His Clockwork Canary

by Beth Ciotta

  “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?”

  Their marriage would never last for a dozen reasons, starting with Strangelove, but, this moment, she could not deny Simon . . . or her heart. “Aye.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Simon couldn’t decide which thrilled him more: Willie’s reaction to his Thera-Steam-Atic Brace or his insistence that they wed. Although he assumed she would be amenable to anything that would accelerate her healing, he did not think she would adjust so easily to the brace. Nor did he expect such praise for his mechanical creation. His chest had swelled with pride. An adrenaline rush had rendered him dizzy. A preposterous, overblown reaction to her professing him brilliant
. But by God, it had felt good.

  Building one therapeutic brace for one woman paled in comparison with building a fuel-efficient monorail system for an entire city and yet it had felt equally important. Was this how his father had felt when fitting Leo with his artificial parts? Was this why he hadn’t bragged to the press or dragged Leo off to some scientific exhibition? Were Leo’s ability to adapt and Amelia’s undying gratitude satisfaction enough?

  “I shall miss this city,” Willie said as their hansom cab rolled over the cobblestone of High Street.

  “We must return at some point,” Simon said. “A leisure trip as opposed to business.”

  She smiled but looked away and Simon knew she did not believe that they would be together long enough to enjoy a future holiday. Although she’d agreed to marry him, her lack of faith in a long and successful union was monstrously clear. Aside from the concerns she’d stated, she did not believe their marriage would be legal and binding. She assumed, the moment it was known she was a Freak, they would be no more than illicit lovers in the eyes of society as well as the British government. Which might have been the case, except Simon was of the mind that every law had a loophole, and he was confident he’d determined two whilst perusing assorted resources he’d found at a library within a few blocks of Squire’s Inn.

  The British law that pertained to legal religious marriages of Vics and Freaks had never been enforced in Scotland. Hence if they married in Scotland . . . Loophole number one.

  “The coachman missed our turn,” Willie said as they rolled past Cockburn Road.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “But Waverley Station—”

  “We’re not taking the train. And we’re not leaving for Canterbury until tomorrow morning.”

  “But—”

  “It’s dusk and I have other plans for the evening.”

  Although her eyes were shielded behind the deep amber–tinted spectacles she’d insisted upon wearing, Simon knew her rainbow gaze was narrowed. “Where are we going, Simon?”

  “To the nearest skytown.” Loophole number two. Transient pleasure meccas floating above major cities and therefore “above the law,” skytowns welcomed Freaks, Mods, and Vics with open gangways. He anticipated little difficulty in locating a certified clergyman, or, hell, even one of those love gurus, to perform a civil wedding ceremony between a Freak and a Vic. By night’s end, Miss Goodenough would be a Darcy.

  For better, for worse.

  • • •

  Willie held silent as Simon escorted her onto the compact steam-powered dirigible that would transport them from the lush fields of Arthur’s Seat to the pleasure mecca floating amongst the stars. Her mind, however, raced aplenty.

  Her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace was packed safely away and stowed with their luggage; thus, she found it difficult to manipulate the buckle of the seat harness. Between her weak arm and the thick gloves she’d donned against the frigid weather, the task proved impossible. In her mind, she swore most vigorously. Her pride warred with gratitude as Simon completed the task for her, initiating another stream of colorful mental curses.

  Rather than consoling her, Simon passed the grungy pilot several banknotes. “Make haste, good man.” He then settled next to Willie on the cramped bench, wrapping his arm about her as the air transport lunged forward and picked up speed, rolling across the grass, bouncing toward a precipice, lifting and lifting, until the vehicle at last took flight.

  Willie let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding. It wasn’t as if she were unaccustomed to flying. But this night vibrated with a plethora of unknowns.

  “As luck would have it,” Simon said close to her ear, “a skytown hovers just past the northern boundaries of the city. This won’t take long.”

  She merely nodded, keeping her gaze lowered as she tried to tame her riotous emotions. Simon intended for them to wed this very evening. He had not said specifically as such, but she was a savvy sort and he was none too subtle. She had not anticipated this moment so soon. “This moment is long overdue,” she could imagine him saying. However, it would not be as she had imagined her dream ceremony. No family. No pretty bustled gown with yards of silk and lace.

  Upon leaving Squire’s Inn, Willie had bundled up in her normal boyish layers, including her oversized duster, three colorful scarves, and the man-sized, cashmere-lined gloves given to her by Simon. Even her floppy newsboy cap was firmly in place. With the exception of her fair, tanning-agent-free complexion, Willie looked much as she had every day of the past ten years. Only she didn’t feel the same. Beneath the mannish ensemble beat the heart of a woman on the verge of what should be the most memorable and beautiful event of her life.

  This would not be a traditional wedding, which logically was to be expected given her extraordinary circumstances. And true, they had initially planned to elope all those years ago, which would have entailed a quick and simple ceremony. Still, she harbored fanciful thoughts of silk, lace, and flowers.

  “You’re shivering.” Simon huddled closer, holding her tighter, assuming she was cold.

  Again she said nothing, just snuggled into his embrace. She was not shivering so much as trembling. Excitement. Anxiety. Anticipation. Numerous afflictions rattled her senses.

  Willie gazed ahead through the transparent shield that afforded protection from the forceful winds. Given her enhanced night vision, she easily spotted their destination in the not-so-far distance.

  Though insanely popular, skytowns were considered an eyesore and outrage amongst polite society. By their very nature they courted scandal and trouble, and as a way of avoiding hassle by ALE (Air Law Enforcement), they rarely hovered in one place for more than a couple of days. Composed of four to five airships with connecting gangways, skytowns were interchangeable and mobile.

  And highly decadent.

  Gambling halls, opium dens, brothels. Coffeehouses featured outlawed folk and rock music inspired by twentieth-century Mods and served liquor and weed on the side. Transformation centers afforded visitors the chance to live out a night’s fetish or fantasy via elaborate temporary makeovers. Merchants and artisans peddled wares of the Love Generation—bongs, herbs, incense, flower patches, bell-bottoms, peasant dresses, and love beads. Simon had been correct in saying anything could be bought in Skytown. Anything was possible and anything went.

  One would think such freedom would spur much trouble, but for the most part, brutal violence was rare on these fleets of fancy. Even though Willie had always boarded a skytown in disguise, she never felt more at ease then when navigating the aerial bazaars that flew under the Peace Rebel flag. Even though she was half-Vic, there was something about the circle with a stick and two legs—the sign of “peace”—that soothed and invigorated Willie’s soul.

  Some things were worth fighting for.

  She stole a glance at Simon, pondered the kindness he’d shown her over the last few days, and reflected on his charm and affections at the onset of their youthful affair. Perhaps she’d given up on him and their love far too easily. She knew not what to make of this second chance, could not yet see her way around a biracial union . . . or Strangelove’s threat. But, by damn, she would at least rise to the challenge. She would live in the moment and tackle the future day by day. She would manage.

  Willie’s pulse raced as their air transport drifted toward the massive dirigibles joined and silhouetted against the darkened sky. All manner of lighting twinkled in the airships’ windows and the decks were awash in the soft glow of moonlight and assorted illuminated carnival rides. Although she knew much of the nocturnal activities on board to be bawdy, this moment Willie viewed the spectacle as delightfully romantic. Her heart danced and her stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation.

  Was this how a Vic or Mod woman, a normal woman, felt on her way to a conventional church? On the way to her wedding? “Are you sure about this?” she asked as their air dinghy docked.

  “Think of it as Gretna Green,” Simon said. “In the air.
” He tipped the transport captain and issued orders regarding the delivery of their luggage.

  Willie took a calming breath as Simon lifted her upon a swinging gangway and guided her toward the sounds of rollicking fun.

  Dressed in the flamboyant threads of a hippie, a professional long-haired greeter approached as they crossed to the deck of a magnificent airship advertised as the Love Bug. Willie glanced heavenward, smiling at the ship’s attached bally. The steam-air balloon was painted a rainbow of bright swirling colors. Psychedelic, her mother would say. Cool.

  “Welcome to Skytown,” the greeter said. “Name’s Woodstock, but you can call me Bear.”

  Simon raised a brow at that and Amelia sniffed. She knew that scent. “Bear” was stoned. He was also American. She knew not why, but young Americans seemed most drawn to the “Peace, man” and “free love” messages of the Mods.

  “Right, then. Bear,” Simon said. “Anyone on this dirigible perform marriages?”

  “Not this dig, but two digs over, the Flying Flower. Reverend Karma. Hitches anyone who declares their love.” He looked from Simon to Willie and smirked. “Though this might be a first.”

  Willie realized then that Bear saw her as a man. Although her objective for a decade, it was the last thing she wanted this eve. Irritated, she swept off her cap and shoved her hair out of her face. “I’m a woman.”

  “My mistake,” Bear said. “And a pretty one at that. Dig the shades, by the way.”

  Willie was tempted to dispense with her tinted spectacles as well, but it had been jolting enough confessing her gender, never mind her race. “Where would I find the transformation center?” she asked Bear.

  “Why would you want to go there?” Simon asked.

  “I’d rather look like a bride than a groom,” she answered honestly.

  “I don’t care—”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony,” she said.