Alexia thought perhaps her friend’s intense focus on work was a necessary distraction from her aunt’s terminal condition. “Goodness me, quite a fearsome thing, is it not? How do you intend to get it out of the chamber, Genevieve? It will never fit through that passageway of yours.”

“Oh, it’s only loosely assembled. I shall take it out in pieces. I have an arrangement with the Pantechnicon to utilize a warehouse for the final stage of construction.” The Frenchwoman stood, stretched, and turned to face Lady Maccon full-on for the first time. She scrubbed her grease-covered hands with a rag and then came over to greet her guest properly. A soft kiss was pressed lovingly against Alexia’s cheek, and Alexia was reminded of her friend’s consistently solicitous care in the past.

“Are you certain there is nothing you wish to talk about? I assure you I am the soul of discretion; it should go no further. Is there nothing I can do to help?”

“Oh, my dearest lady, I wish there were.” Madame Lefoux moved away, elegant shoulders hunched.

Alexia wondered if there might not be some other component to her friend’s unhappiness. “Has Quesnel been asking about his real mother again?”

Genevieve and she had discussed such matters in the past. Angelique’s violent death was deemed too much for an impressionable young boy. As was the former maid’s identity as his biological mother.

Madame Lefoux’s soft chin firmed. “I am his real mother.”

Lady Maccon understood such defensiveness. “It must be hard, though, not telling him about Angelique.”

Genevieve dimpled wanly. “Oh, Quesnel knows.”

“Oh, oh, dear. How did he . . . ?”

“I should prefer not to talk about it just now.” The inventor’s face, always tricky to read, shut down completely, her dimples vanishing as surely as poodles after a water rat.

Alexia, saddened by such icy reticence, nevertheless respected her friend’s wishes. “I actually have a matter of business to consult you on. I recently learned something of your aunt’s past activities. She undertook the manufacture of special automated teapots, I understand, very special ones. Nickel plated?”

“Oh, yes? When was this?”

“Twenty years ago.”

“Well, I should hardly remember that myself, I’m afraid. You may be correct, of course. We can attempt to converse with my aunt on the subject or look through her records. I warn you, she is difficult.” She switched to her perfect musical French. “Aunt Beatrice?”

A ghostly body shimmered out of a wall nearby. The specter was looking worse than last time, her form barely recognizable as human, misty with lack of cohesion. “Do I hear my name? Do I hear bells? Silver bells!”

“She has gone to poltergeist?” Alexia’s voice was soft in sympathy.

“Unfortunately, almost entirely. She has some lucid moments. So not yet completely lost to me. Go ahead, try.” Genevieve’s voice was drawn with unhappiness.

“Pardon me, Formerly Lefoux, but do you recall a special order for a teapot, twenty years ago. Nickel plated?” Alexia relayed some of the other details.