The Beta stood and stretched, looking down at Biffy. The rest was doing him good.

He looked if not healthier, at least less emaciated. His hair was matted with muck from the Thames, and his face was streaked with dirt and tears, but he stil managed an air of dandified gentility. Lyal respected that in a man. Lord Akeldama had done his work well .

Lyal respected that, too.

Without further ado, he swung the blanket-wrapped Biffy up into his arms and headed out into the busy London streets.

Floote was stil out when Alexia pul ed her panting horses to a stop at the door of the temple. Madame Lefoux was immediately whisked away to the infirmary, which left Alexia to make her way alone through the luxurious building. And, because she was Alexia, she made her way to the calm sanity of the library. Only in a library did she feel completely capable of col ecting her finer feelings and recuperating from such a wearying day. It was also the only room she could remember how to get to.

In a desperate bid to cope with the violence of the attack, her discovery of Channing’s presence in Italy, and her own unanticipated affection for the infant-inconvenience, Alexia extracted some of Ivy’s precious tea. Quite resourceful y, she felt, she managed to boil water over the hearth fire using an empty metal snuffbox. She had to do without milk, but it was a smal price to pay under the circumstances. She had no idea if the preceptor had yet returned, or even if he had survived, for as usual, no one spoke to her. With nothing else to do for the moment, Alexia sat in the library and sipped.

It was foolish of her not to realize that the al -pervading silence was not one of prayer but one of impending disaster. Her first warning came in the form of a volatile four-legged duster that hurtled into the library, breaking the calm quiet with a bout of such crazed yipping that a lesser dog would have become il at the effort.

“Poche? What are you doing here, you vile animal?” Alexia fiddled with her snuffbox of tea.

Apparently, Poche’s current and sole desire in life was to launch a vicious attack on Alexia’s chair leg, which he got his little teeth around and was gnawing on passionately.

Alexia contemplated whether she should attempt to shake him off, kick him with her foot, or simply disregard him entirely.

“Good evening, Female Specimen.”

“Why, Mr. German Specimen, what an unexpected surprise. I thought you had been excommunicated. They let you back into Italy?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf walked into the room, stroking his chin with the air of one who has suddenly acquired the upper hand and was reveling in the state of affairs. “I found myself in the possession of some, shal we cal it, negotiating power, ya?”

“Ya?” Alexia was irritated enough to mimic him.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf came to stand near her, looking down. Which must be a particularly unusual experience for him given his diminutive stature, Alexia thought nastily.

“The Templars wil , with the information I provided, convince His Holiness Pope Blessed Pius IX to repeal my excommunication and accept me back into the fold.”

“Wil they, indeed? I had no notion they possessed such influence.”

“They possess many things, Female Specimen, many things.”

“Wel ”—Alexia was suddenly quite nervous—“felicitations on your reintegration.”

“I have my laboratory back,” he continued proudly.

“Good, perhaps you can figure out how—”

The preceptor came into the library. Alexia stopped midsentence and looked him over, noticing bandages about his limbs and scrapes across his face. He was clearly a little worse for his encounter with the vampire and subsequent fal from the carriage.

“Ah, how are you feeling, Mr. Templar?”

Not bothering to answer, the preceptor came over, crossed his arms, and looked down at her as well . Eventually he spoke to her as though she were a recalcitrant child. “I am confused, My Soul ess One.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes. Why is it you chose not to inform us of your delicate condition? We would have taken far greater care of your person had we known of it.”

Oh, mercy me. Alexia shifted, wary. She put down the snuffbox and grabbed her parasol. “Would you, indeed? Do you imply that you would not have, for example, used me as bait in a vampire trap?”

The preceptor ignored her barb. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf informs us that not only are you with child, but that the child’s father is a werewolf. Is this—”

Alexia held up a commanding hand. “Do not even begin that line of questioning with me. My husband is a werewolf, and despite any and al accusations to the contrary, he is undoubtedly the father. I wil neither argue nor tolerate any insinuations against my integrity. I may be soul ess, gentlemen, but I assure you I am faithful. Even Conal , blast him, has final y admitted that.”

The Templar snapped his mouth shut and nodded. She wasn’t convinced that he believed her, but frankly she didn’t care.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf rubbed his hands together. “Indeed, in conjunction with your insistence, I have devised a new theory as to the nature of soul that I believe not only supports but indeed relies upon your avowal that the child has a supernatural father.”

“Are you saying the only way I could stil be pregnant is if I were tel ing the truth?”

Alexia felt her breath quicken in anticipation. Vindication at last!

“Wel , ya, Female Specimen, precisely.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

The little German seemed a tad taken aback by her calm acceptance. He did not notice how one of Alexia’s hands was now delicately fiddling with the handle of her parasol. She was also watching the Templar almost as closely as she watched him.

“You are not angry with me for the tel ing to the Templars of your little secret?”

Alexia was, but she pretended to be blasé. “Wel , it was al over the London papers. I suppose they would have found out eventually. Stil , you are a bit of a repulsive weasel, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps. But if this theory is correct, I wil also be a most famous weasel.”

The Templar had taken a fascinated interest in Alexia’s snuffbox ful of tea and was examining it. Alexia gave him a narrow look, daring him to comment on her idiosyncratic solution to the fact that none of the temple staff would respond to any of her requests. He said nothing.

“Very well , tel me of this theory of yours. And would you mind, terribly, removing your dog from my chair?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf swooped down and scooped up his energetic little animal. The creature immediately relaxed into a floppy, partly comatose state in his master’s arms.

Draping the dog over one arm as a footman would a dishtowel, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf proceeded to use the beastie as a teaching tool for his explanation.

“Let us assume that there are certain particles in the human body that bond to ambient aether.” He prodded at the dog with one finger unhelpful y. “I shal cal these particles ‘pneuma.’ ” He raised his poking finger into the air dramatical y. “Supernaturals have broken this bond, losing most of their pneuma. They become immortal by reconfiguring what trace amounts of pneuma they have left into a flexible bond with ambient aetheric particles.”

“You are saying that the soul is not a measurable substance after al , but is in fact the type and rigidity of this bond?” Alexia was intrigued despite herself, and she switched the bulk of her attention to the German.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf shook Poche at Alexia in his enthusiasm. “Ya! It is a bril iant theory, ya? It explains why we had no luck over the years measuring soul. There is nothing to measure—there is instead only type and strength of bond.” He swooped the dog about the room as though flying. “You, Female Specimen, as a preternatural, are born with the pneuma but no bonded aether at al , thus you are always sucking the aetheric particles out of the air. What you do when you touch the supernatural creature is break their flexible bond and suck al the aether out of them, turning them mortal.” He made a grasping motion with his hand over the dog’s head, as though scooping out the little beast’s brains.

“So, when the vampires cal ed me a soul-sucker, they were not so far from the truth of it. But how does this explain the child?” Alexia attempted to refocus the little man on the most important part of his explanation.

“Wel , the problem with two preternaturals is that they are both trying to suck aetheric particles at the same time. Thus they cannot share the same air space. But”—and in a triumphant crescendo, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf held his little white dog over his head in victory—“if the other parent is a supernatural, the child can inherit the flexible bond, or as we might think of it, a bit of the leftover excess soul.”

Poche gave a funny little howl as though to punctuate his owner’s final statement.

Realizing he was waving about his pet in a most indiscriminate manner, the German put his dog back down on the floor. Immediately, Poche began barking and bouncing about, eventually deciding to launch a ful -blown attack on a smal golden throw pil ow that was now not long for this world.

Alexia hated to admit it, but Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s theory was a sound one. It explained many things, not the least of which was why such children as the infant-inconvenience might be so very rare. Firstly, they required a supernatural to preternatural pairing, and the two species had hunted each other for most of recorded history.

Secondly, they required either a female soul ess, a female vampire, or a female werewolf. Preternaturals were rarely al owed near hive queens, and female werewolves were almost as rare as female preternaturals. There simply wouldn’t have been much of an opportunity for interbreeding.

“So, the question is, what kind of child am I going to produce, given Conal ’s, uh, flexible bond?” Said in conjunction with her husband’s name, and considering his carnal preferences, Alexia found the terminology salacious. She cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I mean to say, wil it be born preternatural or supernatural?”

“Ah, ya, well , difficult to predict. But I am thinking, perhaps, in my theory, that is to say, neither. The child, it could be simply normal. Perhaps possessing less soul than most.”

“But I wil not lose it as you had previously thought?”

“No, no, you wil not. If you are sensible with your own well -being.”

Alexia smiled. True, she was stil not quite settled into the idea of being a mother, but she and the infant-inconvenience did seem to be arriving at some kind of arrangement.

“Why, that is superb news! I must go tel Genevieve immediately.” She stood, with every intention of dashing off to the infirmary, regardless of how this might upset any Templars she barreled into along the way.

The preceptor stood up from his crouch, where he had been trying, unsuccessful y, to wrestle the pil ow away from Poche, and spoke. Alexia had almost forgotten his presence. “I am afraid that wil not be possible, My Soul ess One.”

“Why not?”

“The French female was treated for her injuries and released into the care of the Florentine Hospital ers.”

“Were her injuries that serious?” Alexia felt a sudden pang of guilt. Had she been enjoying snuffbox-scented tea and good news while her friend lay dying?

“Oh, no, quite superficial. We simply found we could no longer offer her our hospitality. Mr. Floote as well was not invited to return and stay with us.”

Alexia felt her heart sink low into her chest, where it commenced a particular variety of rapid thumping. The sudden reversal from what, seconds before, might have been elation caused her to come over almost dizzy. She breathed in sharply through her nose.

Almost without thought, she opened her parasol, prepared to use even the sulfuric acid, undoubtedly the vilest of its armaments, if need be. Madame Lefoux had managed to find some replacement fluids. But before she had a chance to flip it around to the appropriate position, the library door opened.

Summoned by some unseen signal, a ridiculously large number of Templars clattered into the room. And they were clattering, for they were ful y armored like the knights of the crusades they had been hundreds of years ago—heads covered in helms and bodies in silver-washed chain mail and plate under the obligatory nightgowns. Each had on a pair of heavy leather gloves, no doubt so they could touch Alexia without fear for their heavenly souls. Poche went absolutely crazy, barking at the top of his lungs and gyrating about the room in a succession of crazed leaps. Alexia thought it the most intel igent thing the creature had done in al its useless little life. The Templars, showing great reserves of dignity, entirely ignored him.

Alexia’s parasol was good, but it wasn’t good enough to take out that many people al at once. She closed it with a snap. “Why, Mr. Templar,” she said to the preceptor, “I am honored. Al this for me? So very thoughtful. You real y shouldn’t have.”