His Clockwork Canary

CHAPTER 14

Three days came and went. With every sunrise, Willie had deemed herself fit enough to proceed with their expedition. Yet each day she physically faltered.

Until day four.

Upon that day, this day, mind conquered body. No, she did not have full use of her right arm. Far from it. Her shoulder pained her like the devil. Her arm and therefore her hand did not respond as it should. Indeed her hand felt nearly numb. Although she could not hide the fumbling of pencils and utensils, hair combs, and such from Simon, she did conceal her intense discomfort. She would conquer this inconvenience or she would, at the least, manage the pain.

Willie shoved the last of her belongings into her valise. She was becoming most proficient with her left hand, although what little writing she’d done in her journal resembled a child’s. No matter, she assured herself, at least it was somewhat legible. Though she tried her best not to entertain the notion, the realist in her warned that she might never recover normal use of her right arm. In which case, she needed to adapt.

Clasping the latch of her valise, she moved to the window and looked down upon High Street. Another blustery snowy day. She did not care. She would relish every biting chill. Aside from a brief daily walk in order to garner fresh air and exercise, Willie had been cooped up in this small rented room for seven days! Simon had done his best to distract and entertain her, ensuring she had at least three daily newspapers. Plenty of fodder for discussion and debate and several word games to occupy her mind. They’d also pored over her BOM, searching for more clues regarding the Houdinians, speculating about the true capabilities of assorted modern marvels, and bemoaning various global atrocities. Part of Willie wished that her mother and the rest of the brilliant and innovative Peace Rebels would have stayed in their own time, working harder to overcome the crises of the twentieth century rather than fleeing what they perceived as a doomed world in order to rewrite history.

Then again, had that been the case, Willie would not have been born. She would not have met Simon. It would seem as if they were indeed destined for togetherness in some form or fashion. Blessedly there’d been no further talk of marriage—a notion that vexed Willie on multiple levels. They had, however, been intimate nightly. Willie had taken her heart out of the equation, fully focusing on the physical pleasures of lovemaking. She was the daughter of a Mod, after all. A generation who had preached, Make love, not war. Indeed, she was fairly open-minded about sex. At least sex with Simon.

She smiled a little, thinking how he continued to be tender and somewhat cautious in deference to her injuries. Spectacular was still on the horizon. Not that there was anything wrong with skilled. A sensuous ache coiled Willie’s stomach as she reflected on just how skilled Simon was.

Gads.

Indeed, the nights and random portions of the days had been spent most pleasurably. Simon had proved a most stimulating constant companion. She would even go so far as to say she enjoyed his company—except for when he scolded her for overtaxing her shoulder or lectured her regarding yo-yo techniques. Two days ago, out of boredom, Willie had snagged the yo-yo from her case. Apparently the Freak doctor had emphasized the importance of gently exercising her damaged muscles. Finessing a yo-yo as it twirled and glided up and down a string attached to her middle finger seemed like an inspired bit of therapy to Willie. Simon agreed. Unfortunately, he was determined to give her lessons when it came to specialty tricks. It’s not that he was an impatient teacher. She was an impatient student. In her heart she knew she had the intellect and talent to learn; what she lacked was strength and flexibility. One impulsive act had quite possibly cost her the full mobility of her right arm for life. Not that she would take back that terrifying moment in the catacombs. Searching her own memories, she was certain Simon would have taken a direct hit between his shoulder blades had she not pushed him aside. He could have been killed or at the very least crippled, his spine o’blasterated.

No, she did not regret her actions. Just her slow and frustrating recovery.

Anxious to be on their way, Willie turned from the window and paced the small room. She checked her time cuff, then her pocket watch. The timepieces concurred. Simon had been gone for four hours, thirty-five minutes, and eleven seconds. He’d promised they would leave for England as soon as he returned from an important errand. He’d been running “errands” for the past three days, each time returning with a few girly purchases. He seemed most earnest in reacquainting Willie with her feminine side, and very much to her surprise, she could not resist the decadent temptation of silk unmentionables and French perfume. Much like their lovemaking, it had seemed a wicked boon whilst locked away from the harsh realities of the maddening world.

That moment, Simon walked through the door and her heart fluttered like an infatuated schoolgirl’s. As always, he was windblown yet impeccably dressed. So dashing. So tempting. She could kiss this man for hours. Annoyed by her shallow thoughts, she tore her gaze from his gorgeous face and noted the large leather bag slung over his shoulder.

“Sorry to be so long,” he said whilst laying his goods gently upon the bed. “Complications. But I do believe I mastered that infernal glitch.”

Willie’s pulse skipped as Simon tugged off his gloves, then flipped the latches of the case.

“What have you purchased now?”

“I didn’t buy it. Well, not as is. I built it.”

What the . . . She’d expected a fur-lined greatcoat or perhaps a flowered or feathered top hat. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined . . . “An arm.” She gaped at the jointed contraption. “You built me an artificial arm?”

“A Thera-Steam-Atic Brace. A steam-powered prosthesis that will enhance your strength and mobility. Temporarily,” he added with an encouraging smile. “Just until your arm is functioning properly. I’ve devised a shoulder guard as well. Armor, if you will. Added protection for your most damaged and sensitive area. The brace and guard attach to this combination waistcoat��cutaway skirt. A garment inspired by my sister, who also favors trousers. Functional and fashionable. At least that was my intention.” He angled his head, frowned. “You hate it.”

The hardware was intricate and fascinating. The garment—feminine but not overly frilly and made to be worn over trousers or a long skirt. What touched her most was the thought behind the gift. “On the contrary, I am most impressed and humbled.” Stunned, she shoved her good hand through her hair. “This is what you’ve been doing for the past few days? Designing and engineering a therapeutic brace?”

“I worked on the sketches and calculations whilst you read or wrote in your journal, mentally cataloged my supplies, then located a tinkerer in New Town who could accommodate my needs. His workshop was top-notch, as were his skills. Mr. Standish proved a most competent assistant and his wife, a talented seamstress. She helped devise the augmented waistcoat. It took a few days, some trial and error, but I was highly motivated.” Simon vibrated with excitement. “Ditch your sack coat. The baggy vest as well.”

Which left her in striped trousers, a flouncy-sleeved blouse . . . and her new silky unmentionables. Exposed, by Willie’s standards. “Whatever inspired this creation?” she asked, entranced by Simon’s infectious energy.

“I’d been thinking about Leo.”

“Who?”

“My sister’s enhanced falcon.” Simon told her a story about how his father had created and fitted an injured bird with an artificial beak and talons whilst he suited Willie up in his own fantastic design. “Then, whilst reading the Book of Mods the other night, I came to that passage on robotics and something clicked.” He secured the last strap and cinched the corseted waistcoat tight. “How does it feel?”

“Foreign. Snug.” She glanced down at the gleaming brass rods, cylinders, and gears. The etched shoulder guard and brocaded black and gold corset. The fitted bodice cinched her waist and provided lift to her small breasts, affording a hint of cleavage. She lifted a suspicious brow. “Surprisingly seductive.”

“Because of the woman wearing it.”

Willie’s heart pounded beneath her customized garment. Partly because of the heat in Simon’s gaze. Mostly because of a deep and crushing fear. “Within the privacy of these walls, I acquiesced to my feminine self, but out there . . . in the real world I am Willie G. The Clockwork Canary. I navigate life with the confidence and ease of a male. I do not . . . I cannot . . .” She swallowed hard, panic stirring in her blood. “Blast you for twisting me up, Simon Darcy.”

He tucked her shaggy hair behind her ears, framed her face with his hands. “I understand your motivation in terms of concealing your race. But your gender? You ask too much of yourself, Willie. And of me. I have no intention of losing you again. And, by damn, I will not see you struggling with circumstances on your own. I know,” he said, cutting her off when she tried to interject. “You’d manage. I have no doubt. You have managed for a good long time. If anyone is impressed and humbled, it is me. Now please do me the favor of allowing me to assist.”

Poleaxed by his fervid plea, she fairly swooned. Instead, she gestured to the Thera-Steam-Atic Brace. “How does this inspired gadget work?”

His eyes lit up and torched her heart. “Engineering the device was a bit of a challenge, but it is, in fact, quite simple to manipulate.”

Willie listened intently as he walked her through the procedure. A toggle here. A button there. She did as Simon instructed and, upon second try, grasped a pen in her augmented right hand and wrote upon a page most beautifully. “You’re a genius,” she said in honest, unabashed awe.

“I am my father’s son,” he said with a twinge of melancholy. “That is, I inherited his passion for tinkering with inventions. I do not believe I ever told him how much I admired his tenacity.”

Willie swallowed hard, feeling guilty about that wretched article regarding Reginald Darcy. For someone who composed sentences for a living, this moment she struggled with a proper response. “I wager he was aware of your regard.”

“Perhaps. At any rate,” Simon said, shrugging off the dark moment, “I do think Papa would have been particularly impressed and flattered by this invention.”

“Because you were inspired by his modifications for Leo?”

“A remarkable accomplishment.”

“As is this.” Willie manipulated her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace, grasping the whiskey bottle Simon had purchased two nights prior, and steadily pouring them a drink. She could feel the brace supporting yet manipulating her muscles. Her spirits soared, as did her confidence. “Astonishing,” she said. “Truly, Simon.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “To your innovative brilliance.”

He dipped his chin in quiet gratitude, but she caught the flash of excitement in his eyes as he clinked his glass to hers. “To your good health.”

Willie thought about his brother, Jules, and how Simon had always felt a bit inferior to his glorified twin. And she knew most certainly that his famous cousin Briscoe cast a wide shadow. Simon was most inspired and gifted in his own right. How frustrating it must be trying to excel above and beyond the Time Voyager. To make one’s mark.

Project Monorail.

A most wondrous concept that would have indeed been a celebrated contribution to society. Why exactly had it been stonewalled? The pressman in Willie itched to know.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Simon said as he recalibrated a portion of her brace. “This time-tracing ability. Does it work on everyone?”

She smiled down at the top of his head. “You mean, can I trace, have I traced, your memories? I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

He caught her gaze briefly. “So can you?” he asked, then went back to tinkering.

“I cannot. It is a conundrum, I confess. It did not happen of its own accord upon the many times we touched nor when I intentionally ‘focused’ out of curiosity. Your memories are closed to me, Simon. I cannot say I am sorry.”

“Nor I.”

“You have secrets?”

“I have a history.”

“With the ladies.” She snorted in jest, but her jealous heart squeezed. “Your affairs are fodder for many a man’s fantasy. At least those men working at the Informer.”

Once again his gaze flicked to hers, only this time he held it. “My affairs are but dalliances and have nothing to do with here and now. With us. From here on out there will be but one woman in my bed.”

Willie’s heart hammered against her chest with joy. With dread. She did not play coy. “You’re suggesting forever with a Freak, Simon.”

“I am.”

“I’m the first generation of my kind. Anything is possible.”

“How thrilling.”

“My life span could be short or it could be eternal. My supernatural skills could spiral out of control and overtake me or . . . or disappear altogether.”

“I could get hit by an automocoach tomorrow,” Simon said. “Or develop some horrific lingering disease. Nothing is a given.”

“There has been no documentation of a second generation. Yes, we are young, but not too young to engage in affairs and, hypothetically, produce children. What if we are infertile? Or what if those born of a Freak and Freak or a Freak and Vic are so hideous that—”

Simon kissed her. Deeply and with great passion. At once her anxiety melted away, and when at last he broke off, Willie swayed. Holding her steady, he quirked an arrogant, heart-stopping smile. “Concern noted and rejected. Here’s what’s going to happen, sweetheart. We’re going to do as you suggested and visit your father in hopes that he can, through his memories, lead us to the Houdinian and the clockwork propulsion engine. But first, we’re going to wed. I don’t give a good damn if it’s legal in the eyes of the queen. It will be significant to me and for once, I’m going to get what I want. That would be you.” He brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “Are we in accord, Canary?”

Their marriage would never last for a dozen reasons, starting with Strangelove, but, this moment, she could not deny Simon . . . or her heart. “Aye.”