Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

“Yes, well, things did go wrong,” Simon said. “Abominably wrong. Instead of changing the world for the better, the Peace Rebels instigated a global political divide as well as a transcontinental war.” He sipped his wine, marveling as always at the mayhem. “Why didn’t the Houdinians jump dimensions in an effort to right that wrong? That was the motivation behind their pact, yes?”

“Aye.” Willie nibbled on bread and cheese, then lingered over a long drink of wine.

Simon could tell she was fighting to mask her emotions, to remain objective. Her journalistic training at play, no doubt. Or perhaps her pride. However, he sensed a hint of melancholy, as if all this knowledge weighed heavily upon her heart. “Perhaps we should leave the rest of this story until morning.”

“No. Let us press on. I’m fine. Truly. Just sorting through my memories. Thimblethumper— Rollins —rambled most vigorously as though confessing a lifetime of sins to a priest.”

Simon topped off her wine, noting that in the midst of the upset and intrigue, he had never felt more settled. Yes, he was worried about Jules. He worried about the financial fate of his mother and sister. He worried about Willie and her father, and his own future as a professional engineer. On a grander scale, he harbored anxiety regarding the intolerance of Freaks as well the fate of the world should the clockwork propulsion engine fall into unscrupulous hands. So much unrest, and yet this moment, in this small, warm kitchen partaking in a cold meal with his intelligent, beautiful wife, Simon felt very much at peace.

“Rollins said the Houdinians were essentially paralyzed by the Peace War,” Willie went on as if garnering a second wind. “They wanted to stay and help their fellow Mods. Those who had not been corrupted and remained true to the cause. Those who still thought they could make a positive difference. Those who refused to abandon this time even if they had the chance.

“But then when the dust settled,” she plowed on, “and it became apparent that the Peace Rebels had perpetuated everything they stood against—civil intolerance, political corruption—and had perhaps set the future on an even more abysmal course . . . when Mods and their Freak offspring became the focus of derision instead of curiosity, those that had survived the war went into hiding. Some continued on a corrupt course, selling advance knowledge and expertise. Some merely tried to integrate into society, living under false identities. Others, like Professor Merriweather, went on the run and continue to run. Filmore deemed it time to utilize the Houdinian backup plan. To escape and start over in another time, but Rollins declared himself too old and too weary and my mother . . .” Willie licked her lips. “Rollins said she refused to abandon her children, nor would she risk hopping dimensions with them, fearing they, Wesley and I, might not survive or that time travel would somehow mutate our already altered genes even more.”

“So she chose you and your brother over the cause,” Simon said, knowing that must have touched her deeply.

She nodded, eyes bright. “Apparently so.”

Simon had never once questioned his own father’s love and support. And though his mother was somewhat aloof in nature, he trusted in her affections. Never had he been so aware of his good fortune. Humbled, Simon reached across the table and clasped Willie’s hand. Because of her time-tracing gift, her parents had held her at bay. Was it any wonder she guarded her heart so fiercely? “Why didn’t Filmore make the jump himself?”

She sighed a little. Exasperated? Weary? Another sip of wine and then she rallied on. “Rollins thinks it boiled down to a few factors,” she said. “First of all, he wouldn’t get far without a vehicle that was compatible with the clockwork propulsion engine, and Rollins refused to construct one.”

“Surely another twentieth-century engineer could have performed the task. More than one arrived here on the Briscoe Bus,” Simon said whilst stroking her knuckles.

“Aye, but Filmore trusted no PR outside of the Houdinians. Rollins said as the years progressed, Filmore became more and more paranoid, always spouting one or another conspiracy theory. He also believes that Filmore was secretly afraid of landing in an unfamiliar time on his own. When you think about it,” Willie said, “that is a daunting adventure indeed.”

“Briscoe did it. And Jules is about to do it,” Simon said, gut cramping. “If he hasn’t already.”

“Aye, but Filmore strikes me as someone who cannot operate without minions, so to speak. Rabid followers. Devoted admirers. People who hang on his every word. Even living undercover he chose a job where he could talk people’s ears off, the pub bartender who enraptured patrons with passionate, exaggerated ghost tales.”

“Must have knocked him off-balance,” Simon said, “losing Rollins, and then your mother.”

“According to Rollins, Filmore went a bit batty after my mother died. Even though he’d respected my mother’s marriage to my father, he’d harbored . . . affections. It seems to me a most complex and muddled relationship,” Willie said. “I don’t need to make sense of it, I just want to ensure that the clockwork propulsion engine doesn’t fall into dangerous hands. Neither I nor Rollins deem Filmore the best person for the job anymore.”

“So you’re stepping into your mother’s shoes as guardian of the engine?” Simon asked.

“Not forever,” Willie said, catching and holding his gaze. “Just until the engine is safe. As far as I’m concerned, this Triple R Tourney is a godsend. The Jubilee Science Committee will guard that engine as keenly as the Tower’s yeomen guard the crown jewels. Once it is presented to Queen Victoria during the jubilee, given Her Majesty’s disdain for modern technology, she will no doubt have it locked away. Aye. That will be the way of it,” Willie said. “The engine will be as protected as a royal secret.”

Either that, Simon thought, or the queen would order someone to destroy the engine. That notion vexed on multiple levels. Mind reeling with his brother’s predicament as well as Willie’s latest findings, Simon downed the last of his wine. “So we’re back to scouring a plethora of catacombs in search of the engine.”

“No.” Willie squeezed his hand. “There is a spot of good news in all of this. Rollins promised to intercede.”

“The revolving safe house.” Simon all but thunked his own forehead. “But of course, Thimblethumper—hell, Rollins —would know the precise London location.”

“ If Filmore maintained protocol. Rollins ventures he has not. What he is certain of is his ability to track Filmore.”

“So we wait.”

“Hopefully not for long. Perhaps even as soon as tomorrow.”

“Then by all means we should get some rest,” Simon said, noting the weary set of his wife’s shoulders. “I’m eager to leave this particular adventure in the dust.”

“As am I,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Simon reached for the platter of half-eaten chicken, then paused upon noting Willie’s queer intensity as she stared at their dirty plates. “What are you doing?”

“Testing my supernatural ability on the off chance that it has manifested in a way that would please Fletcher.”

“Telekinesis.” Simon’s lip twitched. “In which case these plates would now be flying across the room and into the sink.” He raised a brow. “Doesn’t seem to be working.”

“No,” she said, her kaleidoscope eyes sparking with a hint of humor. “Pity.”

JANUARY 26, 1887 QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA