by Beth Ciotta
“Back up.” Simon angled his head. “You read Filmore’s mind?”
She shook her head. “Traced his memories. Went back in time and . . .” She furrowed her brow. “I have only explained this to a couple of people, and never to a Vic.”
He smiled. “Happy to be your first.”
She smiled back but averted her gaze, studying the toes of her pretty, bare feet. “In order for me to time-trace, there must be some sort of physical contact and I must be focused. It helps if I prompt the transmitter—the person who’ll be sharing his memories—with a subject or event that will trigger memories of the experience that is of interest to me.”
Simon recalled the way she’d shaken hands with Thimblethumper and the grip she’d had on Filmore’s arm. He remembered her intense focus. “Regarding your work with the London Informer, I assume this is how you obtain such in-depth information on the people you interview.”
“No doubt you think it is an invasion of privacy, but I view it as a means of survival. And I assure you I have never publicly reported anything I learned via a memory unless the transmitter willingly, verbally offered the information.”
“After you prompted them, asking a question or swinging the conversation toward something you witnessed in the memory.” In other words, not information granted entirely of the transmitter’s accord. “Not that I’m judging,” Simon said. “Just assessing the whole picture.”
She gave a small shrug. “That is one way to look at it.”
“So you mentioned Edinburgh or the Houdinian, connected physically with Thimblethumper, then focused and traced his memory.” Simon pressed on. “How does that work? What is it like?”
“It’s like . . . being an invisible voyeur. I dwell in the shadows, in the recesses, of the memory and simply watch it play out. I see everything, hear everything, as if I were there, living the moment, only I’m not. I’m just . . . visiting. I never stay long and I never interact. Except . . .” She shifted, frowned. “When I traced Filmore’s memory and saw my mother, I was caught off guard. They were arguing about the clockwork propulsion engine. About where to hide it.” She looked over and held Simon’s gaze. “This made no sense to me. From the time I can first remember, any tale my mother shared with our family regarding her arrival to this century, she swore the Peace Rebels destroyed the Briscoe Bus. She described the explosion in great detail. The destruction of the exterior and interior portions of the vehicle, including the engine. Why would she lie to us?”
Simon registered the betrayal in Willie’s mesmerizing eyes, knowing he was about to intensify her confusion and possibly her pain. “The list I showed Thimblethumper. There were three names.” He smoothed a thumb over her knuckles. “One of them was Mickey Goodenough.”
She blinked.
“You never told me your mother’s first name,” he went on, “but I knew your father’s was Michael. It occurred that his nickname might be Mickey. But then Thimblethumper declared that Houdinian dead, and you said your father lives.”
“My mother’s name was Michelle,” Willie said, looking impossibly pale. “In Filmore’s memories, he called her Mickey. All those years . . . I thought . . .” She shook her head. “In the twentieth century, she had been a security specialist for a British firm and before that NASA.”
“National Aeronautics and Space Administration. An American venture,” Simon said. “I read about it in the Book of Mods. Or what little there was pertaining to the space race.” Indeed, his father and sister, both avid fans of aviation, had always mourned the fact that there had not been more information regarding NASA nor the competing space program in Russia. To them it was all so fantastical and inspiring.
“In this century, she claimed she was doing vital, top secret work pertaining to world security,” Willie continued. “Wesley and I assumed she worked for an elite agency that policed the development of advanced weaponry or transportation. We even fantasized that she was working undercover for Her Majesty’s Mechanics.” She barked a humorless laugh. “How naive we were. How wretchedly duped.”
“Not really,” Simon pointed out, steering clear of the Mechanics and defending Michelle—Mickey—Goodenough, if only to make Willie feel better. “If, as a Houdinian, she’d been charged to keep the clockwork propulsion engine well hidden in order to ensure it didn’t fall into unscrupulous hands, then her job did indeed pertain to world security.”
Willie smirked. “Yes, but what if their motives were not so pure? A few days ago you suggested that perhaps the PRs had decided to steal away and sequester the engine on the chance that, at some point, Mods wished to rejoin and return home to their own time. If that was the objective, then her job was not only selfish but based on cowardice. If you travel back in time with the express intent of altering the future,” she said, her face growing red and her voice loud. “If a portion of your team defects and shares technological knowledge in order to build a fortune. If you muck things up so badly that you trigger a transcontinental war. Then you should have the gumption to stick around and monitor your mess!”
Although he did not want Willie to overtax herself, he did not want to stifle her either. From everything she’d said over the last day, he assumed she did not confide in too many people, if any. So, not only did she conceal her gender and race, but she denied herself friendship and free expression? Simon could not imagine. True, he was a diplomat whilst dealing with people and matters affecting his work. But amongst friends, and certainly with his family, he expressed himself often and loudly on a good many subjects. He could not conceive of stifling his thoughts and opinions on a daily, hourly basis. How extraordinarily tiresome.
“How is it you did not learn about your mother’s role as a Houdinian via her memories?” Simon asked. “I assume as mother and daughter there must have been an abundance of physical contact.”
“There was a goodly amount when I was quite little,” Willie said. “But as a young child I did not fully recognize or understand my gift. One thing that Freaks have in common aside from our kaleidoscope eyes and unique blood type, whatever our given supernatural gift, it strengthens and intensifies with age. When I realized my ability to peek into people’s memories and mentioned as such to my mother . . . henceforth she kept a modicum of distance. Caresses and hugs were saved for Wesley. Logically, I presumed her intent was to protect her top secret assignment. Regardless, to be shunned by one’s own mother . . .” She shook her head, and pulled her hand from Simon’s grasp. “I detest the bitter tone of my voice. I have no patience for self-pity. Life is what you make it and I have made a good life, for a Freak.”
She met his gaze and torched him with a fiery conviction. “I do not wish to be rescued, but I would appreciate your assistance in preserving the career that enables me to care for my father and surreptitiously and peacefully advance the cause of my race.”
Simon was not keen on her choice of words. Nor her subtle refusal to marry him. But he would not argue the point now.
Later. When she’d more fully recovered. At that time he would not take no for an answer. “The primary objective, then, is to locate the Briscoe Bus’s engine.” He lifted a challenging brow. “Are we in accord, Canary?”
She narrowed her eyes. Obviously she did not wholly trust him. Smart. But then he did not wholly trust her. “Aye,” she said.
“I have no clue as to where the Houdinian might have taken the engine.”
“Nor do I,” Willie said, then smiled. “But I do know of someone who might have the past knowledge to point us in the right direction.”
CHAPTER 14
Three days came and went. With every sunrise, Willie had deemed herself fit enough to proceed with their expedition. Yet each day she physically faltered.
Until day four.
Upon that day, this day, mind conquered body. No, she did not have full use of her right arm. Far from it. Her shoulder pained her like the devil. Her arm and therefore her hand did not respond as it should. Indeed her hand felt nearly numb. Al
though she could not hide the fumbling of pencils and utensils, hair combs, and such from Simon, she did conceal her intense discomfort. She would conquer this inconvenience or she would, at the least, manage the pain.
Willie shoved the last of her belongings into her valise. She was becoming most proficient with her left hand, although what little writing she’d done in her journal resembled a child’s. No matter, she assured herself, at least it was somewhat legible. Though she tried her best not to entertain the notion, the realist in her warned that she might never recover normal use of her right arm. In which case, she needed to adapt.
Clasping the latch of her valise, she moved to the window and looked down upon High Street. Another blustery snowy day. She did not care. She would relish every biting chill. Aside from a brief daily walk in order to garner fresh air and exercise, Willie had been cooped up in this small rented room for seven days! Simon had done his best to distract and entertain her, ensuring she had at least three daily newspapers. Plenty of fodder for discussion and debate and several word games to occupy her mind. They’d also pored over her BOM, searching for more clues regarding the Houdinians, speculating about the true capabilities of assorted modern marvels, and bemoaning various global atrocities. Part of Willie wished that her mother and the rest of the brilliant and innovative Peace Rebels would have stayed in their own time, working harder to overcome the crises of the twentieth century rather than fleeing what they perceived as a doomed world in order to rewrite history.
Then again, had that been the case, Willie would not have been born. She would not have met Simon. It would seem as if they were indeed destined for togetherness in some form or fashion. Blessedly there’d been no further talk of marriage—a notion that vexed Willie on multiple levels. They had, however, been intimate nightly. Willie had taken her heart out of the equation, fully focusing on the physical pleasures of lovemaking. She was the daughter of a Mod, after all. A generation who had preached, Make love, not war. Indeed, she was fairly open-minded about sex. At least sex with Simon.
She smiled a little, thinking how he continued to be tender and somewhat cautious in deference to her injuries. Spectacular was still on the horizon. Not that there was anything wrong with skilled. A sensuous ache coiled Willie’s stomach as she reflected on just how skilled Simon was.
Gads.
Indeed, the nights and random portions of the days had been spent most pleasurably. Simon had proved a most stimulating constant companion. She would even go so far as to say she enjoyed his company—except for when he scolded her for overtaxing her shoulder or lectured her regarding yo-yo techniques. Two days ago, out of boredom, Willie had snagged the yo-yo from her case. Apparently the Freak doctor had emphasized the importance of gently exercising her damaged muscles. Finessing a yo-yo as it twirled and glided up and down a string attached to her middle finger seemed like an inspired bit of therapy to Willie. Simon agreed. Unfortunately, he was determined to give her lessons when it came to specialty tricks. It’s not that he was an impatient teacher. She was an impatient student. In her heart she knew she had the intellect and talent to learn; what she lacked was strength and flexibility. One impulsive act had quite possibly cost her the full mobility of her right arm for life. Not that she would take back that terrifying moment in the catacombs. Searching her own memories, she was certain Simon would have taken a direct hit between his shoulder blades had she not pushed him aside. He could have been killed or at the very least crippled, his spine o’blasterated.
No, she did not regret her actions. Just her slow and frustrating recovery.
Anxious to be on their way, Willie turned from the window and paced the small room. She checked her time cuff, then her pocket watch. The timepieces concurred. Simon had been gone for four hours, thirty-five minutes, and eleven seconds. He’d promised they would leave for England as soon as he returned from an important errand. He’d been running “errands” for the past three days, each time returning with a few girly purchases. He seemed most earnest in reacquainting Willie with her feminine side, and very much to her surprise, she could not resist the decadent temptation of silk unmentionables and French perfume. Much like their lovemaking, it had seemed a wicked boon whilst locked away from the harsh realities of the maddening world.
That moment, Simon walked through the door and her heart fluttered like an infatuated schoolgirl’s. As always, he was windblown yet impeccably dressed. So dashing. So tempting. She could kiss this man for hours. Annoyed by her shallow thoughts, she tore her gaze from his gorgeous face and noted the large leather bag slung over his shoulder.
“Sorry to be so long,” he said whilst laying his goods gently upon the bed. “Complications. But I do believe I mastered that infernal glitch.”
Willie’s pulse skipped as Simon tugged off his gloves, then flipped the latches of the case.
“What have you purchased now?”
“I didn’t buy it. Well, not as is. I built it.”
What the . . . She’d expected a fur-lined greatcoat or perhaps a flowered or feathered top hat. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined . . . “An arm.” She gaped at the jointed contraption. “You built me an artificial arm?”
“A Thera-Steam-Atic Brace. A steam-powered prosthesis that will enhance your strength and mobility. Temporarily,” he added with an encouraging smile. “Just until your arm is functioning properly. I’ve devised a shoulder guard as well. Armor, if you will. Added protection for your most damaged and sensitive area. The brace and guard attach to this combination waistcoat��cutaway skirt. A garment inspired by my sister, who also favors trousers. Functional and fashionable. At least that was my intention.” He angled his head, frowned. “You hate it.”
The hardware was intricate and fascinating. The garment—feminine but not overly frilly and made to be worn over trousers or a long skirt. What touched her most was the thought behind the gift. “On the contrary, I am most impressed and humbled.” Stunned, she shoved her good hand through her hair. “This is what you’ve been doing for the past few days? Designing and engineering a therapeutic brace?”
“I worked on the sketches and calculations whilst you read or wrote in your journal, mentally cataloged my supplies, then located a tinkerer in New Town who could accommodate my needs. His workshop was top-notch, as were his skills. Mr. Standish proved a most competent assistant and his wife, a talented seamstress. She helped devise the augmented waistcoat. It took a few days, some trial and error, but I was highly motivated.” Simon vibrated with excitement. “Ditch your sack coat. The baggy vest as well.”
Which left her in striped trousers, a flouncy-sleeved blouse . . . and her new silky unmentionables. Exposed, by Willie’s standards. “Whatever inspired this creation?” she asked, entranced by Simon’s infectious energy.
“I’d been thinking about Leo.”
“Who?”
“My sister’s enhanced falcon.” Simon told her a story about how his father had created and fitted an injured bird with an artificial beak and talons whilst he suited Willie up in his own fantastic design. “Then, whilst reading the Book of Mods the other night, I came to that passage on robotics and something clicked.” He secured the last strap and cinched the corseted waistcoat tight. “How does it feel?”
“Foreign. Snug.” She glanced down at the gleaming brass rods, cylinders, and gears. The etched shoulder guard and brocaded black and gold corset. The fitted bodice cinched her waist and provided lift to her small breasts, affording a hint of cleavage. She lifted a suspicious brow. “Surprisingly seductive.”
“Because of the woman wearing it.”
Willie’s heart pounded beneath her customized garment. Partly because of the heat in Simon’s gaze. Mostly because of a deep and crushing fear. “Within the privacy of these walls, I acquiesced to my feminine self, but out there . . . in the real world I am Willie G. The Clockwork Canary. I navigate life with the confidence and ease of a male. I do not . . . I cannot . . .” She swallowed hard, panic stirring in her
blood. “Blast you for twisting me up, Simon Darcy.”
He tucked her shaggy hair behind her ears, framed her face with his hands. “I understand your motivation in terms of concealing your race. But your gender? You ask too much of yourself, Willie. And of me. I have no intention of losing you again. And, by damn, I will not see you struggling with circumstances on your own. I know,” he said, cutting her off when she tried to interject. “You’d manage. I have no doubt. You have managed for a good long time. If anyone is impressed and humbled, it is me. Now please do me the favor of allowing me to assist.”
Poleaxed by his fervid plea, she fairly swooned. Instead, she gestured to the Thera-Steam-Atic Brace. “How does this inspired gadget work?”
His eyes lit up and torched her heart. “Engineering the device was a bit of a challenge, but it is, in fact, quite simple to manipulate.”
Willie listened intently as he walked her through the procedure. A toggle here. A button there. She did as Simon instructed and, upon second try, grasped a pen in her augmented right hand and wrote upon a page most beautifully. “You’re a genius,” she said in honest, unabashed awe.
“I am my father’s son,” he said with a twinge of melancholy. “That is, I inherited his passion for tinkering with inventions. I do not believe I ever told him how much I admired his tenacity.”
Willie swallowed hard, feeling guilty about that wretched article regarding Reginald Darcy. For someone who composed sentences for a living, this moment she struggled with a proper response. “I wager he was aware of your regard.”
“Perhaps. At any rate,” Simon said, shrugging off the dark moment, “I do think Papa would have been particularly impressed and flattered by this invention.”
“Because you were inspired by his modifications for Leo?”
“A remarkable accomplishment.”
“As is this.” Willie manipulated her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace, grasping the whiskey bottle Simon had purchased two nights prior, and steadily pouring them a drink. She could feel the brace supporting yet manipulating her muscles. Her spirits soared, as did her confidence. “Astonishing,” she said. “Truly, Simon.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “To your innovative brilliance.”
