His Clockwork Canary (7 page)

T
HE
F
LYING
S
COTSMAN
E
N ROUTE TO
E
DINBURGH,
S
COTLAND

It was the longest journey of his life.

Simon had left the compartment several times. To shake off his anger. To shake off
his lust. Although he would bet his prized drafting tools that his traveling companion
was a woman, and though he suspected she was someone with whom he had already been
intimate . . . he could not force his attentions. She had to make the first move,
or at least a slip. Even an unintentional invitation would be better than no invitation
at all.

All this angst over a kiss. And yes, this moment, a kiss was what he craved above
all else. A craving more intense than any sexual desire he’d experienced in the last
several years.

It boggled the mind. Boggled the mind and vexed his patience. Yet whilst pacing the
connected corridors of the train, it occurred to Simon that he was not alone in his
suffering. His companion had also excused herself, frequently escaping to the primitive
yet functional public loo. Either she had a minuscule bladder or she too needed space
to clear her head and cool her desires. There was no mistaking her sexual interest,
even though she tried to hide it. If the Canary was experiencing even a modicum of
Simon’s discomfort, he would be a happy man. A spectacularly delirious man. The solution
to his dilemma was suddenly clear. The more miserable her mood, the happier his.

He reentered the compartment, surprised to find her wearing dark-tinted spectacles
and fumbling with the yo-yo she’d purchased from Thimblethumper. “A little late in
the evening for sunshades,” he remarked whilst closing the door.

“I have a blinding headache,” she said, winding the string around the middle of the
disks. “Light, whether natural or artificial, intensifies the throbbing.”

Frowning at her pained expression, Simon reached up to douse the already dim sconce.
“Then let there be darkness.”

“No! I mean, that isn’t necessary. The sunshades suffice and I don’t wish to inconvenience
you should you wish to continue your drafting.”

Since the Canary had returned her rapt attention to the Book of Mods, and then to
jotting notes in a journal, Simon had passed much of the time executing freehand drawings
in his sketchbook—a design he’d been contemplating as an alternative to a mechanical
lift. He’d yet to work out the kinks in his “mobile staircase,” and his mind was not
fully invested, but anything was better than pondering Project Monorail. Would he
always connect his pride-and-joy design to his father’s death? Would he always feel
responsible for the disastrous explosion? Turning his thoughts from morbid images,
he focused on the Canary’s miserable efforts. “What
are
you trying to do?”

“A trick.”

“Perhaps you should perfect the basics first.”

“I know the basics.”

“Perhaps you should reacquaint yourself.”

Her head jerked up, and though he could not see her eyes, he was pretty sure she was
glaring. “Just because you are an expert . . .”

Simon raised a brow as she trailed off. He had indeed mastered the art of the yo-yo
as a young boy. “How did you know—”

“I assumed. Given your arrogant attitude and the fact that, by trade, naturally you
would be intrigued by the workings.”

“Mmm.”

“No matter,” Willie said, shrugging off the moment. She glanced at her time cuff,
something she did a lot. “We’ll soon be arriving at Waverley.”

As she pushed off the wall and started to pocket the yo-yo, Simon moved in behind
her and wrapped his hand over hers and the toy. “It’s all in the technique,” he said
close to her ear.

There was a moment of silence in which he noted her ink-stained hands, the scent of
hair freshly soaped, and a slight, almost imperceptible, shudder of her body. A moment
of delicious sexual tension . . . followed by a swift jab to Simon’s gut. Damned if
her elbow didn’t strike hard and true.

“You may be worldly in matters of free and diverse love, but I, sir, as mentioned
before, am not interested.” Agitated, the Canary reached up and snagged her coats.
“That is not to say I judge. I do not. To each his own,” she said whilst pulling on
extraneous layers. “But I do not appreciate your attempts to shock, intimidate, or
seduce, or whatever the hell your intention. I am here, with you, for one reason only,
Darcy. To get a story. A story for which you will be handsomely compensated.”

Simon bristled. First of all, he would not be the only one benefiting from this tabloid
serial. The
Informer
would profit banking on the Darcy name, and the Canary would gain even more recognition
and glory.

Second: How long would the infuriating pressman persist with this boyish ruse? And
why
? The pretense and lies did not bode well and he rankled at the thought of being made
a fool. Again. Simon backed away, but continued to turn the screws. “I once knew a
girl whose little brother performed yo-yo tricks with ease. A yo-yo passed on to him
from the mother, a gesture that injured the girl’s heart, as she coveted her mother’s
yo-yo . . . and approval. I promised to teach that girl the proper technique that
would enable her to master many tricks, but I never got the chance.”

The Canary tugged her cap over her shaggy hair just as the Flying Scotsman hissed
and screeched to a full stop. “Disappointed you, did she?”

Simon nabbed his own belongings, intrigued and incensed. “Indeed,” he said, disembarking
on the kid’s heels.

Hoofing it through the bustling station, heavy bag in tow, the Canary gave Simon her
back. “Something tells me the feeling was mutual.”

•   •   •

It had been many a year since anyone had discombobulated Willie so thoroughly. She
was confident and competent and, out of necessity, wily. Because of an unfortunate
series of events, she’d locked down her emotions years ago. Through practiced control
and camouflaging trickeries, she had fooled the masses for a decade. A consummate
actress, she’d successfully maintained a male persona, in part by engaging in a reclusive
lifestyle. Her most frequent interactions were with her coworkers at the
Informer
, and prompted by professional envy, most of them kept their distance. Friendship
was a foreign concept, so she was in no danger of having her cover blown due to slipping
up with a chum. As a journalist, she typically narrowed her interviews to one personal
visit. As a supporter of the underground efforts to garner equal rights for all Freaks,
she corresponded with like-minded souls through coded Teletypes or via occasional
meetings in the nearest skytown. Even then, she adopted yet another costume and persona.
She thrived on anonymity. It kept her liberated and employed. Kept her motivated and
useful. It kept her brother safe and her father from landing in a mental ward or poorhouse.
She would not endanger any one of those things by admitting her true identity to Simon
Darcy.

Somehow the man had deduced who she was, and it galled that he was toying with her.
Still, even if he out-and-out called her on the ruse, she would fight for all she
was worth to deny the truth. As much as she would like to blast him face-to-face for
jilting her because of her race and thereby tainting the love they once shared, the
confrontation was not worth the cost.

Shoulders squared and back to the infuriating man, Willie hustled through Waverley
Station, breaching the doors and moving onward toward Waverley Bridge—an iron-latticed
thoroughfare that would lead them to Cockburn Street and beyond to High Street, also
known as the Royal Mile.

A frigid wind and colossal snowflakes assaulted Willie as she hailed a conventional
coach.

“Cockburn Hotel is within walking distance,” Simon said as he moved in beside her.
“I reserved rooms—”

“We’re not staying at the Cockburn.”

“We’re not?”

Led by a blanketed horse, a hansom cab rolled in and Willie informed the coachman
of their destination. Meanwhile Simon wordlessly took her valise and hoisted it up
into the cab along with his. Further proof that he was aware of her
gentler
gender. She scrambled aboard before he could offer his hand—and raise the coachman’s
brow. Once they were both seated and the coachman urged the horse forward, Willie
divulged the data she’d traced from the Mod Tracker.

“I booked lodgings near St. Giles’ Cathedral on High Street,” she said whilst massaging
her throbbing temples. “There’s a pub close by. Spirits & Tales. Filmore works there
during the day, dispensing pints of ale and local ghost stories. I assume he patrols
an underground passage at night, supposedly protecting the clockwork propulsion engine,
but I do not know which passage. The section of Edinburgh known as Old Town is comprised
of many wynds, closes, and vaults.”

“Considering you were alone with Thimblethumper for a scant few seconds, you learned
much,” Simon said, sounding suspicious. “Anything else?”

“Only that even though Thimblethumper dislikes Filmore, he considers Filmore’s job
as a Houdinian relevant.”

“Yet the man willingly divulged Filmore’s location.”

Not so willingly, Willie thought with a frown. The retired Mod Tracker had voiced
vague information and had indeed misled them by not offering Jefferson Filmore’s alias.
The name he went by in Edinburgh. Had she and Simon asked after Filmore, they would
have left Edinburgh empty-handed. No, she had time-traced to ferret out this more
precise data, not that she would admit as such. “I suspect Thimblethumper felt pressured
by that agency he mentioned to divulge pertinent tracking data to you, the brother
of an influential agent.” She glanced over. “Who did you say Jules works for?”

“I didn’t say.”

Willie grunted and shrugged. “Can’t blame a pressman for trying. Readers would be
even more riveted by your adventure were there a secret agency tie-in.” Never mind
her
burning curiosity.

“I don’t intend to put my brother at risk by indulging you or your readers’ morbid
need for sensation. Focus on me and my story, Canary, or take flight.”

“Touchy.”

“Intrusive.”

“You’re one to talk,” she mumbled. He’d encroached on her personal space on the train,
not once, but twice. She hugged herself, shivering in response to the memory of Simon’s
provocative touch, as well as the freezing temperature.

“An automocab would have offered a semblance of generated heat,” Simon pointed out.

“In order to preserve the historical integrity of Old Town, petrol – and steam-fueled
transportation is prohibited on the Royal Mile. Foot and horse traffic only.”

Simon looked out at the moonlit cobbled streets and centuries-old buildings as the
carriage horse clopped uphill toward High Street. “How long did you live here?”

“Two years,” Willie answered honestly. Then her family had transplanted to America
for two years and then back to England. Not long after her mother had died, Wesley
had run off and her father’s mental health had declined. She’d been scrambling to
keep her own marbles ever since. Between the stress of dealing with Simon, the pressure
of being blackmailed by Strangelove and threatened by Dawson, and the melancholy inspired
by thoughts of her family, Willie felt her mood darken by the second.

The throbbing in her temples and behind her eye socket didn’t help. She’d worn her
corneatacts too long this day. Influenced by modern technology, the small tinted lenses
fit over her cornea and disguised her kaleidoscope eyes, giving the appearance of
a single-colored iris. Ingenious. Expensive.
Temporary.
Although she’d worked hard to build up a tolerance to the discomfort, Willie could
bear to wear corneatacts for only four hours before her eyeballs began to hurt and
her head to ache. That’s when she typically took an afternoon walk, swapping the lenses
for her sunshades and giving her eyes a rest. A half hour did the trick, but she hadn’t
been able to break away from Simon for more than ten minutes without him knocking
on the loo door, ribbing her about being up to no good.

Now she was paying the price.

The piercing pain and relentless pounding promised a migraine. Desperate to head off
a bout of nausea, she’d removed the corneatacts when Simon last left the compartment.
But the effort had come too late, and relief would not be coming anytime soon. She
needed a dark room and sleep. Lots of sleep.

“You don’t look well,” Simon said.

“You’re one to talk with those puffy shadows beneath your eyes.”

“You can make out shadows beneath my eyes? How can you see anything at all wearing
those dark glasses in a pitch-black cab?”

She could not explain it, but she could, in fact, see fine. Something about her heightened
sense of night vision. A peculiarity born to some Freaks, but not all. For instance
her brother did not possess enhanced night vision. The traits of Freaks, a new breed,
were inconsistent and unpredictable. In addition, whatever supernatural gift they
possessed intensified with age. With every year, Willie honed her time-tracing skills.
Who knew what she’d be capable of in ten years?
No one.
The same applied to those gifted in telepathy, accelerated healing, shape-shifting,
and weather manipulation, to name a few
skills
. No one knew the extent of their future powers. Hence the fears of many an Old Worlder.

MUTANT RACE THREATENS TO DOMINATE EARTH

That had been one of the more extreme headlines, ignorant propaganda distributed via
leaflets in Piccadilly Circus, a bustling, touristy portion of London’s West End.

Mutant.
Is that how Simon had thought of her when he’d learned of her true heritage?

Suppressing an ancient hurt, Willie ignored the man, peered out the window, and absorbed
the historical sights and pungent scents of Old Town. Oh, how she loved this city.
Her family had rented lodgings on Haymarket, not far from High Street. The first year
she’d existed in somewhat of a haze, heartsick over Simon’s rejection, pining over
what had been and what she’d dreamed would be. But then she’d settled into numb acceptance
and then a period of blessed healing. She’d explored the wonders, the mysteries, and
the history of Edinburgh with passion. This city had soothed her soul.