His Clockwork Canary (19 page)

“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. Memories 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.

To Simon—an electric shaver. Since he seemed to have an aversion to conventional razors,
Mr. Darcy said with a good-humored wink.

Then he’d presented Amelia with night-vision goggles accentuated with a telescope
loupe so she could better study the skies for her someday flight to the moon.

The Darcy siblings accepted their secret gifts with the same enthusiasm as they were
given and Phin was reveling in their good fortune and remembering his bad luck when
it came to family. More memories within a memory. Willie reeled. Her knees felt weak
and she’d swear someone gripped her shoulder to hold her steady.

Then Mr. Darcy called Phin forward and she could feel his embarrassment and excitement
as Mr. Darcy presented him with a brightly painted box.

Willie leaned out of the shadows, wanting to see, but someone held her back. No, someone
pulled
her back. She heard her name, Simon calling her home. She didn’t want to leave, not
yet, but therein lay the test. And she was detached just enough to know it.

The memory faded and her heart cracked at her last sight of Mr. Darcy, his mischievous
smile wide as Phin reached for the present. . . .

“Willie!”

Reality flooded her senses. Simon stood behind her, gripping her shoulders, and she
thanked God for his presence as she wilted back against him. “It’s okay. I’m back.
I’m good.” She looked at Phin, embarrassed that she was still holding his hands. “What
did he give you?”

Phin broke contact, reached into his inner coat pocket, and pulled out what looked
to be a complex version of a set of brass knuckles. “Knuckle Shocker Stun Gun with
an attached distress whistle. Supposed to help protect me from sky pirates,” he said
with a wink to Simon.

“Does it work?”

“Not properly. Not since the day after he gave it to me.”

But Phin kept the faulty weapon with him anyway. Because it had been a gift from a
kind and caring man, a man so unlike his own neglectful father. A man who presented
his children with customized secret gifts every year and that Christmas had extended
the same kindness to Phin. Somehow Reginald Darcy had understood Phin’s secret misery.

Tears blurred Willie’s eyes as she turned to Simon, heart in throat. “I’m so sorry,”
she choked out. “For the loss of your father. For that wretched article.” Emotionally
spent, she buried her face against Simon’s chest and wept.

Holding her tight, Simon turned his frustration on Phin. “What the hell did you do?
What did you show her?”

Phin cleared his throat, clearly choked up by his own emotions. “A great man.”

J
ANUARY
21, 1887 C
ANTERBURY,
E
NGLAND

By the time Phin had landed the
Flying Cloud
in a small meadow, night had fallen. It was cold and dark and the walk from the field
into town was plagued with tension and melancholy.

Simon had been on pins and needles whilst Willie had traced Phin’s memories. He’d
glance over every few seconds, happy that he saw no distress, just two people daydreaming.
Or at least that’s how it appeared. For the most part, Simon’s attention had been
riveted on Willie’s pocket watch, his heart thudding with every tick of the second
hand. His own thoughts had whirled as seconds ticked to a minute and then to a minute
and a half. Upon the two-minute mark, he had gripped Willie’s shoulder and called
her home. His pulse had stuttered when she’d remained deep in her trance.
Where was she? What was she witnessing?
It had taken immense restraint not to tear her hands from Phin’s and to shake her
to reality. But they hadn’t discussed breaking the physical connection. If the connection
was broken whilst she was still deeply tracing, would that leave her stuck in Phin’s
memory? Simon had hesitated, gripped her shoulders tighter, and commanded a more fervent
return. His relief had been intense when she blinked back and announced herself “good,”
but it was also short-lived. Phin had reduced her to tears with a cherished memory
of Simon’s father. The notion left Simon rattled as well. He had not known how deeply
affected his friend had been by the secret gift—an impulsive gift from his father,
as the man had not known well in advance that Phin was joining them for the Christmas
holiday. But of course he wouldn’t leave Phin out of the joyous tradition. That wasn’t
Reginald Darcy’s way.

Simon was also touched that Phin had taken it upon himself to show the Clockwork Canary
her misstep in presenting Reginald Darcy to the world as an inept kook rather than
the gentle and inspired spirit that he was. That one deed coupled with Willie’s tearful
apology had somehow washed the hurt of that ugly article from his soul. Simon had
taken the folded paper from his inner pocket and ripped it to shreds, declaring that
grudge obliterated. He couldn’t quite forgive his own contribution to his father’s
demise, but he could indeed forgive Willie for her insensitive transgression.

“This is it,” Willie said, stopping and pointing to a narrow two-story brick cottage
wedged in between several other homes of the same ilk. This residential road ran just
outside the ancient city walls on the fringes of the more bustling areas of the City
of Canterbury.

“It’s lit up like Piccadilly Circus,” Phin said.

“They recently wired this section with electricity,” Willie said, rubbing her gloved
hands together whilst studying the multiple illuminated windows of her father’s two-story
home. “Father is a bit obsessed with technology and trinkets that harken of the twentieth
century. You’ll see what I mean as soon as we step inside.”

“If you don’t mind,” Phin said, “I’ll skip the family reunion.”

Simon watched as Phin and Willie exchanged an awkward yet meaningful look before Phin
focused on the city gate. “I have business I can attend to in town. Figure I’ll grab
a meal and inquire about overnight lodgings.”

“I’d suggest the Hawthorne Inn,” Willie said, hugging herself against the night wind.
“It’s on Dunstan’s Street. Just over—”

“I know where it is,” Phin said. He glanced to Simon. “Shall I secure two rooms?”

“Yes, please,” Willie said before Simon could answer.

“I’m not leaving you alone for the night,” he said.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with my father.”

“Then I’ll stay here with the two of you. We’re man and wife, Willie. I’m not going
to keep that from your father.”

“I’m not asking you to, although I’m not sure how he will react to the news. Regardless,”
she said with another glance at the cottage, “I’m not sure Father could accommodate
us both. It gets worse every time I visit.”

Simon wanted to know what she meant by that, but didn’t ask. It seemed too personal
and Phin lingered.

“Right, then,” the man said. “Two rooms at the Hawthorne Inn.” Bowler shading his
eyes, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, Phin swiveled away on booted heel. “Good
luck in there.”

Simon nodded and Willie scrambled up the steps ahead of him. She knocked on the old
wooden door and seconds later the door swung open and a fit-looking man of perfect
posture greeted Willie with a dazed look.

“Michelle?” he asked in a croaky voice.

Willie visibly trembled with emotion as she took off her tinted spectacles and pinned
the man with her raw swirling gaze. “It’s me, Daddy. Wilhelmina.”

Michael Goodenough pushed his spectacles to the top of his head and rubbed his eyes.
“But of course. You couldn’t be Michelle. She is gone to me. Your red hair threw me.
You look so much like your mother.”

She blew out a tense breath. “Would you mind inviting us inside?”

“Us?”

Simon stepped forward and into the wash of light flickering from the entryway. He
offered his hand in greeting. “Simon Darcy, sir.”

Goodenough gripped Simon’s hand, stared hard. “Name’s familiar.”

It should be,
Simon wanted to say, but tempered his resentment. He reminded himself that this man
had done what he thought best for his Freak daughter by thwarting their plans to elope.
What perplexed Simon this minute was how young and physically fit this man appeared,
and yet Willie supported him financially? Was there no job he could manage? Yes, he
seemed a bit off, but not bonkers by any means.

Still squeezing Simon’s hand, Goodenough looked to Willie, who’d just unbuttoned her
duster. Noting a glimpse of her gown, he frowned. “Why are you dressed as a woman?”

“Because I
am
a woman,” she said with a twinge of defiance. “I am through hiding, Daddy.”

“I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“It gets worse,” she said, as Goodenough backed inside, allowing them passage. “I’m
married.”

Not the most flattering announcement, Simon thought as he followed her over the threshold.
But at least she’d addressed their new status head-on. He hadn’t expected that.

Goodenough gawked from Willie to Simon. “To this man? But he doesn’t look like a Freak.”

“That’s because he’s a Vic, Daddy. The same Vic I was set to elope with twelve years
ago. Only you and Mother put an end to that. Remember?”

“Of course, I remember.” He rubbed his temples. “Ah. That is why the name is familiar.
I told Michelle love would find a way. I’m surprised it took this long.”

“But it wouldn’t have taken this long if you had not stopped Wesley from giving Simon
my letter,” Willie said, red-faced.

“Letter? I know of no letter.”

The man looked truly perplexed and Simon wondered at Willie’s direct attack. It was
as if she’d been harboring resentment for days only to explode the moment she confronted
her father.

“But how can you be married?” Goodenough asked. “It is against the law.”

“Aye, well, call us rebels.”

The man paled at that term, probably thinking of his wife. The most famous of rebels.
A Peace Rebel. Simon’s attention bounced between father and daughter and the man’s
cramped living quarters. Indeed the entryway and parlor were crammed wall to wall,
floor to shoulder, with so much stuff it was hard to determine useful items from bobbins.

“Why is it so cold in here?” Willie asked.

“Conserving energy,” Goodenough mumbled.

“Meaning instead of replenishing your firewood supply, you instead purchased what?
This pop-up toaster? Don’t you have four of these already?”

“Five. But this is a new model. Four slices of bread as opposed to two.”

“But the four you had would make eight pieces of toast,” she pointed out logically.
“And this tube thing . . . what is it?”

“A lava lamp.” His face lit up. “Remember how your mother used to talk about these?
I purchased it from a traveling Mod-Tech peddler last week. Now that I have electricity . . .”
He made certain the cylindrical object was plugged into a socket and then flipped
a switch. A light shone from within the glass tube and colorful globs of goo rose
to the top, breaking apart, then reshaping. “Magnificent, yes?” Goodenough asked.

“Groovy,” Simon said because in this instance a Mod term truly applied. He smiled
a little, intrigued and saddened by the whimsical sight. His own father would have
been entranced.

“Aye, but it won’t keep you warm, Daddy,” Willie said.

“I have your mother’s memory to keep me warm.”

Willie frowned at that and Simon placed a calming hand at the base of her spine. “Perhaps
I could make us all some hot tea. Just point me to the kitchen.”

She met his gaze and nodded, seemingly understanding that he wanted to afford them
some time alone and that perhaps she should relax. “I’m certain you’ll find a conventional
teakettle hiding amongst all the infernal contraptions,” she said whilst indicating
the next room over. “Most of which do not work and never did.”

Simon gave her good arm a reassuring squeeze, then took off his hat and gloves whilst
serpentining through the barrage of collectibles. On the surface, Simon understood
Willie’s frustration. She worked hard to help support her father and yet he squandered
money on modern bits and bobs. Much of what he saw must’ve been purchased on the black
market. Some items looked like fantastical hybrid reproductions of pictures he’d seen
in the Book of Mods. In many instances, copycat tinkerers constructed superficial
look-alikes. Superficial, because all thought went into the exterior design, whilst
the inner workings were either completely ignored or faulty. Many guessed at how a
television
or a
computer
might work, but no Vic had mastered the engineering. At least these were not things
available to the common man. Not yet anyway. With the introduction and leaking of
so much technological knowledge since the arrival of the Peace Rebels, the timetable
for certain innovations was well ahead of its original course.

Simon was sorting through the mechanical chaos of the small kitchen, remembering with
fondness the chaos of his own father’s workshop, when he caught wind of another kind
of mayhem altogether. Angry voices booming from the parlor. Willie and her father
fighting. He tried to ignore it. None of his affair. Yet, dammit, it was. Setting
a kettle of water upon the stove, he adjusted the flame of the burner, then braved
the verbal row.

“I won’t hear of it,” Goodenough blasted whilst wearing a path in the narrow space
between the parlor and staircase. “Every memory regarding your mother is precious
to me and there are many that I and I alone are privy to. Intimate moments. Private
yearnings and dreams. Cherished reminiscences of her life in the future. I won’t have
them tainted—”

“I won’t meddle in any way. The memories will go unchanged. I will be in and out.
A fly on the wall—”

“No. Absolutely not. Discussion over,” he snapped, then stomped up the stairs like
a petulant child.

Willie stood ramrod straight, watching his retreating back. Her eyes were wide, her
voice wobbly as she commented on the man’s exit. “I did not anticipate a refusal,”
she said as Simon wrapped his arm around her waist. “I am his only daughter and I
ask so little. I thought . . . I thought he would want to help.”

“He obviously loved your mother very much. Some memories are sacred, Willie.”

“But I need to know. She lied about the clockwork propulsion engine. She lied about
her job. What else did she keep from us?”

“Does it really matter?”

She turned to him then, fists clenched at her sides. “It matters to me. What if I’ve
set a terrible course of events into play by rooting out a Houdinian, Simon? What
if that engine falls into the hands of someone who means to use it for selfish and
nefarious means?”

“The Houdinians have kept the engine safe and hidden for thirty-some years now.”

“But that’s when there were three of them. Now there is only one. Filmore. Thimblethumper
said the third was missing, remember?”

“Perhaps that only means that Ollie Rollins eluded Thimblethumper. I’ve been thinking
about that day in the catacombs, Willie. Are you certain that it was Filmore who attacked
us? He did not seem suspicious when we left him at the pub. Why would he leave in
the midst of his shift? Why would he follow us?”

She closed her eyes as if thinking back, envisioning the moment. “It happened so fast,”
she said. “A tall man, a big man, sliding out of the shadows. An enormous gun.” She
opened her eyes, locked gazes with Simon. “I focused on the weapon. Not his face.
I did not see his face plainly. I cannot swear it was Filmore.”

“If they patrol the vault, it would make sense to work as a pair. Maybe the shooter
was Rollins.”

“I saw Rollins in Filmore’s memories. Just a glance. A memory from just before they
arrived in this time. He was a shorter man and Filmore’s senior by at least ten years.
That would make him quite old now. Although I confess there was something familiar
about Rollins, I do not believe he was the shooter.”

“All right, then maybe Filmore enlisted two other Peace Rebels to act in Rollins’s
place as well as your mother’s.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, with a glance at the empty stairway. “Something I saw,
sensed
,
within Filmore’s memories. A sworn pact. I think this was a rogue act. Between my
mother, Filmore, and Rollins. I don’t think he’d seek out another Mod. A Vic mercenary,
maybe? At any rate, something is terribly amiss. I feel it.”

Simon guided her into the kitchen. “Let’s have some tea. Perhaps your father needs
a moment to absorb your request. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

“Maybe,” she said, whilst locating two teacups.

Simon took the hissing kettle from the stove and soon after, they were sitting at
a cluttered table, drinking hot tea and wrestling with inner thoughts. Simon was thinking
about how he should leave and procure chopped wood for the hearths.