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Oh, Lady Maccon, I am unreservedly in love with her. That black hair, that sweet disposition, those capital hats.

Gail Carriger

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Gail Carriger
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: May 4
Archaeologist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Bolinas
California
Sweet
Hair
Black
Love
Unreservedly
Disposition
Hats
Capital
Lady

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I am entirely capable. Of what, waddling up to someone and ruthlessly bumping into them?
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At such close range, even she could hit a vampire full force in the shoulder, surprising him considerably. He paused in his attack. “Well, my word! You can’t threaten me, you’re pregnant!
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Lord Maccon reflected upon the state of his life wherein he had somehow gained a spouse who could not give a pig's foot for the latest dresses out of Paris but who whined about not owning an aethographic transmitter. Well, at least the two were comparable obsessions so far as expense was concerned.
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She took a moment to lament her lack of parasol. Every time she left the house, she felt keenly the absence of her heretofore ubiquitous accessory.
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So, what do you think, my dear, will it be a girl or a boy?” “It will be a soul-stealer, apparently.” “What!” The earl reared away from his wife and looked down at her suspiciously.
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Really, Channing,” remonstrated Alexia, “did you have to eat the man’s dog? I am convinced you will experience terrible indigestion.
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And I find perfect beauty excessively boring, don't you?
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Highland werewolves had a reputation for doing atrocious and highly unwarranted *things*, like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table.
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Uh, my lord, I am not actually food. You do realize this, yes?
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I'd rather be loyal than right.
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Lyall understood a broken heart, but it could not be allowed to rumple perfectly good shirtwaists.
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Felicity grimaced in agreement. “No, you are perfectly correct. I did not realize how vital the approbation of one’s butler is in allowing for nocturnal autonomy.
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He is clearly bookish. I did not follow a single word of their conversation at dinner last night, not one jot of it. He must be bookish.
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Alexia had spent long hours wondering over that mustache. Werewolves did not grow hair, as they did not age. Where had it come from? Had he always had it? For how many centuries had his poor abused upper lip labored under the burden of such vegetation?
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Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?
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Oh, dear me, no. Then I should be known as that vampire with all the cats.
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...Tunstell was not what one could describe as call subtle. His flaming red hair bobbed up with each pointed and articulated footstep as though he were some cloaked Gothic villain creeping across a stage.
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Lord Maccon looked up. “Grovel, you say?” Lyall did not glance away from the latest vampire report he was perusing. “Grovel, my lord.
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The bowl landed, in glorious perfection, atop the head of Mrs Barnaclegoose, who was not the kind of woman to appreciate the finer points of being crowned by trifle.
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Sophronia was minding her own business and running late to luncheon, as was her custom. She'd let to learn the advantage of punctuality. As she told Sister Mattie the third time she was late to household potions and poisons, nothing interesting happened until after an event commenced.
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