His Clockwork Canary

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