Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

“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.”

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.