It was in thinking about Genevieve’s love life (a thing, Alexia must admit, she tried desperately not to do, as it was so preposterously captivating) that Alexia put everything together. Not fast enough, of course, because the wails were getting louder, and nearer. Even a ghost such as Formerly Lefoux, with such strength of character and mental fitness, could not resist her own demise when it was fated.

Alexia asked, “Is there something wrong with Genevieve?”

“Yes.” It was said on a hiss. The ghost was shaking, shivering in the air before her, as though riding atop an ill-balanced steam engine.

“That machine, the one she was building, it wasn’t a government commission, was it?”

“No.” The ghost began spinning as she vibrated. The tendrils were back, drifting away, floating into the air—puffs of selfhood carried away. Her feet were almost entirely disintegrated. While Alexia watched, one of Formerly Lefoux’s hands detached and began drifting toward her.

Lady Maccon tried to dodge the hand, but it followed her. “It’s the kind of contraption that could break into a house, isn’t it? Or a palace?”

“Yes. So unlike her, to build something brutish. But sometimes we women get desperate.” The screaming was getting louder. “Right question, soulless. You aren’t asking me the right question. And we are almost out of time.” Her other hand detached and wafted toward Alexia. “Soulless? What are you? Why are you here? Where is my niece?”

“It was you who activated the ghost communication network, wasn’t it? Did you send me the message, Formerly Lefoux? The one about killing the queen?”

“Yessss,” hissed the ghost.

“But why would Genevieve want to kill the—”

Alexia was cut off midquestion as Formerly Lefoux burst apart, like a rotten tomato thrown against a tree. The ghost exploded noiselessly. Parts of her drifted off in all directions at once, a spread of white mist wafting all around and through the machinery of the contrivance chamber. Then, showily, all those bits began drifting in Alexia’s direction—eyes, eyebrows, hair, a limb or two.

Alexia couldn’t help herself; she let out a scream of shock. There was no going back now. Formerly Beatrice Lefoux had gone to full poltergeist. It was time for Lady Maccon to fulfill her duty to queen and country and perform the required exorcism.

She approached the barrel of pickled onions. It lay on its side, and it was a very big barrel. She checked around the back where multiple coils and tubes were coming out, hooked into some interesting-looking lidded metal buckets. Either Madame Lefoux was particularly interested in the quality of her pickled onions or . . .

Alexia knew well her friend’s style and design aesthetic, so she looked for any small protrusion or unusual sculptural addition to the barrel, something that might be pressed or pulled. On the end of the barrel facing the wall, she found a small brass octopus. She pushed against it. With a faint clunking noise, the wood of the pickle barrel slid away, like that of a rolltop desk, revealing that there were, unsurprisingly, no onions inside. Instead it housed a coffin-sized fish tank filled with a bubbling yellow liquid and the preserved body of Beatrice Lefoux.