His Clockwork Canary (18 page)

“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.”

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.

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.”