Clavigers were running around covering the ones they could with blankets and pulling others back toward the house.

“Where’s Biffy?” Alexia couldn’t see him anywhere.

Then she realized there was someone else she couldn’t see, and her voice rose in terror to a near shriek. “Where’s Conall? Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Alexia’s commanding tone turned into a chant of keening distress only offset by the need to scream as another contraction hit her. She loved Biffy dearly, but all her worry was now transferred to an even more important love—her husband. Was he injured? Dead?

The two young men carried her, tripping and faltering, in and around the wreckage until, near the great metal bowler hat that was the fallen head of the octomaton, an oasis of calm awaited them.

Professor Lyall, wearing an orange velvet curtain wrapped about him like a toga and still looking remarkably dignified, was marshaling the troops and issuing orders.

Upon seeing the amazing vision of his Alpha female, carried by two young men, in clear distress—both the lady and the young men—wending toward him, he said, “Lady Maccon?”

“Professor. Where is my husband? Where is Biffy?”

“Oh, of course, preternatural touch. Very good idea.”

“Professor!”

“Lady Maccon, are you all right?” Professor Lyall moved closer, inspecting her closely. “Have you started?” He looked at Boots, who raised both eyebrows expressively.

“Where is Conall?” Alexia practically shrieked.

“He’s fine, my lady. Perfectly fine. He took Biffy inside, out of the sun.”

“Inside?”

“Inside the octomaton. With Madame Lefoux. Once she realized, she opened the hatch and let them in.”

Lady Maccon swallowed down her fear, almost sick with relief. “Show me.”

Professor Lyall led them to the octomaton’s head, around one side, and then rat-tat-tatted on it diffidently. A door, previously invisible it was so seamlessly integrated into the octomaton’s armor plating, popped open and Genevieve Lefoux looked out.

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.