His Clockwork Canary (9 page)

She had spent far too long this morning lingering in a bath. Trying to scrub the ever-present
ink from her fingers, soaping the grime and scents of the city and the pressroom from
her person. She’d fussed with her hair in an effort to soften the boyish style. All
because, for the first time in years, she’d longed to be
pretty
. She’d realized her folly whilst almost forgetting to bind her breasts. She’d been
set to sabotage her male cover in order to look more appealing, more feminine.

For
Simon
.

Fortunately, the insanity had quickly passed and she’d gone out of her way to alter
her appearance more than ever. In doing so, she had applied too much of the tanning
agent. Now her face had an orange tint and the creases of her fingers and palms were
stained. Hence she’d brushed her hair forward and kept her hands busy, balled, or
gloved. Never had the ruse been so exhausting. Although who was she fooling? Certainly
not Simon. At the very least he knew she was a woman.

Just then he appeared at her side and she realized she’d faltered at a lamppost. As
if she didn’t know which way to turn or where to go. Indeed, she’d been lost in her
thoughts.

“Here.” He offered her a pair of gloves. An exquisite set of dark blue wool gloves
that looked as if they had never been worn.

“Is this where you slap me and challenge me to a duel for attacking your integrity?”
she asked with a raised brow.

“Don’t be absurd. Last night I noticed that your gloves are quite worn, and I happened
to have an extra pair. Actually, Fletcher packed three spare pair in addition to far
too many other clothes. I do believe he equates Scotland with the North Pole.”

“You employ domestics?” she asked, still staring at the gloves. Given his more-than-comfortable
lodgings, she should not have been surprised that his income allowed him the luxury.
Still, it only accentuated the social and financial gap between them.

“One. Fletcher acts in the capacity of valet and cook, although I do not think of
him as a domestic so much as a pesky caretaker. Of my home. Of me. Take the damned
gloves, Canary.”

She knew not what to think of the gesture of goodwill, but she had been raised not
to snub a kindness. “If you’re sure you won’t need them.”

“I’m sure.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” She quickly traded her own gloves for his, her eyes widening
upon realizing they were lined with . . . cashmere? They must have cost a pretty pence.
“I’ll return them when—”

“Consider the gloves a gift. Albeit an ill-fitting one,” he said.

“I do not mind that they are too large.”

“I suspect not,” he said, eyeing her baggy, overly long duster. “By the way. I am
not a Flatliner. A Flatliner is self-serving and cares nothing about the fate of mankind.
Project Monorail was conceived as a way of relieving street and underground congestion
as well as pollution. Cost-efficient, fuel-efficient. Utilizing magnets to propel
the vehicle forward and . . .” He swiped off his derby, jammed his fingers though
his hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

Dawson had prodded Willie to get the scoop on Project Monorail, and here Simon was
dishing. “Magnets? How would that work exactly?”

“It’s complicated.” Frowning, Simon checked his pocket watch. “Filmore’s shift starts
at ten o’clock?”

“I do not know precisely, but that’s when the pub opens and I know he works during
the day. If he starts later, we can at least find out when, and perhaps I can glean
information about his lodgings.”

“You mean
we
.”

Willie cursed the bitter and wistful ache in her gut. There was no
we
. Not in the sense that she had once dreamed.

“Thirty minutes to kill.” Simon tugged on his derby and looked up and down High Street.
“I received an earful of ghost tales last night, and several originated near or along
the Royal Mile—all underground. Mary King’s Close. South Bridge Vaults.”

“I know them both.”

“I’d like to get my bearings.” Without warning, he grasped Willie’s elbow, inciting
a dizzy surge of wanton desire. How preposterous! It was not as if he’d grasped her
hand. Nor were they skin to skin in any manner. Several layers of her clothing separated
his gloved hand from her flesh and yet . . . she burned.

Clearing her throat, Willie pointed left. “Mary King’s is just ahead, but it’s been
closed to the public for years. In 1645 the plague struck hard and the city bricked
up the close and the victims. Grisly business. Hence the ghost tales.”

“Grisly business indeed. Anyone with a lick of sense would avoid a place once cursed
with the plague. Hence the perfect hiding space.”

“Aye, but as I said, it is sealed. It would take magic for the Houdinians to get inside.”

“Or,” Simon said, rattling her further as he urged her toward the famous haunt, “someone
with the imagination and twentieth-century expertise to engineer a secret entrance.”

What horrible thing had she done in life to deserve such torture?

For the hundredth time in half an hour, Willie dug deep for calm.

Searching for secret entrances alongside Simon had proved exhilarating and infuriating.
For the past three days he’d battered her senses, inciting opposing emotions that
left her drained. Confusion, frustration, amusement,
desire
. Vexing, that. Willie was quite certain that the man took advantage of every opportunity
to discombobulate her.

Standing too close. Staring too long.

The mere brush of his arm weakened her knees, yet she did not swoon. Not only would
giving in to the attraction endanger her family and career, but most assuredly it
would damn her heart. Even if they didn’t have a past history, no good could come
of a Vic and Freak union. Something her parents had preached. Something she’d been
averse to believing, but a fact she had long since accepted. The British Empire had
outlawed marriage between Vics and Freaks. Just as they’d prohibited Freaks from voting
or enrolling in colleges or securing employment in esteemed vocations. Oh, aye. All
she had to do was
think
on that, and outrage obliterated lust.

Simon fell into frustrated silence as they abandoned their search and proceeded to
Spirits & Tales. He ached, no,
died
to progress in his mission. To advance his goal. Willie sensed it with every fiber
of her altered being. This moment, winning the Race for Royal Rejuvenation trumped
all else in his life. No matter what he professed, she did not believe he pursued
the prize solely for his family. Perhaps he intended the fortune for his mother and
sister, but he wanted the glory for himself. There was no denying an aggrandizing
“vibe,” as her mother would say.

“Did you really think it would be so simple, Darcy?” Willie asked as they walked downhill
and against the frosty air. “Few things in life are.”

“You see the worst in everything, Canary,” he said. “Why is that?”

If she broached that subject full on, she would elaborate for eons. Instead she skirted
the issue. “Because I do not trust mankind in general.”

“Cynical.”

“Realistic.” Chilled to the bone, Willie stuffed her gloved hands in her coat pockets,
seeking additional warmth. Her knuckles knocked against something hard.

Strangelove’s telecommunicator.

The device she would use to betray Simon.

Report to me the moment he’s acquired whatever legendary invention he seeks.

Strangelove’s instructions had been clear. His intent, however, was shrouded in mystery,
as was his true identity. What would a devious, seemingly wealthy and ruthless man
like Strangelove do with a working clockwork propulsion engine? The detrimental possibilities
cramped her already knotted gut.

Spying the painted sign advertising Spirits & Tales, Willie purposely slowed her stride.
“If the Briscoe Bus’s engine does, by some wild chance, exist and if we are indeed
able to find it, you’ll be turning it over to the Jubilee Science Committee posthaste,
aye?”

Simon cut her a glance. “Why would I dally when my intention is to win the race?”

“But the prize won’t be awarded until the week of the jubilee celebration, and that
is several months away. In the meantime hundreds of other participants are in pursuit
of a lost invention and who knows what marvel they might find?”

“Nothing is more significant than the Peace Rebels’ time-traveling engine,” Simon
said, although he did not sound wholly convinced.

“I suppose that depends on who determines the importance. Who has the final say? The
science committee? The queen? You know how she feels about anything having to do with
time travel. If anything, she’d want to diminish the significance of the infamous
engine, not celebrate it.”

Simon stopped in his tracks, as did Willie. “Are you suggesting I’m chasing another
doomed dream?”

“I’m
wondering
if you have alternate grandiose plans for that clockwork propulsion engine. For all
I know, Briscoe Darcy shared pertinent information with your father, information passed
on to you—a visionary and a gifted engineer. That knowledge, coupled with your intellect
and skills, makes you a prime candidate to follow in Briscoe’s footsteps. The next
Darcy to build a working time-traveling vehicle, hopping dimensions in search of greater
glory.”

His lip quirked. “Such faith in my abilities.”

“So it
has
crossed your mind.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you could make the world worse than it already is.”

He studied her hard, causing her to shiver with a chill that had nothing to do with
the tundralike weather. “I am intrigued by your cynicism, Canary, but not deterred.”
He glanced at the pub. “Are you with me or not?”

Given the circumstances, and unwilling to risk the fate of a potentially dangerous
discovery, Willie bolstered her shoulders and prepared to trace a Houdinian. “Leave
the talking to me.”

•   •   •

Simon should have been obsessing on the location of the clockwork propulsion engine
or the whereabouts of the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium or the progress of his brother’s
audacious mission. Any number of personal and global matters of supreme importance
deserved his attention, but this moment he had a spectacular case of tunnel vision.
All he saw, all he cared about, was the damnable Clockwork Canary.

She’d given him a dressing-down at breakfast, then at the cathedral, and then seconds
before in the street. She judged him. She challenged him. She intrigued the bloody
hell out of him. No matter her gender, he’d thought her a heartless, glory-seeking
pressman. Yet she worried that he’d utilize the Peace Rebels’ engine to jump dimensions?
Worried that he’d somehow damage their already distorted world? And what of the possibility
that he’d disappear in a rainbow of light, never to be seen again in his own time,
much like the original Time Voyager? Any one of those scenarios would make for a more
sensational story, would it not? One would think she’d be anxious for Simon to pull
the most outrageous and scandalous stunt imaginable, thus providing her and the
Informer
with the story of the century!

For the life of him Simon could not determine the beliefs, motivations, and goals
of this enterprising woman. Old Worlder? New Worlder? Certainly not a Flatliner. Though
she claimed not to trust mankind, she exhibited passion regarding the fate of the
world. Did she support advanced technology like Simon’s fuel-efficient monorail, or
like Queen Victoria and other blinkered conservatives, did she shun anachronistic
marvels?

Crossing the threshold, Simon battled those troubling musings and focused on their
present task. He removed his derby and pocketed his gloves whilst the Canary pulled
off her cap and glanced about the tavern. He knew without asking that she was assessing
the eerie ambience much as he had the night before. Mostly Spirits & Tales resembled
any common pub. Cramped confines, crowded seating, dark-paneled walls and floors.
An enormous bar overwhelmed the small room and a mirrored backbar displayed shelves
of various liquor bottles and filmy glasses.

Unlike
most pubs, it did not possess a warm and cheery atmosphere. The dim lighting cast
the room in a sickly shade of green instead of a warm golden glow. The paintings on
the walls depicted scary, even downright ghastly scenes, and the floorboards creaked
with every step. The only difference between last night and now was the quiet. Two,
not twenty, people sat at the bar and there was plenty of seating elsewhere. Simon
did not recognize the broad-shouldered, older man behind the bar, but it had to be
Filmore, aka
Flash
. He sensed it in Willie’s demeanor. Yet instead of sitting at the bar, she moved
toward a table near the raging hearth.

“It will take more than a hot cup of tea to relieve the chill I sustained whilst poking
around Mary King’s Close,” she said in a grumpy tone. “I could use a whiskey, although
I suppose you’ve yet to recover from last night’s bender.”

“Your hostility wears thin, Canary.”

“As does your impropriety.”

He glanced to where she looked and realized he was holding the chair out, waiting
for her to sit first—a gentlemanly consideration for a woman. Except she pretended
to be a man. Still. His patience on the matter was spent. “Listen, Willie, I—”

“Stay here,” she said, barking the order much as she had back at Thimblethumper’s
Shoppe of Curiosities.
Of all the bleeding cheek,
Simon thought as she strode to the bar in her gangly, boyish manner.
Fine.
Let her buy the drinks. Let her have first crack at the Houdinian. He wanted to make
haste with this expedition, and if the Canary could advance their efforts with her
extraordinary interviewing skills, Simon would gladly take advantage.

Restless, he eased down in a rickety chair and pretended interest in a menu whilst
surreptitiously watching the scene unfold.

The Canary nodded in greeting to the other two patrons, then climbed onto a barstool
and motioned to the barkeep. The physically fit, silver-haired man appeared between
midfifty and sixty years of age, the average age of most living Mods. Other than that,
Simon had no way of knowing if the man was indeed Jefferson Filmore. Mods looked like
any other Vic. They were wholly normal and human, just from another time. Even so,
Simon suspected the man had introduced himself as Jim Flash, since Willie engaged
him in animated conversation whilst the man poured two whiskies.

The Canary checked her time cuff as she pulled cash from her ratty wallet. There was
something about her posture, her expression. Intense. No, attentive.
Focused.
As if whatever Filmore was saying was of enormous and impressive interest. Was that
her trick? Encouraging someone to talk freely by intimating that they were unusually
fascinating?

The exchange of payment was quick, and Simon watched as the two shook hands in a friendly
farewell gesture. He thought he saw the Canary wince as Filmore pulled back. She checked
her time cuff, then a pocket watch. She jammed her hand through her hair, looking
somewhat rattled, then downed one of the whiskies.

What the devil?

She ordered another and once again engaged Filmore in talk. Simon could not make out
specifics and this moment the Canary lowered her voice even more, causing Filmore
to brace his elbows on the bar and lean in as if whatever
she
was saying was now the source of fascination. Simon leaned forward as well, but he
couldn’t hear a damned thing. He itched to join the Canary at the bar, but by God,
she looked to be making some sort of progress.

She checked the time—again. Why did she keep doing that? Then she grasped Filmore’s
beefy forearm as if saying something of dire importance. Filmore was all ears.

Then the queerest thing happened.

Willie froze.

Literally.

She stopped talking, stopped moving, although she retained a death grip on Filmore.
The awkward moment stretched on, and after snapping his fingers in front of her face,
Filmore wrenched away his arm and Willie slumped forward on the bar.

Simon pushed to his feet and moved swiftly to the bar. He grasped Willie’s shoulder,
pulling her upright. Her eyes were open, but unfocused.

“What the hell?” Filmore asked. “We were swapping ghost tales and the kid faded off.”

“Afraid my friend’s in his cups,” Simon said, gesturing at the whiskey. “We’ve been
at it all night. A celebration of sorts. I best see him home.”

Unsure as to what was going on and not wanting to raise the Houdinian’s suspicions,
Simon hoisted Willie over his shoulder like a sack of grain, mumbled an amusing apology
to the barkeep and patrons, then whisked the Canary outdoors and into an alley.

“Put me down,” she ordered weakly, with an ineffectual punch to Simon’s back.

He propped her against a cold brick wall. Held her upright by her shoulders. “What
happened in there?”

“What time is it?”

Simon looked on as Willie squinted at her time cuff, then fumbled for her pocket watch.

“That can’t be right,” she mumbled, sounding more British this moment than Scottish
and looking somewhat delirious. “I’ve never been gone that long.”

“Gone where? What are you talking about and why do you keep checking your timepieces?”

She shrugged off his grip, gave herself a shake, then tugged on her cap. “We must
hurry. I fear I may have tipped my hand,” she said whilst taking off down the alley
on shaky legs. “I lingered and meddled. I’ve never done that before, but when I saw
her . . .”

“Her, who?” Simon asked, taking a firm hold of the Canary’s elbow. Had she gone temporarily
bonkers? Had one shot of whiskey addled her mind? “There were two male patrons at
the bar, myself, and Filmore—
if
that was Filmore.”

Willie nodded. “It was.”

“No woman present,” Simon said, “other than you.”

She cast him a dazed, angry look.

“Keep pretending if you want to,” Simon said, “but know that the effort is wasted
on me.” Vulnerable as she was this moment, he half expected her to throw up her arms,
to cry defeat, to admit her true identity and spout some sort of fantastic tale related
to her ruse. Wishful thinking on his part. Instead, she bolstered her shoulders and
put more starch in her step.

“It’s in a vault,” she said, leaving the alley and taking a hard left onto a narrow
street. “A coffinlike vault with some sort of intricate locking system. I know not
the code, but maybe you can crack it. You’re good with numbers, right?”

Simon’s mind whirled. “Thimblethumper said the Houdinians would kill to protect an
object of value, yet Filmore willingly told you the engine is hidden in a locked vault?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I suppose he gave up the precise location as well.”