by Beth Ciotta
He was being sarcastic, trying to provoke her, but he was also quite close to the mark.
Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear. “Can you read my thoughts?’
“I cannot,” she answered honestly, edging away and cursing the rapid pace of her pulse.
“That is good. This moment they would not be to your liking. Or perhaps they would,” he added with a wicked smile.
As chilled as she was, Willie heated from head to toe. “You are insufferable, Darcy. Depraved and . . . irreverent,” she said, indicating their holy surroundings.
“And you, Canary, are a dichotomy. Dodgy and heartless.”
“Heartless?”
Someone shushed them.
Slouching lower in her seat, Willie glared at Simon. “And that harsh assessment is based on what?” Did he think Freaks were without feelings? Without a soul? Many Vics did.
He started to say something, then reconsidered. “Why are we here?”
“I am here to honor my father.”
“Did he pass?”
“Not in body, no. But his mind . . .” She shook her head. “His mind wanders.”
“And this disgusts you?” Simon asked, sounding irritated.
“Of course not,” she snapped in a hushed voice. “Why would you say that?”
“‘Ashford, a distant cousin of the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored to be obsessed with making his own mark on the world,’” he recited from the Informer. “‘Fortunately for the realm and unfortunately for his family, Ashford’s inventions paled to that of Darcy, earning him ridicule instead of respect, wealth, or fame.’”
Simon glared down at her. “You intimated that my father was a failure and featherbrain when he was indeed quite brilliant, just unfocused. His mind wandered as well. On to the next great idea before perfecting the last. Clearly such folly must frustrate or disgust you; otherwise why would you sneer at a good man’s efforts?”
She had not sneered. Dawson had sneered, revising her initial words in order to sell more newspapers. Yet, defending herself was not an option. She could not afford to expose herself by expressing regret over that article. She could not afford any intimacy whatsoever. She braced her spine and sniffed. “I do what I must to survive,” she said in a tight voice. “For instance, I am here, with you, on this suspect expedition because I was given no choice. Clearly you find my company offensive. Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”
He blinked.
Willie buttoned her coat. “My time here is ruined.” Staying in character, she regarded Simon with irritation whilst adjusting her scarves in anticipation of the cold. “You, sir, are a selfish . . . knob. You squandered the power of the Darcy name, focusing on your own glory, much like your cousin. I cannot believe I have been saddled with touting the adventure of a Flatliner.” With that, she stood and left the cathedral. It was not the confrontation she craved, but it was one of importance. The Simon Darcy she had known and loved had evolved into a self-absorbed man. She’d kept tabs on him over the years. How could she not? He was a Darcy and, by virtue of his heritage, influential in global matters . . . or at least he could be. On numerous occasions she’d convinced herself that her obsessive interest in Simon was social and political, and not of the amorous nature. She did not appreciate the rekindling of her old affections. She did not welcome the physical attraction or the feminine quirks he inspired.
She had spent far too long this morning lingering in a bath. Trying to scrub the ever-present ink from her fingers, soaping the grime and scents of the city and the pressroom from her person. She’d fussed with her hair in an effort to soften the boyish style. All because, for the first time in years, she’d longed to be pretty. She’d realized her folly whilst almost forgetting to bind her breasts. She’d been set to sabotage her male cover in order to look more appealing, more feminine.
For Simon.
Fortunately, the insanity had quickly passed and she’d gone out of her way to alter her appearance more than ever. In doing so, she had applied too much of the tanning agent. Now her face had an orange tint and the creases of her fingers and palms were stained. Hence she’d brushed her hair forward and kept her hands busy, balled, or gloved. Never had the ruse been so exhausting. Although who was she fooling? Certainly not Simon. At the very least he knew she was a woman.
Just then he appeared at her side and she realized she’d faltered at a lamppost. As if she didn’t know which way to turn or where to go. Indeed, she’d been lost in her thoughts.
“Here.” He offered her a pair of gloves. An exquisite set of dark blue wool gloves that looked as if they had never been worn.
“Is this where you slap me and challenge me to a duel for attacking your integrity?” she asked with a raised brow.
“Don’t be absurd. Last night I noticed that your gloves are quite worn, and I happened to have an extra pair. Actually, Fletcher packed three spare pair in addition to far too many other clothes. I do believe he equates Scotland with the North Pole.”
“You employ domestics?” she asked, still staring at the gloves. Given his more-than-comfortable lodgings, she should not have been surprised that his income allowed him the luxury. Still, it only accentuated the social and financial gap between them.
“One. Fletcher acts in the capacity of valet and cook, although I do not think of him as a domestic so much as a pesky caretaker. Of my home. Of me. Take the damned gloves, Canary.”
She knew not what to think of the gesture of goodwill, but she had been raised not to snub a kindness. “If you’re sure you won’t need them.”
“I’m sure.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” She quickly traded her own gloves for his, her eyes widening upon realizing they were lined with . . . cashmere? They must have cost a pretty pence. “I’ll return them when—”
“Consider the gloves a gift. Albeit an ill-fitting one,” he said.
“I do not mind that they are too large.”
“I suspect not,” he said, eyeing her baggy, overly long duster. “By the way. I am not a Flatliner. A Flatliner is self-serving and cares nothing about the fate of mankind. Project Monorail was conceived as a way of relieving street and underground congestion as well as pollution. Cost-efficient, fuel-efficient. Utilizing magnets to propel the vehicle forward and . . .” He swiped off his derby, jammed his fingers though his hair. “It doesn’t matter.”
Dawson had prodded Willie to get the scoop on Project Monorail, and here Simon was dishing. “Magnets? How would that work exactly?”
“It’s complicated.” Frowning, Simon checked his pocket watch. “Filmore’s shift starts at ten o’clock?”
“I do not know precisely, but that’s when the pub opens and I know he works during the day. If he starts later, we can at least find out when, and perhaps I can glean information about his lodgings.”
“You mean we.”
Willie cursed the bitter and wistful ache in her gut. There was no we. Not in the sense that she had once dreamed.
“Thirty minutes to kill.” Simon tugged on his derby and looked up and down High Street. “I received an earful of ghost tales last night, and several originated near or along the Royal Mile—all underground. Mary King’s Close. South Bridge Vaults.”
“I know them both.”
“I’d like to get my bearings.” Without warning, he grasped Willie’s elbow, inciting a dizzy surge of wanton desire. How preposterous! It was not as if he’d grasped her hand. Nor were they skin to skin in any manner. Several layers of her clothing separated his gloved hand from her flesh and yet . . . she burned.
Clearing her throat, Willie pointed left. “Mary King’s is just ahead, but it’s been closed to the public for years. In 1645 the plague struck hard and the city bricked up the close and the victims. Grisly business. Hence the ghost tales.”
“Grisly business indeed. Anyone with a lick of sense would avoid a place once cursed with the plague. Hence the perfect hiding space.”
“Aye, but as I
said, it is sealed. It would take magic for the Houdinians to get inside.”
“Or,” Simon said, rattling her further as he urged her toward the famous haunt, “someone with the imagination and twentieth-century expertise to engineer a secret entrance.”
CHAPTER 8
What horrible thing had she done in life to deserve such torture?
For the hundredth time in half an hour, Willie dug deep for calm.
Searching for secret entrances alongside Simon had proved exhilarating and infuriating. For the past three days he’d battered her senses, inciting opposing emotions that left her drained. Confusion, frustration, amusement, desire. Vexing, that. Willie was quite certain that the man took advantage of every opportunity to discombobulate her.
Standing too close. Staring too long.
The mere brush of his arm weakened her knees, yet she did not swoon. Not only would giving in to the attraction endanger her family and career, but most assuredly it would damn her heart. Even if they didn’t have a past history, no good could come of a Vic and Freak union. Something her parents had preached. Something she’d been averse to believing, but a fact she had long since accepted. The British Empire had outlawed marriage between Vics and Freaks. Just as they’d prohibited Freaks from voting or enrolling in colleges or securing employment in esteemed vocations. Oh, aye. All she had to do was think on that, and outrage obliterated lust.
Simon fell into frustrated silence as they abandoned their search and proceeded to Spirits & Tales. He ached, no, died to progress in his mission. To advance his goal. Willie sensed it with every fiber of her altered being. This moment, winning the Race for Royal Rejuvenation trumped all else in his life. No matter what he professed, she did not believe he pursued the prize solely for his family. Perhaps he intended the fortune for his mother and sister, but he wanted the glory for himself. There was no denying an aggrandizing “vibe,” as her mother would say.
“Did you really think it would be so simple, Darcy?” Willie asked as they walked downhill and against the frosty air. “Few things in life are.”
“You see the worst in everything, Canary,” he said. “Why is that?”
If she broached that subject full on, she would elaborate for eons. Instead she skirted the issue. “Because I do not trust mankind in general.”
“Cynical.”
“Realistic.” Chilled to the bone, Willie stuffed her gloved hands in her coat pockets, seeking additional warmth. Her knuckles knocked against something hard.
Strangelove’s telecommunicator.
The device she would use to betray Simon.
Report to me the moment he’s acquired whatever legendary invention he seeks.
Strangelove’s instructions had been clear. His intent, however, was shrouded in mystery, as was his true identity. What would a devious, seemingly wealthy and ruthless man like Strangelove do with a working clockwork propulsion engine? The detrimental possibilities cramped her already knotted gut.
Spying the painted sign advertising Spirits & Tales, Willie purposely slowed her stride. “If the Briscoe Bus’s engine does, by some wild chance, exist and if we are indeed able to find it, you’ll be turning it over to the Jubilee Science Committee posthaste, aye?”
Simon cut her a glance. “Why would I dally when my intention is to win the race?”
“But the prize won’t be awarded until the week of the jubilee celebration, and that is several months away. In the meantime hundreds of other participants are in pursuit of a lost invention and who knows what marvel they might find?”
“Nothing is more significant than the Peace Rebels’ time-traveling engine,” Simon said, although he did not sound wholly convinced.
“I suppose that depends on who determines the importance. Who has the final say? The science committee? The queen? You know how she feels about anything having to do with time travel. If anything, she’d want to diminish the significance of the infamous engine, not celebrate it.”
Simon stopped in his tracks, as did Willie. “Are you suggesting I’m chasing another doomed dream?”
“I’m wondering if you have alternate grandiose plans for that clockwork propulsion engine. For all I know, Briscoe Darcy shared pertinent information with your father, information passed on to you—a visionary and a gifted engineer. That knowledge, coupled with your intellect and skills, makes you a prime candidate to follow in Briscoe’s footsteps. The next Darcy to build a working time-traveling vehicle, hopping dimensions in search of greater glory.”
His lip quirked. “Such faith in my abilities.”
“So it has crossed your mind.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because you could make the world worse than it already is.”
He studied her hard, causing her to shiver with a chill that had nothing to do with the tundralike weather. “I am intrigued by your cynicism, Canary, but not deterred.” He glanced at the pub. “Are you with me or not?”
Given the circumstances, and unwilling to risk the fate of a potentially dangerous discovery, Willie bolstered her shoulders and prepared to trace a Houdinian. “Leave the talking to me.”
• • •
Simon should have been obsessing on the location of the clockwork propulsion engine or the whereabouts of the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium or the progress of his brother’s audacious mission. Any number of personal and global matters of supreme importance deserved his attention, but this moment he had a spectacular case of tunnel vision. All he saw, all he cared about, was the damnable Clockwork Canary.
She’d given him a dressing-down at breakfast, then at the cathedral, and then seconds before in the street. She judged him. She challenged him. She intrigued the bloody hell out of him. No matter her gender, he’d thought her a heartless, glory-seeking pressman. Yet she worried that he’d utilize the Peace Rebels’ engine to jump dimensions? Worried that he’d somehow damage their already distorted world? And what of the possibility that he’d disappear in a rainbow of light, never to be seen again in his own time, much like the original Time Voyager? Any one of those scenarios would make for a more sensational story, would it not? One would think she’d be anxious for Simon to pull the most outrageous and scandalous stunt imaginable, thus providing her and the Informer with the story of the century!
For the life of him Simon could not determine the beliefs, motivations, and goals of this enterprising woman. Old Worlder? New Worlder? Certainly not a Flatliner. Though she claimed not to trust mankind, she exhibited passion regarding the fate of the world. Did she support advanced technology like Simon’s fuel-efficient monorail, or like Queen Victoria and other blinkered conservatives, did she shun anachronistic marvels?
Crossing the threshold, Simon battled those troubling musings and focused on their present task. He removed his derby and pocketed his gloves whilst the Canary pulled off her cap and glanced about the tavern. He knew without asking that she was assessing the eerie ambience much as he had the night before. Mostly Spirits & Tales resembled any common pub. Cramped confines, crowded seating, dark-paneled walls and floors. An enormous bar overwhelmed the small room and a mirrored backbar displayed shelves of various liquor bottles and filmy glasses.
Unlike most pubs, it did not possess a warm and cheery atmosphere. The dim lighting cast the room in a sickly shade of green instead of a warm golden glow. The paintings on the walls depicted scary, even downright ghastly scenes, and the floorboards creaked with every step. The only difference between last night and now was the quiet. Two, not twenty, people sat at the bar and there was plenty of seating elsewhere. Simon did not recognize the broad-shouldered, older man behind the bar, but it had to be Filmore, aka Flash. He sensed it in Willie’s demeanor. Yet instead of sitting at the bar, she moved toward a table near the raging hearth.
“It will take more than a hot cup of tea to relieve the chill I sustained whilst poking around Mary King’s Close,” she said in a grumpy tone. “I could use a whiskey, although I suppose you’ve yet to recover from l
ast night’s bender.”
“Your hostility wears thin, Canary.”
“As does your impropriety.”
He glanced to where she looked and realized he was holding the chair out, waiting for her to sit first—a gentlemanly consideration for a woman. Except she pretended to be a man. Still. His patience on the matter was spent. “Listen, Willie, I—”
“Stay here,” she said, barking the order much as she had back at Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Of all the bleeding cheek, Simon thought as she strode to the bar in her gangly, boyish manner. Fine. Let her buy the drinks. Let her have first crack at the Houdinian. He wanted to make haste with this expedition, and if the Canary could advance their efforts with her extraordinary interviewing skills, Simon would gladly take advantage.
Restless, he eased down in a rickety chair and pretended interest in a menu whilst surreptitiously watching the scene unfold.
The Canary nodded in greeting to the other two patrons, then climbed onto a barstool and motioned to the barkeep. The physically fit, silver-haired man appeared between midfifty and sixty years of age, the average age of most living Mods. Other than that, Simon had no way of knowing if the man was indeed Jefferson Filmore. Mods looked like any other Vic. They were wholly normal and human, just from another time. Even so, Simon suspected the man had introduced himself as Jim Flash, since Willie engaged him in animated conversation whilst the man poured two whiskies.
The Canary checked her time cuff as she pulled cash from her ratty wallet. There was something about her posture, her expression. Intense. No, attentive. Focused. As if whatever Filmore was saying was of enormous and impressive interest. Was that her trick? Encouraging someone to talk freely by intimating that they were unusually fascinating?
The exchange of payment was quick, and Simon watched as the two shook hands in a friendly farewell gesture. He thought he saw the Canary wince as Filmore pulled back. She checked her time cuff, then a pocket watch. She jammed her hand through her hair, looking somewhat rattled, then downed one of the whiskies.
