Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

Old Worlder—conservatives who shun radical change and fear divergence, preferring to move forward with the natural march of time.

Peabody 382—an enhanced gentlemen’s pistol. Pretty but deadly.

Peace Rebels—twentieth-century peace fanatics from the fields of the arts and sciences who traveled back to the nineteenth century, intent on altering history and circumventing future chaos and destruction . . . and ultimately Armageddon. As time went on, also a moniker for any Vic who joined their cause.

Peace War(1860–1864)—a four-year transcontinental war stemming from advanced twentieth-century knowledge that led to corruption on both sides of the Atlantic, infecting Americans and Europeans, Vics and Mods, blurring politics, culture, and beliefs. As a result, society divided into two factions—Old Worlders and New Worlders.

Remington Blaster—a nineteenth-century revolver enhanced with twentieth-century technology.

skytown—floating pleasure meccas composed of three to five airships. “Above the law,” these traveling hippie circuses offer illegal and outlawed entertainment and welcome equal fraternizing amongst Mods, Vics, and Freaks . . . and assorted criminals.

stun cuff—a common weapon of defense. A highly charged metal bracelet that “zaps” the attacker with a jolt of electricity. Works through the same concept as a twentieth-century stun gun.

telecommunicator—a handheld communication device that transmits coded messages.

tele-talkie—similar to a twentieth-century walkie-talkie; a personal two-way radio device.

Thera-Steam-Atic Brace—a steam-powered prosthesis.

Time Voyager—Briscoe Darcy, nineteenth-century engineer/visionary who invented a time machine and traveled into the future, ultimately enabling the twentieth-century Peace Rebels to travel back to the 1800s.

time-trace—a supernatural skill. The ability to experience another person’s memories.

torchlight—a battery-powered tube of light similar to a twentieth-century flashlight.

Vic—any person born of parents from the nineteenth century.

GREAT BRITAIN, 1887 KENT—THE ASHFORD ESTATE

Since the day he’d been born (three and a half minutes later than his twin brother), Simon Darcy had been waging war with time. He had either too much of it or not enough. Somehow his timing was always off. Bad timing had cost him much in his thirty-one years. Most recently, his father, Reginald Darcy, Lord of Ashford.

The proof was in his pocket.

Simon didn’t need to read the abominable article—he had it memorized—yet he couldn’t help unfolding the wretched newsprint and torturing himself once again. As if he deserved the misery. Which he did.

The London Informer

January 5, 1887

MAD INVENTOR DIES IN QUEST FOR GLORY

The Right Honorable Lord Ashford, lifelong resident of Kent, blew himself up yesterday whilst building a rocket ship destined for the moon. Ashford, a distant cousin of the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored to be obsessed with making his own mark on the world. 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’s gut cramped as he obsessed on the article that had haunted him for days. For the billionth time, he cursed the Clockwork Canary, lead pressman for the Informer , as heartless. The insensitive print blurred before Simon’s eyes as his blood burned. Instead of tossing the infernal sensationalized reporting of his father’s death, he had ripped the article from the London scandal sheet, then folded and tucked the announcement into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, next to his tattered heart.

For all his guilt and grief upon learning of his beloved, albeit eccentric, father’s demise, Simon had stuffed his emotions. His mother and younger sister would be devastated. Especially his sister, Amelia, who shared their papa’s fascination with flying and who’d lived and worked alongside the old man on Ashford—the family’s country estate. For them, Simon would be a rock. As would his ever unflappable twin brother, Jules.

Simon had made the trip from his own home in London down to Kent posthaste. He’d remained stoic throughout the constable’s investigation of the catastrophic accident, as well as through the poorly attended funeral. He’d even managed a calm demeanor whilst listening to the solicitor’s reading of the will—unlike his dramatic and panic-stricken mother. Although upon this occasion, he could not blame her for the intensity of her outburst.

The Darcys were penniless.

Simon and Jules had their personal savings and fairly lucrative careers, but the family fortune was gone, and as such, Ashford itself was at stake.

Even after sleeping on the shocking revelation, Simon couldn’t shake the magnitude of his father’s folly. His mind and heart warred with the knowledge, with the implication, and with the outcome. Because of Simon’s ill timing and arrogance, his mother and sister were now destitute.

“Do not assume blame.”

Simon breathed deeply as his brother limped into the cramped confines of the family dining room. “Do not assume to know my mind.”

“Has grief struck you addle, brother?” Dark brow raised, Jules sat and reached for the coffeepot. Like their father, the Darcy twins had always preferred brewed coffee over blended teas.

Simon flashed back on one of his father’s quirky inventions—an electric bean-grinding percolator—which might have proved useful, except, as a staunch Old Worlder, their mother had refused to allow Ashford to utilize electricity.

Destitute and living in the Dark Ages.

Riddled with emotions, he pocketed the blasted scandal sheet and met his twin’s steady gaze. But of course Jules would know his mind. The older brother by mere minutes, he always seemed to have the jump on Simon. Even so far as guessing or knowing his thoughts. Simon was often privy to Jules’s notions as well, and sometimes they even had what their little sister referred to as “twin conversations.” Whether spurred by intuition or some bizarre version of telepathy, they often finished each other’s sentences. It drove Amelia mad.

“I could’ve been working alongside my mentor on Tower Bridge,” Simon said. “Instead I chose to pursue my own brilliant idea.”

“You doubt the merit of a public transportation system high above the congested streets of London?”

“No.” Simon’s monorail system inspired by the Book of Mods would have eased ground traffic and air pollution caused by the rising population and number of steam-belching and petrol-guzzling automocoaches. It would have provided an affordable mass transit alternative to London’s underground rail service.

It would have afforded Simon the recognition and respect he craved.

“I regret that I boasted prematurely about my project. Had I not bragged, Papa would not have invested the family fortune.” Sickened, Simon dragged his hands though his longish hair. “Bloody hell, Jules. What was the old fool thinking?”

“That he believed in you.”

“When the project failed, I Teletyped Papa immediately. Railed against the injustice of political corruption. Wallowed in self-pity. What was I thinking?”

“That he would damn the eyes of the narrow-minded and manipulative Old Worlders. That he’d side with you. Ease your misery.” Jules looked away. “He excelled at that. Building us up. Making us believe we were capable of whatever our hearts and minds desired.”