His Clockwork Canary

by Beth Ciotta

  Simon thought about Willie engaged in a heated protest and frowned. Just because she didn’t advocate violence, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t get caught up in a ruckus and hurt. Or worse. Killed.

  “What troubles you?” Willie asked in a scratchy voice.

  Simon turned his face into the pillow, toward the woman who’d been sleeping in his arms. “You’re awake.”

  She looked at her wrist, then frowned. “I feel at odds without my timepieces. What hour is it?”

  “Close to dinnertime.”

  “I can’t believe I slept into the evening,” she said, pushing upright with her good arm. “My stamina is lacking. How frustrating.”

  “In light of the severity of your injury,” he said, smoothing a comforting hand down her back, “I’d venture exhaustion is natural. Look at it this way, the more you rest, the faster your recovery. Perhaps we should not have—”

  “I’m glad we did.” She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “You did not disappoint, Mr. Darcy. Indeed, I can’t imagine spectacular.”

  “Rest and recover,” he said with a wicked grin, “and you will not have to imagine.”

  She instantly sobered. “I’m not sure it is wise for us to persist as lovers.”

  “Nor am I. What I’m sure of is an attraction, a connection that has gone unbroken in spite of the years. In spite of the misunderstandings. I’ve no intention of running from this. From you.”

  Cheeks flushed, she looked away. “I’ve changed, Simon. I am not the carefree girl you fell in love with. In fact, I don’t know how to behave like a proper lady anymore. I don’t know how to live life as a woman whilst maintaining my career—a career that allows me to support, not only my father, but a cause I deeply believe in.”

  “Ah. The Freak Fighters.” Simon sat up and swung his bare feet to the chilly floor. “Just how involved are you?”

  She dragged a hand through her rumpled hair, shrugged. “Only as an anonymous voice to date. I pen articles under pseudonyms, draft pamphlets to distribute to the masses in an effort to properly educate Vics regarding our race. Old Worlders tend to circulate ignorant propaganda in hopes of suppressing our rights as a way of keeping us down. What they don’t seem to understand is that suppression and intolerance are fueling discontent amongst Freaks. Causing some to branch out as mercenaries—using their supernatural gifts for dubious gain. Whilst others—like the Freak Fighters—band together to instigate change for the better. The remainder simply try to blend, to be invisible, denying who they are even to themselves. It is for those intimidated few that I fight the hardest.”

  Her passion and intent stirred his blood and indeed left him humbled. Aside from designing assorted contraptions and conveniences, what had he really done to make a difference in this unstable world?

  “I do not oppose your cause,” Simon said. “Indeed I am moved by your plight and passion, but know this, Willie. Change is often perceived as chaos and not always won peacefully. As was evidenced by the Peace Rebels.”

  She cut him an injured glance. “They came here, to this century, with good intentions. Were it not for a few bad apples—”

  “You don’t have to defend your father—or was it your mother?—to me.” Sensing he was entering dangerous territory, Simon grasped her hand in reassurance. “Which of your parents was the Mod?”

  Not breaking his grasp, she swung around so that they were sitting side by side. “My mother.” She licked her lips, then swallowed. “I think she was involved somehow with Jefferson Filmore. I saw her in his memories. They were arguing and—”

  “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. Although 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 dres
sed. 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?”