hand. “Oh, they are more than simply cravat pins.”
    “Of that I have no doubt. Does the parasol do anything else?”
    Madame Lefoux winked at her. “Ah, that is just the beginning. In this, you understand, Lady Maccon, I am an artist.”
    Alexia licked her bottom lip. “I am certainly beginning to comprehend that fact. And here I thought only your hats were exceptional.”
    The Frenchwoman blushed slightly, the color visible even in the orange light. “Pull this lotus petal here, and so.”
    Every noise in the lab fell silent. All the whirring, clanking, and puffs of steam that had faded into the background as ambient
     sound became suddenly noticeable by way of their absence.
    “What?” Alexia looked about. All was still.
    And then, moments later, the mechanisms started up once more.
    “What happened?” she asked, looking in awe down at the parasol.
    “The nodule