Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

A troubling realization.

Indeed, the dawn had introduced a maelstrom of conflict. It was as if thwarting the law and marrying Simon had jarred every rebellious bone in her body. And yet she felt . . . unfocused. Restless. She’d known how to contribute to the cause whilst incognito, but could she truly make a positive difference regarding intolerance and equality operating as a female Freak? Aye, she’d been accepted on Skytown, but the real world would judge her most harshly, limiting her freedom and rights. Making it harder to achieve her goals. This morning, in the light of day, with reality looming, she questioned her brave new agenda. At the same time she would not, could not, revert to living a lie.

“At the risk of appearing vapid,” Simon said as they crossed the gangway to the Love Bug , “what happened between last night and this morning? Why are you angry with me?”

She stopped cold. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with the world.”

“Then let’s change the world.”

“You say that as if we can do so with the snap of our fingers.”

“Change is rarely easy. Historically you know this to be true.” Simon moved in and grasped her hands. “I don’t believe Phin rattled you so. You’re stronger than that. What troubles you truly?”

She glanced around Skytown, looking everywhere but at Simon. What troubled her? How about everything? So much on her mind. Too much to share. She’d been a lone wolf for so long. Unburdening herself, speaking her opinions and thoughts, her hopes and fears, did not come easily. Flustered, she homed in on one concern. One she could manage. “Do you remember the moment I time-traced Filmore?”

“The Houdinian?” He nodded, frowned. “Like it was yesterday.”

“I faltered in his memories. I stayed too long. Interfered. I’ve never done that before. There was a moment when I felt . . . lost. As if I’d never find my way out.”

“Go on.”

“It was terrifying. Exhausting. My father . . . I need to trace his memories in order to search for clues regarding the Houdinians and any knowledge of their process regarding the protection of the clockwork propulsion engine, but Daddy is not mentally stable. What if . . . what if I get lost and can’t come back?”

“Then don’t go. Ask him your questions straight out.”

“I can try that, but I’m afraid he’ll be evasive. He’s loyal to my mother and if she swore him to certain secrets . . . Also some details might be lost to his conscious mind yet available via ingrained memories. I need to know, Simon. Not just for you and the salvation of your family. I need to know for me . My mother . . . what was her true mission? Where did her allegiance lie? Did she truly love my father or was their marriage part of a necessary ruse? Everything she ever told us . . . it feels like a lie. I feel . . . misguided. Like I’m floundering. I don’t want to flounder. I need to know where I came from, what I’m meant for. I need to know who I am.”

“You’re Wilhelmina Darcy. The Clockwork Canary. My wife.”

“I need more. I’m sorry if that sounds cruel but—”

“I understand.” Simon dropped their bags and wrapped her in a strong embrace. “You want to make your mark on the world,” he said close to her ear. “You want to make a notable difference. I have wanted the same thing all my life. Perhaps if we work together.”

He sounded so strong, so sure of their alliance, and yet, as much as she wanted to spend the rest of her days with this man, Willie harbored no illusions. The queen and her sovereign would declare their marriage illegal. Null and void. As a couple of mixed dimensions they would be shunned, perhaps mocked. Simon’s reputation would suffer. Her own career might well be doomed.

And then there was Strangelove.

His telecommunicator burned a hole in her pocket as well as her conscience. The man had hired her to betray Simon. She’d taken his money. She’d buckled under his threats. She’d reconnected with Simon in order to cheat him of a technological invention of historical significance. Nothing personal. But now it was. On many and monumental levels.

“I have to make this right,” she blurted.

“Make what right?” Simon asked. “Us?”

“Everything.” Willie stepped back and bolstered her spine. Fretting would get her nowhere. Time-tracing would give them direction.

A shrill whistle seized their attention. Phineas Bourdain standing a few feet away, the pastry basket looped over his arm and a small clipper ship—the Flying Cloud , she assumed— hovering just beyond his shoulder.

“Anytime, lovebirds,” he called.

“You’ll get used to him,” Simon said to Willie whilst retrieving their bags.

Willie just smiled. Mr. Bourdain was the least of her problems. “When I trace my father’s memories,” she said as they made haste, “I’ll need your help.”

“Anything.”

Heart racing, she checked the hour on her time cuff, then her pocket watch. Synchronized to the second. Swallowing hard, she put her life in Simon’s hands by slipping her pocket watch into his coat. “I’ll need you to be my lifeline.”

Bundled up against the freezing temperature and strong winds, goggles firmly in place, Simon stood on the port side of the Flying Cloud , gripping the gunwale and staring down at the passing landscape.

Phin was a spectacular pilot and the few upgrades he’d managed on this boat had made a world of difference. Their flight out of Scotland and over northern England had, thus far, been as smooth as glass. Not once had they taken a sudden and heart-stopping dip. Eleven days ago, Simon had wrestled with a malfunctioning turbine and the steering mechanism had jammed. Piloting his father’s creation had been a bit of a harrowing experience. More than once he’d contemplated his own demise. Is that how Willie had felt when she’d gotten distracted in Filmore’s memories? A wisp or tremor of fear? The notion that she might not pull through the experience unscathed? That she was quite possibly flirting with death?

Could time-tracing kill her? Simon had mulled over the possibility as he’d helped Willie settle into a small but comfortable cabin. Whilst Phin had set a course for Canterbury, Willie had talked Simon through the upcoming time-trace with her father.

“Typically the transmitter is unaware that I am tracing,” she’d said. “But I think it would be best to be honest with my father. I want to stay longer, to probe deeper. If he knows what I’m doing, and if I’m in a safe and sequestered environment, it won’t matter that I appear to be daydreaming and unresponsive.”

“What’s the longest you’ve been in?” Simon asked.

“Up until Filmore, five to ten seconds. The first time with Filmore—thirty seconds. That was shocking, but not so unsettling as the second time I went in. By the time I broke free of the trance . . . I’d been gone two minutes.” She blew out a tense breath. “Mind you, two minutes in reality rivals two hours to two days in someone’s memories.”

“Fascinating,” Simon said, “and utterly fantastic. It’s hard to imagine.”

“It can be wondrous but also disturbing. Some of the people I’ve interviewed . . . well, they were not all the most reputable of citizens. Where’s the sensation in that?” She laughed, though the sound was rusty and forced. “Point being, in all those instances, and there have been many, I have never felt panicked or emotionally engaged. That’s where things went wrong. Not that I was gone for so long, but that I lost control. I reacted emotionally to something I saw. I interacted. As long as I stay focused and in the shadows, all should be well.”