His Clockwork Canary tgvd-2

by Beth Ciotta

  Her heart had fluttered with tender regard, but then she’d drifted off and her dreams had carried her into the next morning. She did not think she had slept overly long and was alarmed to find Simon gone. Dawn’s light had yet to fully break through the partially drawn curtains. She checked her time cuff. Half past six in the morning. What the devil?

  Just then he walked in the door, handsome and windblown, shaking off a chill.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, pushing up to her elbows.

  “Taking care of a few errands. Checked in on my mother and sister via Teletype. Heard back from Harry, Ashford’s groundskeeper. He said they are in London visiting a friend. I find it curious that they traveled to the city alone. It’s certainly not like Mama, but at least they are together, and I confess I am relieved that they are finding comfort in each other’s company. They have never been of like mind.”

  “Perhaps your father’s passing has brought them closer. I wish my father would have sought comfort in my company after my mother’s death, but instead his mind and attentions drifted.”

  “Speaking of your father,” Simon said whilst hanging his greatcoat on a wall peg. “I arranged to have a supply of chopped wood sent to his cottage and hired someone to examine the heating system. I spied a radiator in each room. There must be access to steam heat at least.”

  “There is,” she said, chest tight. “It’s forever malfunctioning, but as long as there are fires in the hearth . . .” She choked up as her heart pounded with the same fierce flutter as the night before. “Such kindness, Simon. How can I thank you?”

  He grinned whilst shedding more layers and raking his gaze over her scantily clothed body. “I can think of a thing or two.”

  “Lucky you, I am feeling most refreshed this morning,” she said with a coy smile.

  He dropped onto the bed and smothered her with an achingly sweet kiss that soon turned torrid. “Lucky indeed.”

  • • •

  Their lovemaking had been passionate and frenzied, both in need but both anxious to start the day. An unspoken physical and emotional symmetry that had been exhilarating in its own right. Their ablutions had been equally rushed, although Simon had slowed the process enough to change her bandages.

  “A couple more days,” he’d said. “To be on the safe side.”

  He had made no mention of the small but numerous and ugly puckered ridges marring her shoulder and the region of her chest just above her breast, but Willie knew he felt guilty. She saw it in his eyes, sensed it in his touch. He’d once noted that she’d saved his life and she wondered fleetingly if that hadn’t influenced his determination in marrying her. A debt of gratitude paid by offering his support and protection for life? The notion rankled, but she pushed it away, choosing to focus on their immediate mission. Their interrogation of her father and the confiscation of the clockwork propulsion engine.

  Once dressed, they’d rushed down to the dining area and found Phin seated and waiting at a table, drinking coffee and reading the Victorian Times. He stood whilst Simon seated Willie, then poured them each a cup of coffee from the steaming pot in the center of the table. “How did it go with your father?” he asked Willie.

  “Not well,” she answered, stirring sugar into the black brew. “He won’t let me trace,” she said in a soft voice, “but he did agree to answer some questions this morning. Any news of the Triple R Tourney in the Times?”

  “Not that I saw,” Phin said, passing her the newspaper. “Although you may find another article of interest.”

  Intrigued, Willie focused on the front page whilst Phin updated Simon on the weather and flying conditions. She was vaguely aware of the multiple conversations buzzing around her via other breakfast patrons as she zeroed in on the top headline: FREAKS ATTEMPT POLITICAL KIDNAPPING OVER ATLANTIC!

  Stomach turning, disbelieving, she pushed her tinted spectacles to the top of her head and squinted at the short but damning article.

  Last night, in a brash and disastrous kidnapping attempt, a rogue faction of the increasingly dangerous Freak Fighters attacked a transcontinental airship transporting several dignitaries, including staunch Old Worlder Prime Minister Avery Madstone. Although the prime minister escaped abduction, lives were lost and severe injuries sustained in the overseas skirmish. The British Naval Service and International ALE have been placed on full alert. Details are unknown at this time but forthcoming.

  Heart thudding in her ears, Willie reread each sentence, not wanting to believe, but knowing that a more aggressive faction of the FF did exist.

  Lives were lost, severe injuries sustained. . . .

  No.

  “Willie.”

  She blinked out of her daze when Simon touched her forearm.

  “The waitress was asking if you’d like to see a menu,” he said as she passed the newspaper back to Phin.

  “My appetite is suddenly lacking, but I . . . I suppose I should have something.” Horribly distracted, she tried to focus on the young girl’s smiling face, her stomach flopping when the smile flattened and the girl’s cheeks flushed. It was then that Willie realized her spectacles were still on top of her head, and thus her rainbow eyes on full display.

  “I’m sorry,” the waitress said in a hushed voice. “We don’t serve your kind.”

  “What kind would that be?” Simon asked with a steely edge.

  The girl swallowed and nodded toward Willie. “Her kind. There’s a sign posted outside.” She lowered her voice even more. “‘No Freaks Allowed.’”

  “I saw no sign,” Phin said, his own voice hard.

  “Nor did we,” Willie said, her heart beating so frantically she feared her chest might explode. “But we all came in after dark last night. Since when?” she asked the anxious server. “I’ve passed by several times before.” She’d even eaten here, although disguised as a male Vic. “I recall no such restriction.”

  “New management, new rules.”

  “I’d like to speak to that management,” Simon said, starting to stand.

  Willie grasped his hand. “No, wait.” She was all too aware that she’d become the focal point and that the whispered conversations throughout the room were now directed at her. How many had read this morning’s headline? How many thought her dangerous and aligned with the alleged Freak Fighters who’d attacked the prime minister’s dirigible?

  “This is absurd,” Phin said to the visibly flustered waitress. “Her money is as good as any Vic in this room.”

  “The money is acceptable,” the woman fairly whispered, “but she is not. Please don’t make a fuss. This is my first week on the job and I am desperate for the wages.”

  Because she had always hidden her race from the public, Willie had never withstood a direct and personal attack of prejudice. It set her blood and temper afire like nothing else, and the fact that Simon looked ready to challenge the manager to a duel only intensified her emotions. As much as she wanted to take a stand, that damnable headline prompted her to proceed with caution. Drawing on her acting skills, she mustered extreme restraint and calmly stood. “We were just leaving.”

  “The hell we were,” Simon said.

  Willie squeezed his hand. “Please.”

  Stone-faced, Phin stood and reached into his wallet.

  “Coffee’s on the house,” the waitress said as if desperate for them to leave.

  “The hell it is.” Phin paid, then looked to Simon. “I’ll gather your possessions from upstairs and settle the room accounts. Meet you outside,” he added as Simon slipped him their room key. “Your wife looks as if she could use some fresh air.”

  The use of the term wife instigated several gasps and murmurs and outright gawking.

  In a show of defiance, Simon gently grasped her waist. “Come on, sweetheart.”

  “You’re not going to shift me into a toad or conjure a perpetual rain cloud over my head, are you?” the waitress asked in their wake.

  “If only she could,” Simon said as he guided Willi
e outside.

  Willie welcomed the bracing air as well as her husband’s avid support. Her heart pounded and fluttered with mixed emotions as she fought for a calm and clear thought. “I appreciate your outrage on my behalf,” she said honestly. Indeed, she was most certain she loved him for it. “But now wasn’t the time to take a stand.”

  “You can’t change the world if you ignore the problems.”

  “I’m not ignoring, just choosing my battles, as it were. We would not have initiated positive change on the behalf of Freaks,” she said, hugging herself against a chill. “Not today. There was an attack last night. An attempted kidnapping over the Atlantic Ocean. A rogue faction of Freak Fighters attacked Avery Madstone’s air transport.”

  Simon gawked. “The prime minister?”

  “It would seem he escaped but that others were harmed and killed in the attack. At least as reported by the Times. It’s possible facts have been twisted. God, I hope they’re twisted.”

  Phin joined them, their bags and coats in tow. “That was fun.”

  Though his mind was obviously racing, Simon said nothing as he helped Willie into her duster and then donned his own outerwear.

  Phin passed a valise to Simon, saying, “One moment,” then ripped the NO FREAKS ALLOWED sign from the storefront and winged it into the alley. “Right, then,” he said as he and Simon flanked Willie. “Did I mention I’m a bloody good cook? How does your father feel about eggs, beans, and bangers?”

  As someone who’d navigated life on her own these last several years, as someone who had no friends, the allegiance of these two men filled a void in Willie’s soul that she hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. “As long as you allow Daddy to make the toast,” she said with an affectionate glance at Simon, “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Willie would not have believed herself capable of a single bite. Between the troubling article in the Times, her ugly bout with prejudice, and her anxiety regarding her father’s “interview,” her appetite had taken a severe thrashing. Yet there had been something soothing about Simon and Phin’s purchasing food and making themselves at home in her father’s cluttered kitchen. They’d even charmed Michael Goodenough by inquiring about his collection of modern cookware, allowing him to demonstrate his pop-up toaster, and indulging him by drinking the fruits and vegetables he’d whipped into a disgusting liquid via his electrified blenderizer.

  Their natural curiosity regarding his futuristic collection had fed into her father’s obsession with his wife’s birth century and therefore had naturally led to talk about Michelle Goodenough herself. Soon Willie realized that there was no need to fret over posing formal questions. If she simply went with the flow, she could no doubt learn much about her mother in casual conversation. It had been years since she’d seen her father so at ease and engaged. And she had Simon and Phin to thank for it.

  “I find it utterly fascinating that your wife worked for NASA,” Simon said as he bit off a corner of burned toast. “My family has a long history of tinkering with fantastical flight. In fact my father started building a moonship several months ago. Named it Apollo in honor of the Mod rockets. To think Mrs. Goodenough worked for the team that put a man on the moon.”

  “Ah, yes,” Michael said. “An amazing feat and one that Michelle was ultimately proud of. That was in 1969 just before the Peace Rebels came back in time. Michelle left NASA in 1967 after a beastly accident that took the lives of three spacemen. She never got over that horrifying fire. If only they had been Houdini, she once said. Then they would have escaped in time.”

  “Houdini?” Willie’s fork paused midair. She remembered her mother saying an accident had caused her to leave NASA, but there had been no mention of Houdini.

  “Harry Houdini,” he expanded whilst scooping up the last of his scrambled eggs. “You know. The famous escape artist. Although, wait. I don’t believe he’s famous yet.” He chewed his eggs, brow scrunched in thought. “No. That’s right. He was born of our century, but gained global fame after the turn of the century, so of course you don’t know of him yet. Not to mention Houdini was his stage name. He goes by another name now. I think. What year is this?”

  “It’s 1887, sir,” Simon said.

  “More eggs?” Phin asked, trying to keep the conversation light and rolling.

  “No, thank you . . . What was your name?”

  “Phin, sir. Phineas Bourdain.”

  “That’s right.” He pointed his fork at Simon. “And you?”

  Willie cringed. It was happening. Confusing days and years. Forgetting names and places.

  However, Simon stayed calm, sipped his god-awful drip-o-matic coffee, and reminded her father of his name.

  “Ah, yes. The chap who married my daughter. Could I have some more eggs?” he asked Phin, then turned back to Simon. “It’s not legal, you know.”

  “It’s binding to us,” Simon said, and Willie felt her heart glow.

  “Bully for you!” Michael banged a fist to the table. “Bully, I say. You know, in Michelle’s time a lot of couples lived in sin. Make love, not war. You’ll be happier for it.”

  Phin coughed into his hand.

  Willie’s cheeks burned.

  “Your eggs, sir,” Phin said, frying pan at the ready.

  Michael waved him off. “I’m full, thank you. Darcy, eh?” He narrowed his eyes on Simon. “I say, you aren’t related to Briscoe Darcy, are you?”

  “Distant cousin.”

  “Michelle met him, you know. She was in charge of security.”

  “Of the time machine?” Simon asked.

  “No,” Willie said. “Of the Time Voyager himself. Right, Daddy?” She caught Simon’s gaze and noted his surprise. She realized suddenly that they’d never discussed any ties between her mother and his cousin. Their focus had been on the Briscoe Bus clockwork propulsion engine.

  “You mustn’t hold that against your mother-in-law,” Michael said to Simon. “She was only doing her job. She was in charge of security and Briscoe was a national treasure, of sorts. He traveled through time, jumped dimensions. Gadzooks! No wonder they wanted to pick the man’s brain.”

  “Who?” Simon asked.

  “The agency Michelle worked for.”

  “And what agency was that?” Willie asked. “I don’t recall.” In fact she never knew. Only that it was a British firm.

  Michael held a shushing finger to his lips. “Top secret, that.”

  “More coffee?” Phin asked, filling Michael’s cup before the man could decide. “I’m thinking a secret branch of the Metropolitan Police,” Phin prompted.

  “No,” Simon said. “Mrs. Goodenough was at the top of her craft. National level, I’d wager. There was mention of an elite agency in the Book of Mods. MI5?”

  “She went by Agent Price then,” Michael said, looking off as though somewhere else. “And she worked for the best.”

  “The Mechanics,” Willie whispered.

  Michael held up another shushing finger, then looked to Phin. “Are there any more eggs?”

  Willie’s pulse raced with a surge of relief and excitement. She and Wesley had been right. Their mother had worked for Her Majesty’s Mechanics. Although in the twentieth century, not this century. Not everything had been a lie. Her mind scrambled, trying to connect the dots of her father’s scattered disclosures. She glanced across the table at Simon. He looked almost as far away as her father. Gads.

  “According to the preachings of the Peace Rebels,” Simon ventured whilst Phin dished out more scrambled eggs, “the time machine was secured and locked away by the British government whilst Briscoe escaped and disappeared.”

  “Quite the opposite, dear boy. That was the brilliance of my Michelle. What did you add to these eggs, Phineas? The flavor is most pleasing. I must know.”

  Rigid now, Simon pushed out of his chair. “Excuse me.”

  Phin traded a look with Willie, then tried to distract her father with his secret recipe whilst she hu
rried after Simon. By the time she caught up to him, he was outside in the rear garden. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I have to contact my brother.”

  Her mouth went dry as he pulled some sort of palm-sized device from his pocket, much like the one Strangelove had given her. Had he found her telecommunicator? But no. This device was different. “What is that?” she asked as he toggled a switch.

  He warded her off with a raised hand and turned his back. “Jules?”

  She heard a squeal and then static. Then Simon calling his brother again, followed by more static.

  “Damnation.” His shoulders slumped as he slid the device back into his pocket. He jammed a hand through his hair, making it stand every which way. “He couldn’t have made the leap already. It’s too soon.”

  “What leap? What . . .” Heart pounding, she moved around and faced him. “What are you talking about, Simon?”

  “My brother traveled to Australia to meet with Professor Merriweather.”

  “Maximus Merriweather? The Peace Rebels’ genius scientist?”

  He nodded. “Jules was convinced that Merriweather has the knowledge and expertise to build him a time machine, a machine that would transport him into the future. To 1969, to be exact.”

  Time travel. Exactly what the Peace Rebels had meant to prevent by destroying the Briscoe Bus. At least that’s what they’d preached. Meanwhile the Houdinians had absconded with the most vital mechanism. Willie’s brain hurt trying to make sense of it all. Jules seriously intended to breach 1969? “For what purpose?”

  “To obtain the Time Voyager’s original clockwork propulsion engine and to bring it back to our time.”

  “But why?”

  “In order to win the jubilee prize. To restore honor to the Darcy name. To secure our family’s future and fortune. Christ.”

  Unsettled by his panic, she reached up and palmed the sides of his face. Even though her right shoulder screamed, she ignored the pain. “Talk to me, Simon.”

  “My brother is risking his life to leap into the future, to retrieve something that isn’t there. Don’t you understand, Willie? The Peace Rebels didn’t re-create Briscoe’s design. They stole the original clockwork propulsion engine. The engine that your mother and the other two Houdinians pinched from the Briscoe Bus, the engine they hid and protected all these years, is the engine. The Time Voyager’s engine. There is only one.”