His Clockwork Canary

CHAPTER 7

JANUARY 13, 1887 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

Patience had never been one of Simon’s greater virtues, and retiring early to his room had held no appeal. He would only wallow in somber thoughts—the loss of his project, the death of his father, the betrayal of a long-ago love. He had not wished to brood upon his ill luck, nor to obsess on the Canary’s true identity. He’d had no desire to waste one precious minute whilst his brother raced toward Australia to meet with a Mod genius in an extraordinary quest to snatch Briscoe’s time machine back from the future. Not that he wished Jules misfortune, but by damn, Simon wanted, needed, to win this race.

Leaving the Canary to nurse her headache, he had stowed his bag in his room, intent on initiating the investigation on his own. He had every faith in his ability to mingle with pub regulars and to discreetly ferret out information regarding Jefferson Filmore.

Spirits & Tales had been easy enough to find. Simon had quickly endeared himself to locals, chatting amiably and buying several rounds. He had always been the jovial sort, so consorting with strangers had not proved a hardship. In the course of two hours, he had learned much about Old Town and the haunted underground, but nothing of Filmore. No one knew the name or the man.

He’d returned to the Squire’s Inn long after midnight, foxed on regional whiskey and puzzling the Canary’s intent. Why had she lied about Filmore working at that pub? Simon had faltered at her door, wanting to question her, wanting to see her. If he knocked, would she answer half-asleep and half-naked? Would he recognize the body and flesh beneath the boyish facade? Would he know at once and for certain that she was indeed his Mina? Or would he know without a doubt that she was some other female altogether?

He’d hesitated on the threshold. No, swayed on the threshold. Liquor had addled his senses, and most probably his judgment. Confronting the enigmatic Willie G. whilst foxed would be unwise.

Irritated, Simon had returned to his own room. He’d stripped naked and collapsed on the rented bed. Passing out would have been a blessing, but his guilty conscience had prevented such a luxury. Instead, he’d wrestled through the night with insomnia and a maelstrom of regrets and yearnings.

By the time dawn streaked through a crack in the drawn curtains, Simon was unsure as to whether he’d truly ever drifted off. His mind worked and circled as keenly in a dream state as it did whilst fully conscious.

Hung over and exhausted, he pushed out of bed, anxious to attack the day. He hurried through his morning ablutions, determined to rally with a fortifying breakfast before going head-to-head with the Canary. She had looked so sickly the night before. Surely she would sleep until noon. Yet when Simon entered the public dining area, there she was, eating heartily and looking obnoxiously refreshed.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Do you always sleep so late?” she asked in between bites. “I rang you up, but there was no answer.”

“Perhaps I was in the bath.”

“Perhaps,” she said without looking up.

Simon sat without an invitation. A serving woman greeted him with a smile and a menu, as well as the choice of tea or coffee. He opted for coffee, strong and black. He looked from the menu to the Canary’s plate—a colorful mess of assorted fare. “What are you inhaling?”

“Eggs, back bacon, bangers, baked beans, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, and . . .” She pushed about the food with her fork. “Ah, yes. Tattie scones, black pudding, and haggis.” She furrowed her brow. “Perhaps you are not acquainted—”

“I’m acquainted. Not a fan.”

“Of black pudding or haggis? I know sheep’s innards are an acquired taste for some but—”

“I’ll have porridge,” Simon said to the server as his stomach rebelled.

“You look knackered, Darcy,” the Canary said as she shoveled more food into her mouth.

He tried not to focus on those mesmerizing lips, smeared and shiny with melted butter. How could greasy lips be so infuriatingly enticing? “Ravenous, are you?”

“Indeed.”

“I take it you’re feeling better.”

“Amazingly better.”

“Bully for you.” Simon sipped the bracing, strong coffee, then glared. “Why did you mislead me?”

Her actions slowed. “How do you mean?”

“You told me Filmore tends bar at Spirits & Tales.”

“Oh. I mean, he does.”

“I spent the better part of last night there. He does not.”

She glanced up, peering at him through strands of dark, shaggy hair. “Is that the reason for your bloodshot eyes and cranky mood, Darcy?” Smirking, she forked up a bit of bean and mushroom glop. “Hung over?”

He reached for a slice of dry toast. “No one at Spirits & Tales has ever heard of Jefferson Filmore.”

“That’s because he’s utilizing an alias. Few Mods live in the open as themselves. Most are persecuted for instigating the Peace War or hunted and hounded for their advanced knowledge. Filmore’s laying low and collecting a living wage under the name Flash. Jim Flash.”

Simon frowned. “Why didn’t you say so last night?”

“Don’t bite my head off because you got pished, Darcy.”

The discreet and soft-spoken server set a bowl of porridge in front of Simon. She flitted away and he focused on the face that taunted him. Willie’s face. Mina’s face. Though, Christ, her complexion seemed even more off today. Darker. Ruddier. “What are you playing at, Canary?”

“I assure you this is not a game.” She shoved aside her plate, her appetite appeased or stolen away. “I only hope you didn’t tip off Filmore and scare him away with your reckless prodding.”

Patience spent, Simon set aside his spoon. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. We need to work together. I need to secure my job. You need to secure finances for your family.” She pushed out of her chair, looking defiant and, to the common eye, like a cocky, gangly young man possessing sensationally bad taste in fashion. “I’ll meet you at Spirits & Tales in one hour. Until then, I have private matters to attend. Enjoy your porridge, Darcy.”

• • •

Porridge.

At once Willie had been charmed and disgusted that Simon would order boiled oats. So unadventurous. So like her father. Although, in truth and in most matters, she knew Simon to be bold to the point of foolhardy. A hundred memories welled, those days long ago when she and Simon had been so hopelessly in love, daring each other to pursue new experiences, to sample life to the fullest. Curious and courageous to the point of being reckless, they’d been the perfect match. He had been willing to do just about anything . . . except marry a Freak.

Refusing to dwell on the betrayal, Willie tucked her hands beneath her armpits in an effort to keep them warm. Her gloves suffered from long wear and they were not well made to begin with. She kept meaning to purchase a new pair, but funds were tight and she had other priorities—such as making sure her father had suitable winter clothing. Winters battered the countryside more than the city. Although Edinburgh was far more raw than London.

Head down against the fierce and frigid wind, Willie stalked from Squire’s Inn to St. Giles’ Cathedral, also known as the High Kirk of Edinburgh. A short distance, but the freezing weather had made the walkway slick with ice. Her stride was cautious as she crossed the cobbled street. To her right, high upon the volcanic crag of Castle Hill, loomed Edinburgh Castle—an ancient and daunting stone fortress. A more welcoming royal residence sprawled to her left, at the base of the Royal Mile. The Palace of Holyroodhouse. In between, numerous businesses hawked local wares, food, and whiskey. Here the air was crisp and clean, free of the fumes and smoke that marred other parts of the industrialized city.

Few pedestrians were about this cold, dreary morning, and Willie reveled in the relative silence as she stopped short of the paved courtyard and absorbed the majesty of St. Giles’. The glorious stained-glass windows. The famous Crown Spire on the tower. The present incarnation of the church dated back to the fourteenth century, although the Gothic cathedral had recently benefited from a major restoration. The Lord Provost of Edinburgh had charged two acclaimed architects with creating a “Westminster Abbey for Scotland.” Hay and Henderson had done well.

“Astonishing,” Willie remarked as she hurried toward the cathedral steps.

She did not expect Simon to be on her heels. “Why here?” he asked.

“It’s personal,” she said whilst spinning to face him. His windblown hair and impeccable clothing triggered the same sense of awe she’d gotten whilst admiring the spire. This six-foot-two, supreme specimen of a man was a glorious sight. Although worn around the edges from too much drink and too little sleep, Simon was strikingly handsome. Sinfully handsome. She blocked several inappropriate thoughts and frowned at the infuriating devil. “I thought you were nursing breakfast.”

“You thought wrong. Don’t let me stop you,” he said as she hesitated on the threshold.

Willie considered fleeing, but she had not been to Edinburgh in ages, and the lure to celebrate her father in his better days was much too strong. Turning her back on Simon, she entered the dimly lit holy place and hustled past monuments, stone pillars, and tucked-away chapels. The interior was massive, comprising several arches and vaulted ceilings. She did not need to look to know that Simon was assessing the magnificent architecture. Intending a thoughtful moment of silence for her father, Willie sat in a simple wooden chair several rows from an unoccupied pulpit. She ignored Simon, hoping he’d continue on, losing himself in one or another engineering aspect of the renovation.

As her dismal luck would have it, he perched on the chair next to her.

“Religious?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

“Not particularly,” she whispered. “Although I am tolerant of all religions just as I am tolerant of all nationalities and races.”

He slid her a look and she cursed herself for sounding bitter. “You think I am not?” he asked softly.

“I think, like most people, you have boundaries.”

“But you do not?”

“I do not.”

“You’re an arrogant one,” Simon said.

Dawson had made the same accusation. She had never thought of herself as thus. The notion rankled. “As are you,” she retorted. Although she had made it clear that she did not appreciate the way he encroached on her personal space, he continued to do so.

“You claim we’ve never met,” he said, shifting and staring hard at her profile. “Yet you profess to know my beliefs and practices. Tell me, Canary, are you psychic? Do you possess some sort of mental telepathy or trickery that helps you tap into another person’s thoughts? Is that what makes you such a keen interviewer?”

He was being sarcastic, trying to provoke her, but he was also quite close to the mark.

Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear. “Can you read my thoughts?’

“I cannot,” she answered honestly, edging away and cursing the rapid pace of her pulse.

“That is good. This moment they would not be to your liking. Or perhaps they would,” he added with a wicked smile.

As chilled as she was, Willie heated from head to toe. “You are insufferable, Darcy. Depraved and . . . irreverent,” she said, indicating their holy surroundings.

“And you, Canary, are a dichotomy. Dodgy and heartless.”

“Heartless?”

Someone shushed them.

Slouching lower in her seat, Willie glared at Simon. “And that harsh assessment is based on what?” Did he think Freaks were without feelings? Without a soul? Many Vics did.

He started to say something, then reconsidered. “Why are we here?”

“I am here to honor my father.”

“Did he pass?”

“Not in body, no. But his mind . . .” She shook her head. “His mind wanders.”

“And this disgusts you?” Simon asked, sounding irritated.

“Of course not,” she snapped in a hushed voice. “Why would you say that?”

“‘Ashford, a distant cousin of the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored to be obsessed with making his own mark on the world,’” he recited from the Informer. “‘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 glared down at her. “You intimated that my father was a failure and featherbrain when he was indeed quite brilliant, just unfocused. His mind wandered as well. On to the next great idea before perfecting the last. Clearly such folly must frustrate or disgust you; otherwise why would you sneer at a good man’s efforts?”

She had not sneered. Dawson had sneered, revising her initial words in order to sell more newspapers. Yet, defending herself was not an option. She could not afford to expose herself by expressing regret over that article. She could not afford any intimacy whatsoever. She braced her spine and sniffed. “I do what I must to survive,” she said in a tight voice. “For instance, I am here, with you, on this suspect expedition because I was given no choice. Clearly you find my company offensive. Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”

He blinked.

Willie buttoned her coat. “My time here is ruined.” Staying in character, she regarded Simon with irritation whilst adjusting her scarves in anticipation of the cold. “You, sir, are a selfish . . . knob. You squandered the power of the Darcy name, focusing on your own glory, much like your cousin. I cannot believe I have been saddled with touting the adventure of a Flatliner.” With that, she stood and left the cathedral. It was not the confrontation she craved, but it was one of importance. The Simon Darcy she had known and loved had evolved into a self-absorbed man. She’d kept tabs on him over the years. How could she not? He was a Darcy and, by virtue of his heritage, influential in global matters . . . or at least he could be. On numerous occasions she’d convinced herself that her obsessive interest in Simon was social and political, and not of the amorous nature. She did not appreciate the rekindling of her old affections. She did not welcome the physical attraction or the feminine quirks he inspired.

She had spent far too long this morning lingering in a bath. Trying to scrub the ever-present ink from her fingers, soaping the grime and scents of the city and the pressroom from her person. She’d fussed with her hair in an effort to soften the boyish style. All because, for the first time in years, she’d longed to be pretty. She’d realized her folly whilst almost forgetting to bind her breasts. She’d been set to sabotage her male cover in order to look more appealing, more feminine.

For Simon.

Fortunately, the insanity had quickly passed and she’d gone out of her way to alter her appearance more than ever. In doing so, she had applied too much of the tanning agent. Now her face had an orange tint and the creases of her fingers and palms were stained. Hence she’d brushed her hair forward and kept her hands busy, balled, or gloved. Never had the ruse been so exhausting. Although who was she fooling? Certainly not Simon. At the very least he knew she was a woman.

Just then he appeared at her side and she realized she’d faltered at a lamppost. As if she didn’t know which way to turn or where to go. Indeed, she’d been lost in her thoughts.

“Here.” He offered her a pair of gloves. An exquisite set of dark blue wool gloves that looked as if they had never been worn.

“Is this where you slap me and challenge me to a duel for attacking your integrity?” she asked with a raised brow.

“Don’t be absurd. Last night I noticed that your gloves are quite worn, and I happened to have an extra pair. Actually, Fletcher packed three spare pair in addition to far too many other clothes. I do believe he equates Scotland with the North Pole.”

“You employ domestics?” she asked, still staring at the gloves. Given his more-than-comfortable lodgings, she should not have been surprised that his income allowed him the luxury. Still, it only accentuated the social and financial gap between them.

“One. Fletcher acts in the capacity of valet and cook, although I do not think of him as a domestic so much as a pesky caretaker. Of my home. Of me. Take the damned gloves, Canary.”

She knew not what to think of the gesture of goodwill, but she had been raised not to snub a kindness. “If you’re sure you won’t need them.”

“I’m sure.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” She quickly traded her own gloves for his, her eyes widening upon realizing they were lined with . . . cashmere? They must have cost a pretty pence. “I’ll return them when—”

“Consider the gloves a gift. Albeit an ill-fitting one,” he said.

“I do not mind that they are too large.”

“I suspect not,” he said, eyeing her baggy, overly long duster. “By the way. I am not a Flatliner. A Flatliner is self-serving and cares nothing about the fate of mankind. Project Monorail was conceived as a way of relieving street and underground congestion as well as pollution. Cost-efficient, fuel-efficient. Utilizing magnets to propel the vehicle forward and . . .” He swiped off his derby, jammed his fingers though his hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

Dawson had prodded Willie to get the scoop on Project Monorail, and here Simon was dishing. “Magnets? How would that work exactly?”

“It’s complicated.” Frowning, Simon checked his pocket watch. “Filmore’s shift starts at ten o’clock?”

“I do not know precisely, but that’s when the pub opens and I know he works during the day. If he starts later, we can at least find out when, and perhaps I can glean information about his lodgings.”

“You mean we.”

Willie cursed the bitter and wistful ache in her gut. There was no we. Not in the sense that she had once dreamed.

“Thirty minutes to kill.” Simon tugged on his derby and looked up and down High Street. “I received an earful of ghost tales last night, and several originated near or along the Royal Mile—all underground. Mary King’s Close. South Bridge Vaults.”

“I know them both.”

“I’d like to get my bearings.” Without warning, he grasped Willie’s elbow, inciting a dizzy surge of wanton desire. How preposterous! It was not as if he’d grasped her hand. Nor were they skin to skin in any manner. Several layers of her clothing separated his gloved hand from her flesh and yet . . . she burned.

Clearing her throat, Willie pointed left. “Mary King’s is just ahead, but it’s been closed to the public for years. In 1645 the plague struck hard and the city bricked up the close and the victims. Grisly business. Hence the ghost tales.”

“Grisly business indeed. Anyone with a lick of sense would avoid a place once cursed with the plague. Hence the perfect hiding space.”

“Aye, but as I said, it is sealed. It would take magic for the Houdinians to get inside.”

“Or,” Simon said, rattling her further as he urged her toward the famous haunt, “someone with the imagination and twentieth-century expertise to engineer a secret entrance.”