by Beth Ciotta
“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.
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.”
CHAPTER 7
JANUARY 13, 1887 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
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 a
nd 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?”