His Clockwork Canary (8 page)

St. Giles’ Cathedral came into view and Willie’s chest tightened with a twinge of
melancholy and a hint of nostalgia. She had attended services here with her father.
Influenced by her mother, Willie had never committed to one faith and instead embraced
all. However, her father asked so little and his wife and son had given even less.
It had seemed a small and easy sacrifice to Willie to accompany her father to services
on Sunday mornings. Thereafter they’d wander over to Dunbars for a late breakfast.
She smiled a little, remembering how she’d reveled in the full Scottish fare, including
haggis and black pudding, whilst her father had opted for bland porridge. It had always
struck Willie as most extraordinary that her father, ever conservative in his culinary
choices and religious views, had married a Peace Rebel. A Mod. A person from another
time. He must’ve loved her mother very much indeed, and that made Willie love Michael
Goodenough all the more.

A brush of Simon’s arm jerked Willie out of her musings. “I would have paid,” she
whispered as he reached through the trapdoor at the rear of the roof and compensated
the coachman. “I received an advance—”

“From the
Informer
.”

From Strangelove, but she did not offer the distinction.

“Don’t quibble, Canary.” He vaulted from the cab and retrieved their luggage. “You
look like hell,” he said bluntly. “I need you fit and alert and ready to aid me in
my quest.”

Her vision blurred as he guided her to their lodgings. Her brain pounded and her stomach
rebelled. “Tomorrow,” she mumbled, losing focus.

“Soon enough.” He registered them both in haste, then escorted her up a skinny stairwell.
“What can I do for you?” he asked whilst unlocking her door.

He sounded genuinely concerned. Then again, that could be her mind playing tricks,
as her thoughts were most fuzzy. Desperate to suffer the migraine in private, Willie
procured her valise and hurried into the rented room. “Get some sleep, Darcy,” she
said, closing the door between them. “Tomorrow the adventure begins.”

J
ANUARY
13, 1887 E
DINBURGH,
S
COTLAND

Patience had never been one of Simon’s greater virtues, and retiring early to his
room had held no appeal. He would only wallow in somber thoughts—the loss of his project,
the death of his father, the betrayal of a long-ago love. He had not wished to brood
upon his ill luck, nor to obsess on the Canary’s true identity. He’d had no desire
to waste one precious minute whilst his brother raced toward Australia to meet with
a Mod genius in an extraordinary quest to snatch Briscoe’s time machine back from
the future. Not that he wished Jules misfortune, but by damn, Simon wanted,
needed
, to win this race.

Leaving the Canary to nurse her headache, he had stowed his bag in his room, intent
on initiating the investigation on his own. He had every faith in his ability to mingle
with pub regulars and to discreetly ferret out information regarding Jefferson Filmore.

Spirits & Tales had been easy enough to find. Simon had quickly endeared himself to
locals, chatting amiably and buying several rounds. He had always been the jovial
sort, so consorting with strangers had not proved a hardship. In the course of two
hours, he had learned much about Old Town and the haunted underground, but nothing
of Filmore. No one knew the name or the man.

He’d returned to the Squire’s Inn long after midnight, foxed on regional whiskey and
puzzling the Canary’s intent.
Why had she lied about Filmore working at that pub?
Simon had faltered at her door, wanting to question her, wanting to
see
her. If he knocked, would she answer half-asleep and half-naked? Would he recognize
the body and flesh beneath the boyish facade? Would he know at once and for certain
that she was indeed his Mina? Or would he know without a doubt that she was some other
female altogether?

He’d hesitated on the threshold. No,
swayed
on the threshold. Liquor had addled his senses, and most probably his judgment. Confronting
the enigmatic Willie G. whilst foxed would be unwise.

Irritated, Simon had returned to his own room. He’d stripped naked and collapsed on
the rented bed. Passing out would have been a blessing, but his guilty conscience
had prevented such a luxury. Instead, he’d wrestled through the night with insomnia
and a maelstrom of regrets and yearnings.

By the time dawn streaked through a crack in the drawn curtains, Simon was unsure
as to whether he’d truly ever drifted off. His mind worked and circled as keenly in
a dream state as it did whilst fully conscious.

Hung over and exhausted, he pushed out of bed, anxious to attack the day. He hurried
through his morning ablutions, determined to rally with a fortifying breakfast before
going head-to-head with the Canary. She had looked so sickly the night before. Surely
she would sleep until noon. Yet when Simon entered the public dining area, there she
was, eating heartily and looking obnoxiously refreshed.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Do you always sleep so late?” she asked in between bites. “I rang you up, but there
was no answer.”

“Perhaps I was in the bath.”

“Perhaps,” she said without looking up.

Simon sat without an invitation. A serving woman greeted him with a smile and a menu,
as well as the choice of tea or coffee. He opted for coffee, strong and black. He
looked from the menu to the Canary’s plate—a colorful mess of assorted fare. “What
are
you inhaling?”

“Eggs, back bacon, bangers, baked beans, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, and . . .” She
pushed about the food with her fork. “Ah, yes. Tattie scones, black pudding, and haggis.”
She furrowed her brow. “Perhaps you are not acquainted—”

“I’m acquainted. Not a fan.”

“Of black pudding or haggis? I know sheep’s innards are an acquired taste for some
but—”

“I’ll have porridge,” Simon said to the server as his stomach rebelled.

“You look knackered, Darcy,” the Canary said as she shoveled more food into her mouth.

He tried not to focus on those mesmerizing lips, smeared and shiny with melted butter.
How could greasy lips be so infuriatingly enticing? “Ravenous, are you?”

“Indeed.”

“I take it you’re feeling better.”

“Amazingly better.”

“Bully for you.” Simon sipped the bracing, strong coffee, then glared. “Why did you
mislead me?”

Her actions slowed. “How do you mean?”

“You told me Filmore tends bar at Spirits & Tales.”

“Oh. I mean, he does.”

“I spent the better part of last night there. He does not.”

She glanced up, peering at him through strands of dark, shaggy hair. “Is that the
reason for your bloodshot eyes and cranky mood, Darcy?” Smirking, she forked up a
bit of bean and mushroom glop. “Hung over?”

He reached for a slice of dry toast. “No one at Spirits & Tales has ever heard of
Jefferson Filmore.”

“That’s because he’s utilizing an alias. Few Mods live in the open as themselves.
Most are persecuted for instigating the Peace War or hunted and hounded for their
advanced knowledge. Filmore’s laying low and collecting a living wage under the name
Flash. Jim Flash.”

Simon frowned. “Why didn’t you say so last night?”

“Don’t bite my head off because you got pished, Darcy.”

The discreet and soft-spoken server set a bowl of porridge in front of Simon. She
flitted away and he focused on the face that taunted him. Willie’s face. Mina’s face.
Though, Christ, her complexion seemed even more off today. Darker. Ruddier. “What
are you playing at, Canary?”

“I assure you this is not a game.” She shoved aside her plate, her appetite appeased
or stolen away. “I only hope you didn’t tip off Filmore and scare him away with your
reckless prodding.”

Patience spent, Simon set aside his spoon. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. We need to work together. I need to secure my job. You need to secure
finances for your family.” She pushed out of her chair, looking defiant and, to the
common eye, like a cocky, gangly young man possessing sensationally bad taste in fashion.
“I’ll meet you at Spirits & Tales in one hour. Until then, I have private matters
to attend. Enjoy your porridge, Darcy.”

•   •   •

Porridge.

At once Willie had been charmed and disgusted that Simon would order boiled oats.
So unadventurous. So like her father. Although, in truth and in most matters, she
knew Simon to be bold to the point of foolhardy. A hundred memories welled, those
days long ago when she and Simon had been so hopelessly in love, daring each other
to pursue new experiences, to sample life to the fullest. Curious and courageous to
the point of being reckless, they’d been the perfect match. He had been willing to
do just about anything . . . except marry a Freak.

Refusing to dwell on the betrayal, Willie tucked her hands beneath her armpits in
an effort to keep them warm. Her gloves suffered from long wear and they were not
well made to begin with. She kept meaning to purchase a new pair, but funds were tight
and she had other priorities—such as making sure her father had suitable winter clothing.
Winters battered the countryside more than the city. Although Edinburgh was far more
raw than London.

Head down against the fierce and frigid wind, Willie stalked from Squire’s Inn to
St. Giles’ Cathedral, also known as the High Kirk of Edinburgh. A short distance,
but the freezing weather had made the walkway slick with ice. Her stride was cautious
as she crossed the cobbled street. To her right, high upon the volcanic crag of Castle
Hill, loomed Edinburgh Castle—an ancient and daunting stone fortress. A more welcoming
royal residence sprawled to her left, at the base of the Royal Mile. The Palace of
Holyroodhouse. In between, numerous businesses hawked local wares, food, and whiskey.
Here the air was crisp and clean, free of the fumes and smoke that marred other parts
of the industrialized city.

Few pedestrians were about this cold, dreary morning, and Willie reveled in the relative
silence as she stopped short of the paved courtyard and absorbed the majesty of St.
Giles’. The glorious stained-glass windows. The famous Crown Spire on the tower. The
present incarnation of the church dated back to the fourteenth century, although the
Gothic cathedral had recently benefited from a major restoration. The Lord Provost
of Edinburgh had charged two acclaimed architects with creating a “Westminster Abbey
for Scotland.” Hay and Henderson had done well.

“Astonishing,” Willie remarked as she hurried toward the cathedral steps.

She did not expect Simon to be on her heels. “Why here?” he asked.

“It’s personal,” she said whilst spinning to face him. His windblown hair and impeccable
clothing triggered the same sense of awe she’d gotten whilst admiring the spire. This
six-foot-two, supreme specimen of a man was a glorious sight. Although worn around
the edges from too much drink and too little sleep, Simon was strikingly handsome.
Sinfully handsome. She blocked several inappropriate thoughts and frowned at the infuriating
devil. “I thought you were nursing breakfast.”

“You thought wrong. Don’t let me stop you,” he said as she hesitated on the threshold.

Willie considered fleeing, but she had not been to Edinburgh in ages, and the lure
to celebrate her father in his better days was much too strong. Turning her back on
Simon, she entered the dimly lit holy place and hustled past monuments, stone pillars,
and tucked-away chapels. The interior was massive, comprising several arches and vaulted
ceilings. She did not need to look to know that Simon was assessing the magnificent
architecture. Intending a thoughtful moment of silence for her father, Willie sat
in a simple wooden chair several rows from an unoccupied pulpit. She ignored Simon,
hoping he’d continue on, losing himself in one or another engineering aspect of the
renovation.

As her dismal luck would have it, he perched on the chair next to her.

“Religious?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

“Not particularly,” she whispered. “Although I am tolerant of all religions just as
I am tolerant of all nationalities and races.”

He slid her a look and she cursed herself for sounding bitter. “You think I am not?”
he asked softly.

“I think, like most people, you have boundaries.”

“But you do not?”

“I do not.”

“You’re an arrogant one,” Simon said.

Dawson had made the same accusation. She had never thought of herself as thus. The
notion rankled. “As are you,” she retorted. Although she had made it clear that she
did not appreciate the way he encroached on her personal space, he continued to do
so.

“You claim we’ve never met,” he said, shifting and staring hard at her profile. “Yet
you profess to know my beliefs and practices. Tell me, Canary, are you psychic? Do
you possess some sort of mental telepathy or trickery that helps you tap into another
person’s thoughts? Is that what makes you such a keen interviewer?”

He was being sarcastic, trying to provoke her, but he was also quite close to the
mark.

Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear. “Can you read my thoughts?’

“I cannot,” she answered honestly, edging away and cursing the rapid pace of her pulse.

“That is good. This moment they would not be to your liking. Or perhaps they would,”
he added with a wicked smile.

As chilled as she was, Willie heated from head to toe. “You are insufferable, Darcy.
Depraved and . . . irreverent,” she said, indicating their holy surroundings.

“And you, Canary, are a dichotomy. Dodgy and heartless.”

“Heartless?”

Someone shushed them.

Slouching lower in her seat, Willie glared at Simon. “And that harsh assessment is
based on what?” Did he think Freaks were without feelings? Without a soul? Many Vics
did.

He started to say something, then reconsidered. “
Why
are we here?”

“
I
am here to honor my father.”

“Did he pass?”

“Not in body, no. But his mind . . .” She shook her head. “His mind wanders.”

“And this disgusts you?” Simon asked, sounding irritated.

“Of course not,” she snapped in a hushed voice. “Why would you say that?”

“‘Ashford, a distant cousin of the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored
to be obsessed with making his own mark on the world,’” he recited from the
Informer
. “‘Fortunately for the realm and unfortunately for his family, Ashford’s inventions
paled to that of Darcy, earning him ridicule instead of respect, wealth, or fame.’”

Simon glared down at her. “You intimated that my father was a failure and featherbrain
when he was indeed quite brilliant, just unfocused.
His
mind wandered as well. On to the next great idea before perfecting the last. Clearly
such folly must frustrate or disgust you; otherwise why would you sneer at a good
man’s efforts?”

She had not sneered. Dawson had sneered, revising her initial words in order to sell
more newspapers. Yet, defending herself was not an option. She could not afford to
expose herself by expressing regret over that article. She could not afford any intimacy
whatsoever. She braced her spine and sniffed. “I do what I must to survive,” she said
in a tight voice. “For instance, I am here, with you, on this suspect expedition because
I was given no choice. Clearly you find my company offensive. Trust me, the feeling
is mutual.”

He blinked.

Willie buttoned her coat. “My time here is ruined.” Staying in character, she regarded
Simon with irritation whilst adjusting her scarves in anticipation of the cold. “You,
sir, are a selfish . . . knob. You squandered the power of the Darcy name, focusing
on your own glory, much like your cousin. I cannot believe I have been saddled with
touting the adventure of a Flatliner.” With that, she stood and left the cathedral.
It was not the confrontation she craved, but it was one of importance. The Simon Darcy
she had known and loved had evolved into a self-absorbed man. She’d kept tabs on him
over the years. How could she not? He was a Darcy and, by virtue of his heritage,
influential in global matters . . . or at least he
could
be. On numerous occasions she’d convinced herself that her obsessive interest in Simon
was social and political, and not of the amorous nature. She did not appreciate the
rekindling of her old affections. She did not welcome the physical attraction or the
feminine quirks he inspired.