His Clockwork Canary

by Beth Ciotta

  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.

  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 & Ta
les 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.