So it was that when Lady Maccon called around teatime that summer afternoon, a delighted Mrs. Tunstell welcomed her inside with assurances that while they had indeed adopted a stray poet, that versifier was quite firmly asleep and had been for the better part of three days.

Ivy’s good-humored little face fell. “He drinks, poor man, to forget the pain of the embittered universe that subsumes his soul. Or do I mean sublimes his soul? Anyhoo, we’ve had to remove the tea quite forcibly from his grasp on more than one occasion. Barley water, says Tunny, is the only thing one should take when suffering such ailments of the emotional humors.”

“Oh, dear,” commiserated Alexia. “I suppose one might recover one’s spirits out of desperation if all one had to drink was barley water.”

“Exactly so!” Ivy nodded over her husband’s evident sagacity on the application of revolting beverages to despondent poets. She motioned her friend into her front parlor, a diminutive room that boasted all the elegance of iced Nesselrode pudding.

Lady Maccon deposited her parasol into the small umbrella stand and made her way gingerly toward a wingback chair, careful not to upset any of the decorative objects strewn about. Her visiting dress was of flowing blue paisley with a stiffened quilted skirt. Designed to accommodate her increasing girth, it was much wider—and thus more dangerous to Ivy’s receiving room—than the current trends dictated.

She sat heavily in the chair, sighing at the relief of getting the weight off her poor feet, which seemed to have swollen to near twice their original proportions. “Ivy, my dear, I was wondering if I might prevail upon you for a very great favor.”

“Oh, Alexia, of course. You have only to ask and I shall do whatever.”

Lady Maccon hesitated, wondering exactly how much to reveal. Ivy was a dear little soul, but was she reliable? She decided to buck up and take the plunge. “Ivy, have you ever wondered if there might, just possibly, be something slightly unusual about me?”

“Well, Alexia my dear, I never liked to say, but I have always wondered about your hat preferences. They have struck me as mighty plain.”

Lady Maccon shook her head. The long blue ostrich feather of her not-at-all-plain hat wafted back and forth behind her. “No, not that, I mean . . . Well, dash it, Ivy, there’s nothing for it.”

Mrs. Tunstell gasped in enchanted shock at Lady Maccon’s lowbrow language. “Alexia, you have been fraternizing with werewolves overmuch! Military men can be terribly bad for one’s verbal concatenation.”

Alexia took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I’m preternatural.”

Ivy’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no! Is it catching?”

Alexia blinked at her.

Ivy donned a sympathetic expression. “Is it a terribly painful condition?”

Lady Maccon continued to blink.

Ivy put a hand to her throat. “Is it the baby? Will you both be well? Should I send for barley water?”

Alexia finally found her voice. “No, preternatural. You might know the term, as in soulless? Or curse-breaker. I have no soul. None at all. As a matter of fact, I can cancel it out in supernatural creatures given half a chance.”