Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

“Right, then,” Phin said, pushing to his feet. “London it is. God, but I love a good adventure,” he added whilst rushing toward the main deck.

Willie tried to stand but couldn’t find the energy. “I must confess, I’m feeling overwhelmed. It’s all somewhat fantastical.”

“Quite the story,” Simon said, shifting to sit beside her. “And we still don’t know the whole of it yet. I have a feeling your editor, Dawson, will sing your praises, indeed kiss your feet, when you submit your serialized account of our adventure.”

Willie’s mouth went dry. “Indeed, this is the sort of sensational reporting that would put the London Informer back on top.”

“And to catapult the Clockwork Canary to celebrity status.”

She cast him a hurt look. “Are you testing me, Simon?”

“No.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Truly I’m not. It is a conundrum even for me. A story like this, it’s bigger than one newspaper. It alters history books. Depending on how things unfold, we could be sitting on a damned fortune.”

“Fortune enough to save your family.”

“And yours.”

She rubbed her temples. “If only it weren’t so personal.”

He kissed the top of her head. “The conundrum.”

She glanced up at him then. “My pressman’s nose smells more trouble. Something foul, Simon. I worry that we’re going to discover something . . . ugly. Remember when I relayed the memory of my mother telling my father, There’s a traitor among us ?”

Simon nodded.

“I think . . . I believe it was just days, maybe even hours, before she was killed. Maybe the hit-and-run was not an accident as reported, but a calculated means of making sure every secret she knew died with her. Or perhaps she was distressed and distracted by what she’d learned and that had caused her to unwittingly step in a coach’s path. Either way, I think she died because of that traitor. Someone she knew. Someone close.”

“Do you have someone specific in mind?”

She shook her head. She did not. But she did have a bad feeling.

Simon tucked her shaggy hair behind her ears. “What say you we deal with the mystery as it unfolds? One revelation at a time.”

“Patience has never been one of my better qualities.”

He laughed at that. “Nor mine.” Smiling, he held her close as the Flying Cloud rumbled to life and took to a bumpy flight.

Willie grasped his forearm, licked her lips. “It will be strange returning to London as a woman, let alone a Freak. I’m grappling with the notion of revealing my Freak nature just now. I do not wish to deny my race, Simon. I am beyond that. But I fear it would hinder the progress of this investigation, so to speak. Once my true race is known to Dawson, to my coworkers, to anyone who looks me in my kaleidoscope eyes, I will become a source of fascination and ridicule. I will lose certain freedoms, which will hinder my ability to interact or converse with Vics on an effective level. And,” she said, meeting his gaze with her heart in her eyes, “our existence as a married couple will be under fervent fire.”

Simon smiled a little. “Are you saying you’d appreciate a few days of anonymity in order to fully enjoy our union as man and wife?”

Overwhelmed by their daunting expedition and future, Willie rested her head against Simon’s strong shoulder. “And to acclimate to the challenges of resuming my life in London as a woman.”

“So be it,” Simon said, smoothing his fingers over her cheek. “One revelation at a time.”

SOUTHEAST OF LONDON PICKFORD FIELD

The flight from Canterbury to the outskirts of London did not take long; however, given the winter season, they were already well under the cloak of night. The moon sat full and bright in the sky and the city of London glittered on the horizon almost as keenly as the stars above.

Although Queen Victoria was not a fan of the twentieth century and thereby anachronistic technology, she could not ignore, dismiss, or halt the natural progress of science. Candles had given way to oil lamps and then to gas lighting, and now, because Peace Rebels had inspired (or infected—the distinction depending on whether you were a New or Old Worlder) and educated nineteenth-century innovators, electricity was “ahead of its time” and fast becoming the most popular source of lighting in the home.

Simon’s own town house was wired for the modern convenience, although Fletcher still seemed inclined to fall back on old ways. How Simon, a forward thinker, had ended up with a valet who deplored change had always been a source of amusement and frustration on both sides. This morning, after Teletyping Ashford, Simon had placed a long-distance telephone call to Fletcher. The connection had been poor, but Simon had been able to prepare the man for a change of monumental proportions.

“I do not know precisely when I’ll be returning home,” he’d said. “But when I do, it will be with a wife.”

To which Fletcher replied, “Whose wife would that be, sir? Should I start preparing for the invasion of an angry husband?”

“My previous indiscretions are just that, Fletcher. In the past. I refer to my own wife.”

“Are you snockered, Master Simon?”

“No, Fletcher. I am not snockered. I am married.”

“Were you forced by gunpoint, sir? An irate father or brother perhaps? I could alert your solicitor. Perhaps he could find a loophole.”

“This marriage is of my design, Fletcher, and I expect you to welcome Mrs. Darcy with an open mind and heart.”

“I see, sir.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. Should I prepare a bedchamber for Mrs. Darcy?”

“We won’t be sleeping in separate rooms.”

“Ah. It is quite serious, then.”

“Most serious,” Simon had said, his chest aching as he’d fought against the notion of love. A fruitless effort, it would seem. As the day had played out, he was most certain he was unequivocally in love with Wilhelmina Darcy. The realization was as invigorating and chilling as the frigid night air.

Restless, Simon joined Phin in the cockpit as the superb aviator began their descent into Pickford Field. “When I last made this trek two weeks ago, I was at the wheel, and the Flying Cloud handled like a flying death trap.”

“She was in dire need of upgrades and fine-tuning, true,” Phin said. “Although I’m sure it didn’t help that you’re a shite pilot,” he said with a teasing grin.

“Be that as it may,” Simon said, adjusting his goggles. “Thank you for all you’ve done. And thank you for being so kind to Willie.”

“Not a hardship. Trust me.” He glanced toward the stairwell. “She still below?”

“Putting the galley to rights and resting her eyes.”

“And lovely eyes they are,” Phin said. “A man could get lost in those swirls of color.”

“Yes, well, I’ll thank you to keep your wits.”

Phin laughed. “Good God, man. You are arse over teakettle in love. In the words of Mr. Goodenough,” he said with a wink, “bully for you.”

Simon shook off the green-eyed monster and smiled a bit. “You don’t need to meet us at Lambert’s tomorrow.”

“And miss out on the rest of the adventure?”

“Surely you must have duties here at Pickford. Unfinished repairs. Booked charters.”

“Nothing I can’t put off or reschedule.”

Simon braced for landing and narrowed his eyes on the former militiaman. “Did Jules ask you to look after me?”

“I’m no man’s keeper, Simon.”