by Beth Ciotta
Destitute and living in the Dark Ages.
Riddled with emotions, he pocketed the blasted scandal sheet and met his twin’s steady gaze. But of course Jules would know his mind. The older brother by mere minutes, he always seemed to have the jump on Simon. Even so far as guessing or knowing his thoughts. Simon was often privy to Jules’s notions as well, and sometimes they even had what their little sister referred to as “twin conversations.” Whether spurred by intuition or some bizarre version of telepathy, they often finished each other’s sentences. It drove Amelia mad.
“I could’ve been working alongside my mentor on Tower Bridge,” Simon said. “Instead I chose to pursue my own brilliant idea.”
“You doubt the merit of a public transportation system high above the congested streets of London?”
“No.” Simon’s monorail system inspired by the Book of Mods would have eased ground traffic and air pollution caused by the rising population and number of steam-belching and petrol-guzzling automocoaches. It would have provided an affordable mass transit alternative to London’s underground rail service.
It would have afforded Simon the recognition and respect he craved.
“I regret that I boasted prematurely about my project. Had I not bragged, Papa would not have invested the family fortune.” Sickened, Simon dragged his hands though his longish hair. “Bloody hell, Jules. What was the old fool thinking?”
“That he believed in you.”
“When the project failed, I Teletyped Papa immediately. Railed against the injustice of political corruption. Wallowed in self-pity. What was I thinking?”
“That he would damn the eyes of the narrow-minded and manipulative Old Worlders. That he’d side with you. Ease your misery.” Jules looked away. “He excelled at that. Building us up. Making us believe we were capable of whatever our hearts and minds desired.”
For a moment, Simon set aside his own heavy remorse and focused on his brother, who had always been darker in coloring and nature than the more fair and frivolous Simon. Though presently residing in London, where he worked as an author of science fiction novels, Jules Darcy was retired military, a decorated war hero. Details revolving around the skirmish that had mangled his legs and left him with a permanent limp were classified. The period of rehabilitation had been extensive and also shrouded in secrecy. Even Simon was clueless as to those peculiar days of Jules’s mysterious life. Although he was often privy to his brother’s moods and inclinations, he’d never been able to read Jules’s mind regarding the covert nature of his service to the Crown.
“Coffee’s bitter,” Jules said, setting aside his cup and reaching for the sugar bowl.
Everything had tasted bitter to Simon for days, but he knew what his brother meant. “Eliza made the coffee. Be warned—she cooked as well.”
Frowning, Jules glanced toward the sideboard and the steaming porcelain tureens. Though an excellent housekeeper, Eliza was famously ill equipped in the kitchen. “What happened to Concetta?”
The skilled though crotchety cook had been in their mother’s employ for months. “Mother dismissed her this morning. Said we could no longer afford her services.”
“Did she not offer the woman a month’s notice?”
“She did. Along with excellent references. But Concetta’s prideful. She ranted in her native tongue, and though I’m not fluent in Italian, I understood the intention. She’s leaving today.”
“Damnation,” Jules said.
In this instance, Simon knew the man’s thoughts. Things were indeed dire if Anne Darcy, a conservative woman obsessed with old ways and upholding appearances, had resorted to dismissing servants. Another kick to Simon’s smarting conscience.
Just then Eliza’s husband, Harry, appeared with two folded newspapers in hand. “As requested,” he said, handing the Victorian Times to Simon, then turning to Jules. “And the London Daily for you, sir.” The older man glanced at the sideboard, winced, then lowered his voice. “I could fetch you fresh bread and jam.”
If anyone knew about the poor quality of his wife’s cooking, it was Harry.
Simon quirked a smile he didn’t feel. “We’ll be fine, Harry.” The man nodded and left, and Simon looked to his brother. “We’ll have to sample something, you know. Otherwise we’ll hurt Eliza’s feelings.”
“I know.” Distracted, Jules seemed absorbed by the front page of the Daily.
Simon immediately turned to the headlines of the Times—a respectable broadsheet, unlike the Informer.
The Victorian Times
January 10, 1887
ROYAL REJUVENATION—A GLOBAL RACE FOR FAME AND FORTUNE
In celebration of Queen Victoria’s upcoming Golden Jubilee, an anonymous benefactor has pledged to award a colossal monetary prize to the first man or woman who discovers and donates a lost or legendary technological invention of historical significance to Her Majesty’s British Science Museum in honor of her beloved Prince Albert. An additional £500,000 will be awarded for the rarest and most spectacular of all submissions. Address all inquiries to P. B. Waddington of the Jubilee Science Committee.
Simon absorbed the significance, the possibilities. “Blimey.”
“I assume you’re reading what I’m reading,” Jules said. “News like this must have hit the front page of every newspaper in the British Empire.”
“And beyond.” Simon fixated on the headline, specifically the words FAME AND FORTUNE. He wanted both. For his family. For himself.
“Pardon the interruption, sirs.” Contrite, Harry had reappeared with three small envelopes. “It would seem sorrow regarding the loss of Lord Ashford has muddled my mind. These were in my pocket. I picked them up at the post whilst in the village this morning.” He handed an envelope to each of the brothers, then placed the third near their sister’s place setting. “This one is for Miss Amelia,” he said. “That is, if she joins you this morning.”
Since their father’s death, Amelia had been grieving in private.
“We’ll see that she gets it,” Jules said. “Thank you, Harry.”
The man left and Simon struggled not to think of their young sister locked away in her bedroom—mourning, worrying. Yes, she was a grown woman, twenty years of age, but she’d led a sheltered life, and though obstinate as hell, Amelia was tenderhearted. At least half of Simon’s worries would end if she’d relent and marry a good and financially stable man. Alas, Amelia’s fiery independence was both a blessing and a curse. Frustrated, Simon focused back on what appeared to be an invitation. “No return address.”
He withdrew the missive in tandem with Jules and read aloud. “Given your family’s reputation as innovators, adventurers, and visionaries—”
“—you have been specifically targeted and are hereby enthusiastically invited to participate in a global race for fame and fortune,” Jules finished.
“Royal rejuvenation.”
“Colossal monetary prize.”
“Legendary technological invention,” they said together.
“Is your missive signed?” Simon asked.
“No. Yours?”
“No.” He glanced from the mysterious note to the Times. “Apparently the anonymous benefactor thought us worthy of a personal invitation. Do you think it is because of our association with Briscoe Darcy?”
“Yet again it’s assumed that because Papa knew the Time Voyager, he must have had knowledge regarding Briscoe’s time machine.”
“Also natural to assume Papa would have passed along that information to us,” Simon said. “Which he did not.”
“No, he did not. If he had any.”
“Unless . . .” Simon looked to the envelope next to Amelia’s empty plate.
“If Papa had pertinent information regarding Briscoe’s time machine, he would not have burdened Little Bit with such knowledge,” Jules said. “Too dangerous.”
Indeed. No invention was more historically significant than the one constructed by their distant cousin Briscoe Darcy. A time machine u
sed to catapult Briscoe into the future (1969), which ultimately enabled a group of twentieth-century scientists, engineers, and artists to dimension-hop back to the past (1856).
Intending to inspire peace and to circumvent future atrocities and global destruction, those dimension-hoppers, also known as the Peace Rebels, preached cautionary tales throughout the world, most notably in America and Europe. Unfortunately, a few were corrupted and soon leaked advanced knowledge that led to the construction and black market sales of modern weapons, transportation, and communications. The globe divided into two political factions—Old Worlders and New Worlders. Those who resisted futuristic knowledge and those who embraced it. The Peace War broke out and the nineteenth century as it should have been was forever changed.
The Victorian Age met the Age of Aquarius.
For years and for political reasons Simon and Jules resisted the urge to explore anything having to do with Briscoe Darcy or time travel. Not to mention time travel had been outlawed. However, this Race for Royal Rejuvenation, coupled with their family’s unfortunate circumstances, motivated Simon to break their childhood pact. “It is true Papa never shared any secrets with me regarding Briscoe and his time machine, yet I do have an idea of how to get my hands on an original clockwork propulsion engine.”
Jules raised a lone brow. “As do I.”
“Are we in accord?”
“We are. But first, let me Teletype this P. B. Waddington, as well as a personal contact within the Science Museum. I want verification that this treasure hunt is indeed official.”
Simon’s pulse raced as his brother left the room. With every fiber of his being he knew the response would be affirmative. His brain churned and plotted. Only one of them needed to find and deliver the clockwork propulsion engine in order to avenge their father’s name and secure the family’s fortune. But, by God, Simon wanted it to be him.
CHAPTER 2
LONDON OFFICES OF THE LONDON INFORMER
“Willie!”
Wilhelmina Goodenough, known socially as Willie G. and professionally as the Clockwork Canary, refrained from thunking her forehead to her desk due to the booming voice of her managing editor. She did, however, roll her eyes. She could always tell by the timbre of Artemis Dawson’s bellow whether she was being summoned for a good reason or bad. This was bad. Given her foul mood of late, this could mean a bloody ugly row.
As lead journalist for the London Informer, Britain’s most popular tabloid, Willie had earned a desk in close proximity to Dawson’s office. Lucky her—or rather him—as was public perception.
For the last ten years, Willie had been masquerading as a young man. Sometimes she was amazed that she’d gotten away with the ruse for so long. Then again, she was slight of frame as opposed to voluptuous. What womanly curves she did possess were easily concealed beneath binding and baggy clothing. Her typical attire consisted of loose linen shirts with flouncy sleeves, a waistcoat one size too big, and an American-cowboy-style duster as opposed to a tailored frock coat. Striped baggy trousers and sturdy boots completed the boyish ensemble. A vast selection of colorful long scarves had become her trademark, as she always wore one wrapped around her neck in a quirky style no matter the season. When outdoors, instead of a bowler or top hat, Willie pulled on a newsboy cap and tugged the brim low to shade her face. She’d chopped her hair long ago, a shaggy style that hung to her chin and often fell over her eyes. She was by no means fashionable, but she did have a style all her own.
And not a bustle, corset, or bonnet to her amended name.
Once in a great while she yearned for some kind of feminine frippery, but she was far more keen on surviving this intolerant world than on feeling pretty.
“Willie!”
Blast. “Best get this over with,” she said to herself, because no coworkers were within earshot of her somewhat sequestered and privileged work space, and even if they were, she wasn’t chummy with any of the blokes. Willie had two confidants in this world: her father and her journal. One hidden away and one locked away—respectively.
Out of habit, Willie checked the time on her pocket watch, then consulted the timepiece on her multifunctional brass cuff. Her preoccupation with time had prompted the “Clockwork” portion of her professional name, and was often a source of unkind jest for fellow journalists. Their assessment of her peculiar habit meant nothing to her, whilst knowing the precise time and how much time had passed between certain events was of vital importance.
Abandoning her research on significant technological inventions, Willie pushed away from her scarred wooden desk. Her home away from home, the desktop was crowded with stacks of books, piles of documents and files, scores of pens and pencils, her typewriter, her personal cup and teapot, and a working miniature replica of Big Ben, otherwise known as Clock Tower. Dawson often wondered how she found anything, but she did in fact know the precise whereabouts of any given item. Organized chaos: just one of her many gifts.
On the short walk to her boss’s office, Willie breathed deeply, seeking solace in the familiar scents of the newsroom—ink, paper, oil, cigarette smoke, sweat, and assorted hair tonics. Scents she associated with freedom and security. This job enabled her to pursue her passion as well as provide for herself and her addle-minded father. Forsaking her gender and race had seemed a small price to pay in the beginning. But lately she teemed with resentment. Bothersome, that. She had no patience for self-pity.
To her own disgust, she strode into her boss’s office with a spectacular chip on her shoulder. “You bellowed?”
Dawson looked up from his insanely neat and orderly desk. “Where’s the story on Simon Darcy?”
Bugger.
Certain her palms would grow clammy any second, Willie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her trousers and slouched against the doorjamb. “What story?”
Dawson’s eyes bulged. “The story I asked for days ago. The story that’s late. The interview with Simon Darcy regarding the collapse of Project Monorail!”
“Ah, that.”
“Yes, that.”
“The timing seemed off.”
“Off?”
“He’s been away, attending his father’s funeral, comforting his family.”
“Yes, I know, Willie. The father who blew himself up whilst building a blasted rocket ship! Two Darcys suffer ruin due to two fantastical projects one day apart. One week before a global race is announced that promises to stir up interest in outlawed inventions, if you know what I mean—and I know that you do!
“The timing, dear boy, is perfect! Pick Simon Darcy’s brain whilst he’s vulnerable. Get the scoop on his failed project and his father’s bungled invention. Probe deeper and dig up buried family secrets. Go where no man has gone before and ferret out never-disclosed-before details regarding Briscoe Darcy and his time machine. If anyone can do it, you can!” He pounded his meaty fist to his desk to emphasize his point.
Willie felt the force of that blow to her toes. Her temples throbbed and her pulse stuttered. Aye, she could do it. But she did not want to. The subject of their discussion was too close to her well-guarded heart. Though she said nothing, Dawson clearly read her reluctance due to her obviously not-so-guarded expression.
Narrowing his bloodshot eyes, the portly man braced his thick forearms on his desk and leaned forward. “Close the door.”
Gads. This was worse than bad.
Willie did as the man asked, then slumped into a chair and settled in for a lecture. She resisted a glance at her cuff watch. As long as she didn’t make physical contact with Dawson, time was irrelevant. Meanwhile her keen mind scrambled for a way to get out of this pickle.
“The Informer is no longer the most popular tabloid in the country. We’ve been edged out by the Crier.”
“The City Crier? But that’s a Sunday-only paper. We are a daily. Not only that . . .” Willie tamped down her pride, snorted. “You’re jesting.”
“Our investors are not happy,” Dawson went on, grave as a hangman. �
�The publisher and executive editor are not happy. Which means . . .”
“You are not happy.”
“Get the dirt on Darcy or dig up something even more titillating.” He jabbed a finger at the door. “Now get out.”
Although Dawson could be a curmudgeon, he’d always had at least a sliver of good humor hiding beneath the guff. Willie sensed no humor now. The pressure from above must be severe indeed. Pausing on the doorstep, Willie voiced a troubling notion. “When did I stop being your favorite?”
“When you went soft on me. That original piece you typed up on Ashford’s death was fluff. And the revision wasn’t much better. Our readers want sensational, Willie, not respectful. They can get that from the quality press.” After a tense moment, Dawson sighed. “You’ve had a good run at the Informer, Willie. Some people think you’ve gotten too comfortable. Too arrogant. Most people don’t know you as well as I do, and even I don’t know you that well. But I do know that you have a special gift. I’d hate to lose it.”
Sensing freedom and security slipping away, Willie spoke past her constricted throat. “You’ll get your story.”
SOUTHEAST OF LONDON PICKFORD FIELD
“Rough landing.”
An honest observation, not a criticism. Still, Simon bristled at his brother’s greeting. Jules had taken the train from Ashford to Pickford Field—a private aeropark outside of London where they’d agreed to rendezvous. Simon had commandeered the ramshackle airship designed by their father, a small boat modified with a hot-air balloon and steam engine components enabling the vehicle to fly—albeit without great altitude or grace.
“The engine stalled twice and the steering mechanism seized,” Simon said whilst descending the splintered gangway. “It is fortunate that I landed at all. I anticipated crashing every five minutes of that two-hour flight, which, by the way, should have taken but an hour.” Adrenaline pumping, he wrenched off his goggles and stalked toward the aero-hangar owned by their mutual friend Phineas Bourdain. “Considering Papa’s shaky design and my mediocre piloting skills, you should be applauding my wretched arrival.”
