His Clockwork Canary (14 page)

Simon had enjoyed many a tryst. Numerous alliances far more risqué than this recent
dalliance with Willie. Yet his mind and body reeled in the aftermath. Never had he
felt so focused, so driven, so
lost
.

Lost in the moment. Lost in her beauty. Lost in the passion.

Mystifying.

Terrifying.

Was it possible that he’d never fallen out of love with Wilhelmina Goodenough? Even
though she’d broken his heart? Even though twelve years had passed and she was nothing
like the young girl he remembered?

She was, in fact, more. Vastly complicated and assured trouble. Life with this woman
would not be easy. Or boring.

Simon stared up into the darkening room, contemplating the future. Typically his mind
churned with visions and calculations. Advanced designs that were not only functional
but impressive. He had goals, monumental goals, and though he felt compelled to marry
Willie—indeed, he
would
marry her, even if only in spirit—he could not yet imagine how she would fit into
his life. The fact that she was a Freak was challenging enough, but her involvement
in an underground movement, a movement ripe for radical upheaval should their cause
go unrecognized, could prove inconvenient, if not detrimental to his career. On that
score, her parents had been spot-on. In order to construct his more inspired creations,
Simon needed the support of various government agencies and, upon occasion, assorted
officials. This meant walking a fine line politically and not ruffling feathers. Willie’s
association with the Freak Fighters would most definitely ruffle stodgy and fearful
Old Worlders. If protests and demonstrations turned ugly, if Freaks and their supporters
turned to more extreme measures resulting in violence and mayhem, New Worlders would
be wary as well. A rebellion such as this would too greatly resemble the civil rights
movements of the twentieth century. Movements that sought equality for Negroes and
Indians in the United States, Catholics in Northern Ireland, and blacks and women
in the United Kingdom, to name but a few. All cited in the Book of Mods and many resulting
in bloody conflict.

Simon thought about Willie engaged in a heated protest and frowned. Just because she
didn’t advocate violence, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t get caught up in a ruckus
and hurt. Or worse.
Killed.

“What troubles you?” Willie asked in a scratchy voice.

Simon turned his face into the pillow, toward the woman who’d been sleeping in his
arms. “You’re awake.”

She looked at her wrist, then frowned. “I feel at odds without my timepieces. What
hour is it?”

“Close to dinnertime.”

“I can’t believe I slept into the evening,” she said, pushing upright with her good
arm. “My stamina is lacking. How frustrating.”

“In light of the severity of your injury,” he said, smoothing a comforting hand down
her back, “I’d venture exhaustion is natural. Look at it this way, the more you rest,
the faster your recovery. Perhaps we should not have—”

“I’m glad we did.” She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “You did not disappoint,
Mr. Darcy. Indeed, I can’t imagine spectacular.”

“Rest and recover,” he said with a wicked grin, “and you will not have to imagine.”

She instantly sobered. “I’m not sure it is wise for us to persist as lovers.”

“Nor am I. What I’m sure of is an attraction, a connection that has gone unbroken
in spite of the years. In spite of the misunderstandings. I’ve no intention of running
from this. From you.”

Cheeks flushed, she looked away. “I’ve changed, Simon. I am not the carefree girl
you fell in love with. In fact, I don’t know how to behave like a proper lady anymore.
I don’t know how to live life as a woman whilst maintaining my career—a career that
allows me to support, not only my father, but a cause I deeply believe in.”

“Ah. The Freak Fighters.” Simon sat up and swung his bare feet to the chilly floor.
“Just how involved are you?”

She dragged a hand through her rumpled hair, shrugged. “Only as an anonymous voice
to date. I pen articles under pseudonyms, draft pamphlets to distribute to the masses
in an effort to properly educate Vics regarding our race. Old Worlders tend to circulate
ignorant propaganda in hopes of suppressing our rights as a way of keeping us down.
What they don’t seem to understand is that suppression and intolerance are fueling
discontent amongst Freaks. Causing some to branch out as mercenaries—using their supernatural
gifts for dubious gain. Whilst others—like the Freak Fighters—band together to instigate
change for the better. The remainder simply try to blend, to be invisible, denying
who they are even to themselves. It is for those intimidated few that I fight the
hardest.”

Her passion and intent stirred his blood and indeed left him humbled. Aside from designing
assorted contraptions and conveniences, what had he really done to make a difference
in this unstable world?

“I do not oppose your cause,” Simon said. “Indeed I am moved by your plight and passion,
but know this, Willie. Change is often perceived as chaos and not always won peacefully.
As was evidenced by the Peace Rebels.”

She cut him an injured glance. “They came here, to this century, with good intentions.
Were it not for a few bad apples—”

“You don’t have to defend your father—or was it your mother?—to me.” Sensing he was
entering dangerous territory, Simon grasped her hand in reassurance. “Which of your
parents was the Mod?”

Not breaking his grasp, she swung around so that they were sitting side by side. “My
mother.” She licked her lips, then swallowed. “I think she was involved somehow with
Jefferson Filmore. I saw her in his memories. They were arguing and—”

“Back up.” Simon angled his head. “You read Filmore’s mind?”

She shook her head. “Traced his memories. Went back in time and . . .” She furrowed
her brow. “I have only explained this to a couple of people, and never to a Vic.”

He smiled. “Happy to be your first.”

She smiled back but averted her gaze, studying the toes of her pretty, bare feet.
“In order for me to time-trace, there must be some sort of physical contact and I
must be focused. It helps if I prompt the transmitter—the person who’ll be sharing
his memories—with a subject or event that will trigger memories of the experience
that is of interest to me.”

Simon recalled the way she’d shaken hands with Thimblethumper and the grip she’d had
on Filmore’s arm. He remembered her intense focus. “Regarding your work with the
London Informer
, I assume this is how you obtain such in-depth information on the people you interview.”

“No doubt you think it is an invasion of privacy, but I view it as a means of survival.
And I assure you I have never publicly reported anything I learned via a memory unless
the transmitter willingly,
verbally
offered the information.”

“After you
prompted
them, asking a question or swinging the conversation toward something you witnessed
in the memory.” In other words, not information granted entirely of the transmitter’s
accord. “Not that I’m judging,” Simon said. “Just assessing the whole picture.”

She gave a small shrug. “That is one way to look at it.”

“So you mentioned Edinburgh or the Houdinian, connected physically with Thimblethumper,
then focused and
traced
his memory.” Simon pressed on. “How does that work? What is it like?”

“It’s like . . . being an invisible voyeur. I dwell in the shadows, in the recesses,
of the memory and simply watch it play out. I see everything, hear everything, as
if I were there, living the moment, only I’m not. I’m just . . . visiting. I never
stay long and I never interact. Except . . .” She shifted, frowned. “When I traced
Filmore’s memory and saw my mother, I was caught off guard. They were arguing about
the clockwork propulsion engine. About where to hide it.” She looked over and held
Simon’s gaze. “This made no sense to me. From the time I can first remember, any tale
my mother shared with our family regarding her arrival to this century, she swore
the Peace Rebels destroyed the Briscoe Bus. She described the explosion in great detail.
The destruction of the exterior and interior portions of the vehicle, including the
engine. Why would she lie to us?”

Simon registered the betrayal in Willie’s mesmerizing eyes, knowing he was about to
intensify her confusion and possibly her pain. “The list I showed Thimblethumper.
There were three names.” He smoothed a thumb over her knuckles. “One of them was Mickey
Goodenough.”

She blinked.

“You never told me your mother’s first name,” he went on, “but I knew your father’s
was Michael. It occurred that his nickname might be Mickey. But then Thimblethumper
declared that Houdinian dead, and you said your father lives.”

“My mother’s name was Michelle,” Willie said, looking impossibly pale. “In Filmore’s
memories, he called her Mickey. All those years . . . I thought . . .” She shook her
head. “In the twentieth century, she had been a security specialist for a British
firm and before that NASA.”

“National Aeronautics and Space Administration. An American venture,” Simon said.
“I read about it in the Book of Mods. Or what little there was pertaining to the space
race.” Indeed, his father and sister, both avid fans of aviation, had always mourned
the fact that there had not been more information regarding NASA nor the competing
space program in Russia. To them it was all so fantastical and inspiring.

“In this century, she claimed she was doing vital, top secret work pertaining to world
security,” Willie continued. “Wesley and I assumed she worked for an elite agency
that policed the development of advanced weaponry or transportation. We even fantasized
that she was working undercover for Her Majesty’s Mechanics.” She barked a humorless
laugh. “How naive we were. How wretchedly duped.”

“Not really,” Simon pointed out, steering clear of the Mechanics and defending Michelle—Mickey—Goodenough,
if only to make Willie feel better. “If, as a Houdinian, she’d been charged to keep
the clockwork propulsion engine well hidden in order to ensure it didn’t fall into
unscrupulous hands, then her job did indeed pertain to world security.”

Willie smirked. “Yes, but what if their motives were not so pure? A few days ago you
suggested that perhaps the PRs had decided to steal away and sequester the engine
on the chance that, at some point, Mods wished to rejoin and return home to their
own time. If
that
was the objective, then her job was not only selfish but based on cowardice. If you
travel back in time with the express intent of altering the future,” she said, her
face growing red and her voice loud. “If a portion of your team defects and shares
technological knowledge in order to build a fortune. If you muck things up so badly
that you trigger a transcontinental
war
. Then you should have the gumption to stick around and monitor your mess!”

Although he did not want Willie to overtax herself, he did not want to stifle her
either. From everything she’d said over the last day, he assumed she did not confide
in too many people, if any. So, not only did she conceal her gender and race, but
she denied herself friendship and free expression? Simon could not imagine. True,
he was a diplomat whilst dealing with people and matters affecting his work. But amongst
friends, and certainly with his family, he expressed himself often and loudly on a
good many subjects. He could not conceive of stifling his thoughts and opinions on
a daily,
hourly
basis. How extraordinarily tiresome.

“How is it you did not learn about your mother’s role as a Houdinian via her memories?”
Simon asked. “I assume as mother and daughter there must have been an abundance of
physical contact.”

“There was a goodly amount when I was quite little,” Willie said. “But as a young
child I did not fully recognize or understand my gift. One thing that Freaks have
in common aside from our kaleidoscope eyes and unique blood type, whatever our given
supernatural gift, it strengthens and intensifies with age. When I realized my ability
to peek into people’s memories and mentioned as such to my mother . . . henceforth
she kept a modicum of distance. Caresses and hugs were saved for Wesley. Logically,
I presumed her intent was to protect her top secret assignment. Regardless, to be
shunned by one’s own mother . . .” She shook her head, and pulled her hand from Simon’s
grasp. “I detest the bitter tone of my voice. I have no patience for self-pity. Life
is what you make it and I have made a good life, for a Freak.”

She met his gaze and torched him with a fiery conviction. “I do not wish to be rescued,
but I would appreciate your assistance in preserving the career that enables me to
care for my father and surreptitiously and peacefully advance the cause of my race.”

Simon was not keen on her choice of words. Nor her subtle refusal to marry him. But
he would not argue the point now.

Later.
When she’d more fully recovered. At that time he would not take no for an answer.
“The primary objective, then, is to locate the Briscoe Bus’s engine.” He lifted a
challenging brow. “Are we in accord, Canary?”

She narrowed her eyes. Obviously she did not wholly trust him. Smart. But then he
did not wholly trust
her
. “Aye,” she said.

“I have no clue as to where the Houdinian might have taken the engine.”

“Nor do I,” Willie said, then smiled. “But I do know of someone who might have the
past knowledge to point us in the right direction.”

Three days came and went. With every sunrise, Willie had deemed herself fit enough
to proceed with their expedition. Yet each day she physically faltered.

Until day four.

Upon that day,
this
day, mind conquered body. No, she did not have full use of her right arm. Far from
it. Her shoulder pained her like the devil. Her arm and therefore her hand did not
respond as it should. Indeed her hand felt nearly numb. Although she could not hide
the fumbling of pencils and utensils, hair combs, and such from Simon, she did conceal
her intense discomfort. She would conquer this inconvenience or she would, at the
least, manage the pain.

Willie shoved the last of her belongings into her valise. She was becoming most proficient
with her left hand, although what little writing she’d done in her journal resembled
a child’s. No matter, she assured herself, at least it was somewhat legible. Though
she tried her best not to entertain the notion, the realist in her warned that she
might never recover normal use of her right arm. In which case, she needed to adapt.

Clasping the latch of her valise, she moved to the window and looked down upon High
Street. Another blustery snowy day. She did not care. She would relish every biting
chill. Aside from a brief daily walk in order to garner fresh air and exercise, Willie
had been cooped up in this small rented room for seven days! Simon had done his best
to distract and entertain her, ensuring she had at least three daily newspapers. Plenty
of fodder for discussion and debate and several word games to occupy her mind. They’d
also pored over her BOM, searching for more clues regarding the Houdinians, speculating
about the true capabilities of assorted modern marvels, and bemoaning various global
atrocities. Part of Willie wished that her mother and the rest of the brilliant and
innovative Peace Rebels would have stayed in their own time, working harder to overcome
the crises of the twentieth century rather than fleeing what they perceived as a doomed
world in order to rewrite history.

Then again, had that been the case, Willie would not have been born. She would not
have met Simon. It would seem as if they were indeed destined for togetherness in
some form or fashion. Blessedly there’d been no further talk of marriage—a notion
that vexed Willie on multiple levels. They had, however, been intimate nightly. Willie
had taken her heart out of the equation, fully focusing on the physical pleasures
of lovemaking. She was the daughter of a Mod, after all. A generation who had preached,
Make love, not war.
Indeed, she was fairly open-minded about sex. At least sex with Simon.

She smiled a little, thinking how he continued to be tender and somewhat cautious
in deference to her injuries. Spectacular was still on the horizon. Not that there
was anything wrong with skilled. A sensuous ache coiled Willie’s stomach as she reflected
on just
how
skilled Simon was.

Gads.

Indeed, the nights and random portions of the days had been spent most pleasurably.
Simon had proved a most stimulating constant companion. She would even go so far as
to say she enjoyed his company—except for when he scolded her for overtaxing her shoulder
or lectured her regarding yo-yo techniques. Two days ago, out of boredom, Willie had
snagged the yo-yo from her case. Apparently the Freak doctor had emphasized the importance
of gently exercising her damaged muscles. Finessing a yo-yo as it twirled and glided
up and down a string attached to her middle finger seemed like an inspired bit of
therapy to Willie. Simon agreed. Unfortunately, he was determined to give her lessons
when it came to specialty tricks. It’s not that he was an impatient teacher.
She
was an impatient student. In her heart she knew she had the intellect and talent
to learn; what she lacked was strength and flexibility. One impulsive act had quite
possibly cost her the full mobility of her right arm for life. Not that she would
take back that terrifying moment in the catacombs. Searching her own memories, she
was certain Simon would have taken a direct hit between his shoulder blades had she
not pushed him aside. He could have been killed or at the very least crippled, his
spine o’blasterated.

No, she did not regret her actions. Just her slow and frustrating recovery.

Anxious to be on their way, Willie turned from the window and paced the small room.
She checked her time cuff, then her pocket watch. The timepieces concurred. Simon
had been gone for four hours, thirty-five minutes, and eleven seconds. He’d promised
they would leave for England as soon as he returned from an important errand. He’d
been running “errands” for the past three days, each time returning with a few
girly
purchases. He seemed most earnest in reacquainting Willie with her feminine side,
and very much to her surprise, she could not resist the decadent temptation of silk
unmentionables and French perfume. Much like their lovemaking, it had seemed a wicked
boon whilst locked away from the harsh realities of the maddening world.

That moment, Simon walked through the door and her heart fluttered like an infatuated
schoolgirl’s. As always, he was windblown yet impeccably dressed. So dashing. So tempting.
She could kiss this man for hours. Annoyed by her shallow thoughts, she tore her gaze
from his gorgeous face and noted the large leather bag slung over his shoulder.

“Sorry to be so long,” he said whilst laying his goods gently upon the bed. “Complications.
But I do believe I mastered that infernal glitch.”

Willie’s pulse skipped as Simon tugged off his gloves, then flipped the latches of
the case.

“What
have
you purchased now?”

“I didn’t buy it. Well, not as is. I built it.”

What the . . . She’d expected a fur-lined greatcoat or perhaps a flowered or feathered
top hat. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined . . . “An arm.” She gaped at
the jointed contraption. “You built me an artificial arm?”

“A Thera-Steam-Atic Brace. A steam-powered prosthesis that will enhance your strength
and mobility. Temporarily,” he added with an encouraging smile. “Just until your arm
is functioning properly. I’ve devised a shoulder guard as well. Armor, if you will.
Added protection for your most damaged and sensitive area. The brace and guard attach
to this combination waistcoat��cutaway skirt. A garment inspired by my sister, who
also favors trousers. Functional and fashionable. At least that was my intention.”
He angled his head, frowned. “You hate it.”

The hardware was intricate and fascinating. The garment—feminine but not overly frilly
and made to be worn over trousers or a long skirt. What touched her most was the thought
behind the gift. “On the contrary, I am most impressed and humbled.” Stunned, she
shoved her good hand through her hair. “This is what you’ve been doing for the past
few days? Designing and engineering a therapeutic brace?”

“I worked on the sketches and calculations whilst you read or wrote in your journal,
mentally cataloged my supplies, then located a tinkerer in New Town who could accommodate
my needs. His workshop was top-notch, as were his skills. Mr. Standish proved a most
competent assistant and his wife, a talented seamstress. She helped devise the augmented
waistcoat. It took a few days, some trial and error, but I was highly motivated.”
Simon vibrated with excitement. “Ditch your sack coat. The baggy vest as well.”

Which left her in striped trousers, a flouncy-sleeved blouse . . . and her new silky
unmentionables. Exposed, by Willie’s standards. “Whatever inspired this creation?”
she asked, entranced by Simon’s infectious energy.

“I’d been thinking about Leo.”

“Who?”

“My sister’s enhanced falcon.” Simon told her a story about how his father had created
and fitted an injured bird with an artificial beak and talons whilst he suited Willie
up in his own fantastic design. “Then, whilst reading the Book of Mods the other night,
I came to that passage on robotics and something clicked.” He secured the last strap
and cinched the corseted waistcoat tight. “How does it feel?”

“Foreign. Snug.” She glanced down at the gleaming brass rods, cylinders, and gears.
The etched shoulder guard and brocaded black and gold corset. The fitted bodice cinched
her waist and provided lift to her small breasts, affording a hint of cleavage. She
lifted a suspicious brow. “Surprisingly seductive.”

“Because of the woman wearing it.”

Willie’s heart pounded beneath her customized garment. Partly because of the heat
in Simon’s gaze. Mostly because of a deep and crushing fear. “Within the privacy of
these walls, I acquiesced to my feminine self, but out there . . . in the real world
I am Willie G. The Clockwork Canary. I navigate life with the confidence and ease
of a male. I do not . . . I cannot . . .” She swallowed hard, panic stirring in her
blood. “Blast you for twisting me up, Simon Darcy.”

He tucked her shaggy hair behind her ears, framed her face with his hands. “I understand
your motivation in terms of concealing your race. But your gender? You ask too much
of yourself, Willie. And of me. I have no intention of losing you again. And, by damn,
I will not see you struggling with circumstances on your own. I know,” he said, cutting
her off when she tried to interject. “You’d manage. I have no doubt. You have managed
for a good long time. If anyone is impressed and humbled, it is me. Now please do
me the favor of allowing me to assist.”

Poleaxed by his fervid plea, she fairly swooned. Instead, she gestured to the Thera-Steam-Atic
Brace. “How does this inspired gadget work?”

His eyes lit up and torched her heart. “Engineering the device was a bit of a challenge,
but it is, in fact, quite simple to manipulate.”

Willie listened intently as he walked her through the procedure. A toggle here. A
button there. She did as Simon instructed and, upon second try, grasped a pen in her
augmented right hand and wrote upon a page most beautifully. “You’re a genius,” she
said in honest, unabashed awe.

“I am my father’s son,” he said with a twinge of melancholy. “That is, I inherited
his passion for tinkering with inventions. I do not believe I ever told him how much
I admired his tenacity.”

Willie swallowed hard, feeling guilty about that wretched article regarding Reginald
Darcy. For someone who composed sentences for a living, this moment she struggled
with a proper response. “I wager he was aware of your regard.”

“Perhaps. At any rate,” Simon said, shrugging off the dark moment, “I do think Papa
would have been particularly impressed and flattered by this invention.”

“Because you were inspired by his modifications for Leo?”

“A remarkable accomplishment.”

“As is this.” Willie manipulated her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace, grasping the whiskey
bottle Simon had purchased two nights prior, and steadily pouring them a drink. She
could feel the brace supporting yet manipulating her muscles. Her spirits soared,
as did her confidence. “Astonishing,” she said. “Truly, Simon.” She lifted her glass
in a toast. “To your innovative brilliance.”

He dipped his chin in quiet gratitude, but she caught the flash of excitement in his
eyes as he clinked his glass to hers. “To your good health.”

Willie thought about his brother, Jules, and how Simon had always felt a bit inferior
to his glorified twin. And she knew most certainly that his famous cousin Briscoe
cast a wide shadow. Simon was most inspired and gifted in his own right. How frustrating
it must be trying to excel above and beyond the Time Voyager. To make one’s mark.

Project Monorail.

A most wondrous concept that would have indeed been a celebrated contribution to society.
Why exactly had it been stonewalled? The pressman in Willie itched to know.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Simon said as he recalibrated a
portion of her brace. “This time-tracing ability. Does it work on everyone?”

She smiled down at the top of his head. “You mean, can I trace,
have
I traced, your memories? I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

He caught her gaze briefly. “So can you?” he asked, then went back to tinkering.

“I cannot. It is a conundrum, I confess. It did not happen of its own accord upon
the many times we touched nor when I intentionally ‘focused’ out of curiosity. Your
memories are closed to me, Simon. I cannot say I am sorry.”

“Nor I.”

“You have secrets?”

“I have a history.”

“With the ladies.” She snorted in jest, but her jealous heart squeezed. “Your affairs
are fodder for many a man’s fantasy. At least those men working at the
Informer
.”

Once again his gaze flicked to hers, only this time he held it. “My affairs are but
dalliances and have nothing to do with here and now. With us. From here on out there
will be but one woman in my bed.”

Willie’s heart hammered against her chest with joy. With dread. She did not play coy.
“You’re suggesting forever with a Freak, Simon.”

“I am.”

“I’m the first generation of my kind. Anything is possible.”

“How thrilling.”

“My life span could be short or it could be eternal. My supernatural skills could
spiral out of control and overtake me or . . . or disappear altogether.”

“I could get hit by an automocoach tomorrow,” Simon said. “Or develop some horrific
lingering disease. Nothing is a given.”

“There has been no documentation of a second generation. Yes, we are young, but not
too young to engage in affairs and, hypothetically, produce children. What if we are
infertile? Or what if those born of a Freak and Freak or a Freak and Vic are so hideous
that—”

Simon kissed her. Deeply and with great passion. At once her anxiety melted away,
and when at last he broke off, Willie swayed. Holding her steady, he quirked an arrogant,
heart-stopping smile. “Concern noted and rejected. Here’s what’s going to happen,
sweetheart. We’re going to do as you suggested and visit your father in hopes that
he can, through his memories, lead us to the Houdinian and the clockwork propulsion
engine. But first, we’re going to wed. I don’t give a good damn if it’s legal in the
eyes of the queen. It will be significant to me and for once, I’m going to get what
I want. That would be you.” He brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “Are we in accord,
Canary?”