His Clockwork Canary tgvd-2

by Beth Ciotta

  Just then the door to the colorful suite opened and Willie walked in and stole away Simon’s breath. For some reason, he’d expected her to revert to her baggy trousers, but she had purchased a fetching traveling ensemble. An ebony long-sleeved bodice cinched with a leather under-bust corset. A full skirt with tassels rimming its hem stopped just shy of her black ankle boots. Simple yet feminine and accentuated by a whimsical chain looped twice around her waist. It reminded him of a charm bracelet with its multitude of dangling fobs. The only evidence of the former Clockwork Canary was the time cuff upon her wrist and the chain of her pocket watch dangling from a skirt pocket. Her vibrant red hair was tucked behind her ears, exposing her lovely face and slender neck. Instead of a floppy cap, she wore a flattop derby accented with a quirky combination of clockwork, lace, and feathers, and, by jiminy, Simon’s mechanical bird. Charming.

  Noting Simon’s appreciative gaze, she flushed and focused on Phin. “I apologize for rushing away without a proper introduction, Mr. Bourdain. Last night Simon had mentioned we were to meet you promptly at eight and I fear we overslept. Most unsettling, as I am always cognizant of the time. At any rate I had to return a dress and . . . and now I’m rambling, delaying our departure even more. Gads.” She set aside a small basket and offered her left hand in greeting. “Willie G. Or rather Wilhelmina Goodenough.”

  “Darcy,” Simon corrected, moving to her side just as Phin pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He could tell by Willie’s expression that the intimacy had caught her off guard. Masquerading as a man, she’d been accustomed to shaking hands. Simon put his arm around her waist and gave a supportive squeeze.

  “Willie G.,” Phin said, taking a step back and regarding her with interest. “The Clockwork Canary?”

  Her shoulders tensed. “Does that present a problem?”

  Phin cut Simon a glance. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “She’s chronicling the expedition for a serial in the London Informer.”

  “Ah.” The aviator angled his head. “Rumor portrayed the Clockwork Canary as a cocky young lad.”

  “A necessary ruse,” Willie said. “At the time.”

  Phin said nothing, but Simon could hear the man’s wheels turning. “We should get going,” Simon said, then glanced into the basket Willie had set aside. “Are those fresh croissants?”

  “And Danish. I thought warm pastries might make up for our tardiness.” She focused on Phin. “Are you fond of pastries, Mr. Bourdain?”

  “Indeed, Mrs. Darcy. I can provide coffee or tea once we’re aboard the Flying Cloud.”

  Anxious to break the tension and advance their cause, Simon helped Willie into her old oversized coat, then gathered their bags.

  “Have you no reservations about flying with my kind, Mr. Bourdain?” she asked whilst looping scarves around her neck.

  “Why would I be spooked by a journalist?”

  “Simon didn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Oh, hell, Simon thought. Not knowing Phin’s views regarding Freaks, he’d decided to allow the man time to warm to Willie before breaking the news. He watched as she took off her tinted spectacles and established unflinching eye contact with Phin.

  To his credit, the man didn’t react. He simply nabbed the basket of fragrant pastries and held open the door, initiating their exit.

  Willie crossed the threshold. Simon followed and Phin spoke at a volume for Simon’s ears only. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  • • •

  Willie leaned into Simon as they crossed the deck of the Flying Flower. “He does not approve. Of me. Us. I warned you, Simon. And Mr. Bourdain is your friend.”

  “Technically he’s my friend by way of Jules. Those two share a long and complicated past. And it’s not that he disapproves. He’s intrigued. Skeptical, maybe. Doubting my sanity, definitely. Who marries on a whim?”

  “Us apparently.”

  “Twelve years in the making is not a whim. Phin doesn’t know our history. You look beautiful, by the way.”

  She harrumphed. It was rude. But she was in no mood to be seduced. She hated that she’d overslept, that she’d lost track of time in a haze of blissful exhaustion. She hated that she felt so fiercely out of sync. Still connected to her old ways, whilst inspired to strike out in a bold new way. As a woman. As a Freak. As the wife of a Vic. One thing was clear. She could not dredge up an iota of motivation to bind her breasts or to hide her shape. Nor did she wish to alter her complexion or to remind herself incessantly to slouch and to speak in a lowered, gruff pitch. She’d woken up resenting the fact that she’d lived a lie for so long. That she’d suppressed her femininity, that she’d denied her race. She resented having to pretend she was a male Vic simply to work in a profession she excelled at. And she regretted her penchant to operate on the fringes, hiding behind costumes and pen names rather than fighting out in the open for her cause. She preached equality, yet she did not present herself as an equal.

  A troubling realization.

  Indeed, the dawn had introduced a maelstrom of conflict. It was as if thwarting the law and marrying Simon had jarred every rebellious bone in her body. And yet she felt . . . unfocused. Restless. She’d known how to contribute to the cause whilst incognito, but could she truly make a positive difference regarding intolerance and equality operating as a female Freak? Aye, she’d been accepted on Skytown, but the real world would judge her most harshly, limiting her freedom and rights. Making it harder to achieve her goals. This morning, in the light of day, with reality looming, she questioned her brave new agenda. At the same time she would not, could not, revert to living a lie.

  “At the risk of appearing vapid,” Simon said as they crossed the gangway to the Love Bug, “what happened between last night and this morning? Why are you angry with me?”

  She stopped cold. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with the world.”

  “Then let’s change the world.”

  “You say that as if we can do so with the snap of our fingers.”

  “Change is rarely easy. Historically you know this to be true.” Simon moved in and grasped her hands. “I don’t believe Phin rattled you so. You’re stronger than that. What troubles you truly?”

  She glanced around Skytown, looking everywhere but at Simon. What troubled her? How about everything? So much on her mind. Too much to share. She’d been a lone wolf for so long. Unburdening herself, speaking her opinions and thoughts, her hopes and fears, did not come easily. Flustered, she homed in on one concern. One she could manage. “Do you remember the moment I time-traced Filmore?”

  “The Houdinian?” He nodded, frowned. “Like it was yesterday.”

  “I faltered in his memories. I stayed too long. Interfered. I’ve never done that before. There was a moment when I felt . . . lost. As if I’d never find my way out.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was terrifying. Exhausting. My father . . . I need to trace his memories in order to search for clues regarding the Houdinians and any knowledge of their process regarding the protection of the clockwork propulsion engine, but Daddy is not mentally stable. What if . . . what if I get lost and can’t come back?”

  “Then don’t go. Ask him your questions straight out.”

  “I can try that, but I’m afraid he’ll be evasive. He’s loyal to my mother and if she swore him to certain secrets . . . Also some details might be lost to his conscious mind yet available via ingrained memories. I need to know, Simon. Not just for you and the salvation of your family. I need to know for me. My mother . . . what was her true mission? Where did her allegiance lie? Did she truly love my father or was their marriage part of a necessary ruse? Everything she ever told us . . . it feels like a lie. I feel . . . misguided. Like I’m floundering. I don’t want to flounder. I need to know where I came from, what I’m meant for. I need to know who I am.”

  “You’re Wilhelmina Darcy. The Clockwork Canary. My wife.”

  “I need more. I’m sorry
if that sounds cruel but—”

  “I understand.” Simon dropped their bags and wrapped her in a strong embrace. “You want to make your mark on the world,” he said close to her ear. “You want to make a notable difference. I have wanted the same thing all my life. Perhaps if we work together.”

  He sounded so strong, so sure of their alliance, and yet, as much as she wanted to spend the rest of her days with this man, Willie harbored no illusions. The queen and her sovereign would declare their marriage illegal. Null and void. As a couple of mixed dimensions they would be shunned, perhaps mocked. Simon’s reputation would suffer. Her own career might well be doomed.

  And then there was Strangelove.

  His telecommunicator burned a hole in her pocket as well as her conscience. The man had hired her to betray Simon. She’d taken his money. She’d buckled under his threats. She’d reconnected with Simon in order to cheat him of a technological invention of historical significance. Nothing personal. But now it was. On many and monumental levels.

  “I have to make this right,” she blurted.

  “Make what right?” Simon asked. “Us?”

  “Everything.” Willie stepped back and bolstered her spine. Fretting would get her nowhere. Time-tracing would give them direction.

  A shrill whistle seized their attention. Phineas Bourdain standing a few feet away, the pastry basket looped over his arm and a small clipper ship—the Flying Cloud, she assumed— hovering just beyond his shoulder.

  “Anytime, lovebirds,” he called.

  “You’ll get used to him,” Simon said to Willie whilst retrieving their bags.

  Willie just smiled. Mr. Bourdain was the least of her problems. “When I trace my father’s memories,” she said as they made haste, “I’ll need your help.”

  “Anything.”

  Heart racing, she checked the hour on her time cuff, then her pocket watch. Synchronized to the second. Swallowing hard, she put her life in Simon’s hands by slipping her pocket watch into his coat. “I’ll need you to be my lifeline.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Bundled up against the freezing temperature and strong winds, goggles firmly in place, Simon stood on the port side of the Flying Cloud, gripping the gunwale and staring down at the passing landscape.

  Phin was a spectacular pilot and the few upgrades he’d managed on this boat had made a world of difference. Their flight out of Scotland and over northern England had, thus far, been as smooth as glass. Not once had they taken a sudden and heart-stopping dip. Eleven days ago, Simon had wrestled with a malfunctioning turbine and the steering mechanism had jammed. Piloting his father’s creation had been a bit of a harrowing experience. More than once he’d contemplated his own demise. Is that how Willie had felt when she’d gotten distracted in Filmore’s memories? A wisp or tremor of fear? The notion that she might not pull through the experience unscathed? That she was quite possibly flirting with death?

  Could time-tracing kill her? Simon had mulled over the possibility as he’d helped Willie settle into a small but comfortable cabin. Whilst Phin had set a course for Canterbury, Willie had talked Simon through the upcoming time-trace with her father.

  “Typically the transmitter is unaware that I am tracing,” she’d said. “But I think it would be best to be honest with my father. I want to stay longer, to probe deeper. If he knows what I’m doing, and if I’m in a safe and sequestered environment, it won’t matter that I appear to be daydreaming and unresponsive.”

  “What’s the longest you’ve been in?” Simon asked.

  “Up until Filmore, five to ten seconds. The first time with Filmore—thirty seconds. That was shocking, but not so unsettling as the second time I went in. By the time I broke free of the trance . . . I’d been gone two minutes.” She blew out a tense breath. “Mind you, two minutes in reality rivals two hours to two days in someone’s memories.”

  “Fascinating,” Simon said, “and utterly fantastic. It’s hard to imagine.”

  “It can be wondrous but also disturbing. Some of the people I’ve interviewed . . . well, they were not all the most reputable of citizens. Where’s the sensation in that?” She laughed, though the sound was rusty and forced. “Point being, in all those instances, and there have been many, I have never felt panicked or emotionally engaged. That’s where things went wrong. Not that I was gone for so long, but that I lost control. I reacted emotionally to something I saw. I interacted. As long as I stay focused and in the shadows, all should be well.”

  In that moment, Simon questioned the woman’s judgment, if not sanity. “Willie,” he’d said calmly and gently, “you’re going to trace your father’s memories. A man you adore. A man who is mentally unstable. You’re going to summon memories of your mother and of her past as a Peace Rebel. A woman who misled you. Do you honestly think you can remain emotionally detached?”

  “Aye.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair, frowned. He didn’t buy it.

  “I’m a professional, Simon. A journalist. A Time Tracer. Objective. Resourceful.”

  “This is different.”

  “Do you want to find the clockwork propulsion engine? Do you want to submit it to the Jubilee Science Committee? Do you want to make your mark on this world, Simon?”

  “More than anything.” But not at the cost of losing you. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t said those words aloud. He felt them, but damnation, they stuck in his throat. Maybe because they made him feel vulnerable. Willie had given herself to him in name and in bed, but in the light of day, she maintained an emotional distance that set his nerves on edge. He understood her discontent with the world. At least he thought he did. And he sympathized with her concerns regarding her mother. What vexed him was the sense that she was keeping secrets. What did he have to do to earn this woman’s trust? He could only shake his head in wonder, for surely she was as complex and mystifying as the Egyptian pyramids.

  Frustrated, Simon pushed on. “So how will it work? Me being your lifeline?

  “We’ll agree upon an increment of time. If I don’t come out on my own before then, you will pull me out.”

  “How?”

  “Physical contact. Tug my hand, grip my shoulders. Something firm. And call me home. To you.”

  His heart pounded with the unexpected sentiment. The responsibility. “Have you tried this before?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know it will work?”

  “A calculated guess.”

  “Not good enough.” Yes, Simon projected and took chances whilst drafting many a project. His mobile staircase, for instance. Others had patented a design to transport pedestrians up and down several stories via mechanically moving steps, but no one had engineered a working model. Simon had been distracted by Project Monorail, but lately he’d been tinkering with his designs for a mobile staircase, a device composed of motorized chain-linked steps, and projected his new version would absolutely work.

  In theory.

  Theory and execution were two different animals.

  “I’d feel better if we took a test run,” he said. “Experiment on someone of sound mind. What about Phin?”

  She snorted. “As if he’d agree.”

  “He’ll agree.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t say no. Instead she asked his assistance with the Thera-Steam-Atic Brace. “It’s only been a day and I already feel as though I am slacking on my therapy,” she said whilst unlacing her under-bust corset.

  Simon tried blocking images of her striptease the night before, but that didn’t work. Cursing an untimely erection, he helped her into the brace and the attached customized corset. “How do you plan to exercise your arm?”

  “I thought I would practice some yo-yo tricks and then concentrate on penning some notes of our expedition thus far. Whilst details are fresh in my mind.”

  The adventures most keen in Simon’s mind were of the intimate nature. He caught her gaze, noted the flush of her cheeks.

  “Don’t
worry. I’ll be discreet.”

  “So in other words you’ll leave out the best parts,” he teased, although his humor was somewhat taxed. As far as he was concerned, they had shared several moments of intimacy that extended beyond the bedroom. Their first encounter on the streets of Notting Hill, the exchanged looks within the private compartment of the Flying Scotsman. “What about the risqué romance element?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Informer promised its readers tales of risqué romance, high drama, and nail-biting intrigue.”

  Gaze averted, she rooted the yo-yo and journal from her valise. “Ah, well, you’d be surprised at how I can spin a tale.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  She shot him a sharp look, her color high. “I’ve apologized regarding that article on your father and I explained—”

  “I’m speaking in general.” Although, damn, that insulting death announcement still rankled. Rather than expanding on a personal level, he tried an objective approach. “You’ve made a career out of writing titillating, sometimes scandalous pieces. I don’t fancy seeing a cheapened, sensationalized account of our unexpected and, may I say, emotionally charged reunion in a national tabloid.”

  “Are you mocking my body of work? Judging my morals? Questioning my integrity?”

  “No. A little. Maybe. Christ. How did we get to this?”

  “It’s been festering in the back of your mind,” she snapped. “Obviously.”

  Maybe she was right. The explosion that had ripped Simon’s father from his life had happened almost three weeks ago and yet he still carried that damnable article on his person. Folded and tucked into his inner coat pocket, it was a grim reminder of the part he’d played in his father’s death, and because the Canary’s name was attached to the piece, he couldn’t disentangle her from his feelings of guilt and grief. “I should get some fresh air.”

  “Good idea.”

  She was furious with him, but in that moment he hadn’t cared. He’d left her to her therapy, to her creative spinning of their alliance. He’d sought calm on the main deck. Twenty minutes later, he still struggled.