His Clockwork Canary

by Beth Ciotta

“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.

  Simon turned away from the wintry landscape and focused on the Flying Cloud. A creation of his father’s. Far from perfect, but brimming with passion. He closed his eyes, remembering how hard Papa had worked, utilizing used parts and his imagination to give this abandoned clipper ship wings. Part of him wished Willie could time-trace his memories; then she’d see for herself what a great man Reginald Darcy had been. Then again, she’d also see how Simon had been too busy with his own projects to stay on at Ashford and offer his father a hand. Simon had always thought the design of the Flying Cloud faulty. He could have helped, had it not been for his selfish ambition. He’d had bigger fish to fry in London.

  Shame washed over him now. Willie had been right back at St. Giles’ Cathedral when she’d charged him self-involved. It would seem they both had their faults. Breathing deep and finding his air legs, Simon made his way across the deck to the altered cockpit.

  “Done brooding?” Phin asked.

  Simon didn’t bother arguing the obvious. “You banished the wooden walls in favor of a thermoplastic shield.”

  “Better visibility,” Phin said, his hands at ease on the controls, the wheel.

  “Agreed.” Looking skyward Simon added, “And the whirling arms are a brilliant addition.”

  “I thought so. Swiped the blades from a junked monoplane. The rotation maximizes lift and thrust.”

  “Amelia will be impressed.”

  Phin shot him a concerned look before focusing back on the skies. “How is your sister?”

  “Mourning my father.”

  “I regret missing the funeral. If I could have—”

  “We know.” Simon rolled back his shoulders and eyed the heavens. “Dismal turnout, not counting the curious, morbid few who showed up simply because of Papa’s ties to the Time Voyager.”

  “As brought to light by the Clockwork Canary. Surprised you were able to get past that,” Phin said.

  “I wasn’t. A recent realization and most vexing.”

  “I take it that’s why you’re up here with me and she’s down there alone?”

  “I need to ask you a favor,” Simon said by way of an answer. “You know Willie’s a Freak.”

  “The swirling rainbow eyes? Dead giveaway, my friend.”

  “She’s a Time Tracer,” he said, anxious to make her normal by speaking frankly and casually.

  “Meaning?”

  “If she connects with a person, physically, and focuses, mentally, she can experience a portion of the transmitter’s past via their memories.”

  “Fascinating, I guess. What does that have to do with me?”

  “She needs to probe her father’s memories for some vital information, but his mind is unstable and I might need to pull her out.”

  “Sounds tricky.”

  “Exactly. Which is why I’d prefer to test this ‘lifeline’ plan of hers on a transmitter of stable mind.”

  Phin raised a eyebrow. “You’re asking me to allow your woman to tread through my mind?”

  “Your memories.”

  “Bugger off.”

  “Don’t make me resort to threats, Phin.”

  It was almost imperceptible, but not quite. Phin’s right eye ticked. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.” As close as Phin and Jules were, there was something Simon knew about Phin that Jules didn’t. Even though he’d been several years older, Phin had been smitten with their sister and had stolen a kiss. An inappropriate advance that Amelia had rebuffed, Simon had witnessed, and Jules knew nothing about. He held Phin’s gaze.

  “Wanker.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Never knew you had a vicious streak.” Phin regarded Simon with a hint of anger and a dash of respect. “I like it.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Will I feel you?” Phin asked, looking uncomfortable. “In my head, I mean?”

  Willie suppressed an eye roll. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

  “Actually, I will.”

  “He’s right,
” Simon said. “Past transmitters were unaware that you were time-tracing. Phin knows that you’re going to trace his memories. Won’t that make a difference?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not as if I’m invading his present thoughts. As I said, I’m not psychic. Nor am I a hypnotist. I can’t manipulate your thoughts or bend your will. Time-tracing deals solely in established memories. It’s a wholly different process and unique to me, as far as I know. I can liken it to watching a play. I’m in the audience, watching scenes unfold, absorbing the dialogue and action. But I am not a part of the show.”

  Willie sensed Phin’s lingering skepticism and wondered why he’d agreed to this at all. She’d been belowdecks, exercising her arm and trying to rid herself of the seething resentment and anger inspired by Simon’s attack on her past articles. His lowly assessment of her style, of her integrity, cut to the core. Aye, she’d pushed the limits regarding good taste in some instances, and aye, she consistently went for titillating. That’s what the public wanted. That’s what sold newspapers. That’s what earned her a living and supported her father. She’d never falsified facts. She’d never caused malicious harm. In fact, most of the people she interviewed or featured within an article benefited from the press. Most of them reveled in the exposure. The exception had been the write-up on Reginald Darcy’s death and that had been somewhat out of her hands. Although . . . she could have relinquished the byline. That thought had been humbling enough to cool her temper. She still resented Simon’s snobbish generalization of her work, but she also realized he’d spoken from an extremely personal point of hurt. By the time he’d joined her below, announcing Phin had agreed to a time-tracing experiment, she’d calmed herself to civil. The tension between them, however, lingered on both sides.

  “If you’d rather not do this,” Willie said to Phin.

  “What? And miss the thrill of being a crucible?” He shot Simon an enigmatic look. “I wouldn’t dream of it. One caveat, however. I choose the memory.”

  “Nothing to do with war,” Simon said. “I don’t want her subjected to those images.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Willie said, touched and piqued at the same time. “But I am not faint of heart.”

  “And for God’s sake no reminiscing about an intimate liaison,” Simon said as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Phin started to say something, then thought better of it. There was however a contrary spark in his eyes. “Give me some credit, Darcy.”

  Suddenly Willie itched to take charge and to move this experiment along. The flight had been uneventful and swift. The Flying Cloud hovered just outside the limits of Canterbury. They’d delayed landing until after Willie time-traced Phin. Now the three of them stood on deck, protected from the brunt of the frigid wind by the cockpit’s transparent shield. Beyond and below, the cathedral city glistened from a fresh snowfall. Just outside those city walls, her father lived in a small brownstone cottage, a home cluttered with his manic collections. Willie ached to see him, to make sure Strangelove hadn’t intruded on his life in some nefarious way. That new and troubling concern had occurred whilst Willie had been jotting notes in her journal. Provided her father was in good health and amenable to her request, she itched to probe his memories posthaste, to solve several mysteries concerning her mother and to advance their search for the Briscoe Bus engine. A clock ticked in her head as sure and loud as her cuff and pocket watch. Time had never seemed of more dire importance. It was as if by setting off the Houdinian, she’d ignited some sort of fuse.

  “Right, then,” she said. “Let’s do this.” She met Simon’s gaze, ignored her skipping heart. It would seem that their tiff had done nothing to quell her intense attraction to the man. Time-tracing as a team would only deepen their connection. Even though he’d remain on the outside, in the real world, as her timekeeper and lifeline, he would be privy to a portion of her like no one else. She shivered with the relevance.

  “You sure about this?” Simon asked.

  “Absolutely.” She took off her gloves and stuffed them in her pocket, then ordered Phin to do the same.

  He complained about the bloody freezing cold, but did as she asked. “Now what?”

  “I need to touch you.”

  “Good God, but I’m biting my tongue,” Phin said with a glance at Simon.

  “Just give me your bloody hands,” Willie said. Her grip on his right hand was weak, but she squeezed hard with her left. “When I tell you, I want you to take a walk down memory lane. Any lane. It doesn’t matter if you deviate. I’ll trace wherever you go.”

  Simon palmed her pocket watch, looking anxious. Phin held her hands, looking suspicious. As if he was plotting. What road did he aim to take her down? What experience did he wish her to see? She suspected he meant to shock her in some way. The man had no clue as to what she had witnessed in the course of her lifetime via time-tracing. Although she had not witnessed much of a sexual nature. Would Phin ignore Simon’s warning and expose her to some decadent liaison? A sex game? An orgy? She hoped not, but braced all the same.

  “Remember what we discussed, Simon. Allow me two minutes. If I’m not out by then, pull me out.” She was determined to linger as long as possible, no matter what Phin had in store. Otherwise the experiment would be for naught. She glanced at her time cuff. “Do try not to bore me, Mr. Bourdain.” With that cheeky challenge, Willie looked to both men, signaling they commence. She held tight to Phin’s hands, focused and . . .

  “Are you sure you don’t mind me intruding upon your holiday, Lord Ashford?”

  The older man gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Of course not, Phineas. You are like family. Closer to us than most of our blood. As such, I insist you call me Reggie. Or Reginald, if you must. We are most informal here.” He leaned in and winked. “Much to Mrs. Darcy’s dismay.”

  “Jules and Simon are right behind me. Amelia waylaid them, gushing about some new project.”

  “Ah, yes,” the older man said. “The moonship.”

  Willie caught her breath as she acclimated to Phin’s vivid memory. They’d just been welcomed into a small estate, a humble home decorated with boughs of holly, glitter-dusted angels, images of Father Christmas, beautiful wreaths, and an exquisite tree bedecked with candles and homemade decorations. The furnishings were modest but pleasant. The rooms tidy and warm. Ashford. Simon’s childhood home.

  But what mesmerized her most was the skinny older man with the longish, disheveled silver hair. Simon’s father. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes bright, his smile infectious. Rectangular gold-wired spectacles perched on the end of his slender nose. His clothing was rumpled but festive. In the next instant, two other men pushed over the threshold. Both handsome. One dark. One fair. Jules and Simon. Willie’s pulse kicked as she backed into the shadows. Was this a memory from this past Christmas? Reginald Darcy’s last Christmas? It could not have been too long ago. Simon and Phin looked exactly the same.

  “Sorry we’re late, Papa,” Simon said, embracing the man in an affectionate hug. “We missed the train we’d intended to catch and ended up twisting Phin’s arm for an airlift.”

  “Didn’t take much twisting,” Phin said. “It’s not like I had anything better to do.”

  “Don’t let him fool you, Papa,” Jules said, embracing his father as well. “Phin always paints London red on Christmas Eve. The life of many a party.”

  “Drinking, dancing, the ladies,” Phin said. “It’s the same every year. Happy for the change of pace.”

  Simon snorted. “He’s happy for the chance to avoid a certain smitten lady and her jealous husband.”

  “Don’t listen to them, sir. I’m looking forward to dinner with you and the family.”

  The older man smiled. “I believe you, Phineas.”

  And so did Willie. Phin was thinking about how he didn’t have a family anymore and how the one he’d once had paled to the Darcys. How he’d grown up in squalor, how his mum had been addicted to laudanum and his pa addicted to gambling. M
emories within a memory, intensified by raw emotion. Willie trembled under the tremendous impact, but she did not break.

  “Where’s Mother?” Simon asked whilst removing his gloves.

  “In the kitchen with Concetta and Eliza preparing the most delicious feast.” Mr. Darcy leaned in to Phin. “Wait until you taste the plum pudding. Oh, and don’t take off your coats. This may be the only chance we get to steal away for my secret gifts. Come on, boys. You too, Phineas.”

  The man shot out the door without his own coat or hat and scurried across the snow-dusted lawn toward his workshop.

  “Secret gifts?” Phin asked Jules. “Secret from your mother?”

  “Mother wouldn’t approve.”

  Simon called to Amelia, who was draping a tarp over an exposed portion of metal and gears.

  “The moonship?” Phin asked.

  “Apollo Zero Two,” Jules said. “Father’s second attempt at affording Amelia a ride amongst the stars. She’s thinks he’s onto something this time, although she worries he’s overly obsessed.”

  “He’s always overly obsessed with his inventions until he’s distracted by the next one. If he would just slow down and spend more time in the planning stages but—”

  “He’s a tinkerer, not a thinker.” Jules lowered his voice as they entered the magnificently cluttered work shed. “As with all of Papa’s creations, his secret Christmas gifts tend not to work properly.”

  “Or for long,” Simon said.

  “But it’s the thought that counts,” Amelia said as she pushed in behind them. She hurried toward her father, a curious-looking falcon perched soundly on her iron-mesh wrist cuff.

  The metal-enhanced bird flapped away and settled on a massive celestial globe.

  Phin hung back, allowing the family privacy as Reginald Darcy pulled a Father Christmas hat over his wild and windblown hair.

  Willie dwelled in the shadows, watching the same scene and wrestling with Phin’s emotions as well as her own. They watched as one by one the eccentric tinkerer gifted his children with a modified version of some twentieth-century gadget.

  To Jules—a handheld Dicta-player that operated with some sort of “cassette.” Something he could carry in his pocket and speak into at any time recording spontaneous ideas for his fantastical novels.