His Clockwork Canary

“Skytown.”

“What?”

“Get me to a skytown. Need special care.”

“Don’t be daft, Mina. There must be a hospital nearby.”

“Won’t treat my kind.” Barely conscious now, she looked up at Simon and for the first time in her life saw him in all his raw brilliance. “And if they do,” she whispered just before the brilliance faded to black, “they’ll botch it.”

•   •   •

It was as if his father had invented and gifted him with winged boots.

Simon fairly flew to the Squire’s Inn with the wounded Canary in his arms. A preposterous comparison, but he flashed back on the time his sister had brought home a hideously wounded falcon that had been shot from the sky. She’d believed their inventor father capable of anything and begged him to save the falcon. Indeed, Reginald Darcy had worked night and day and in tandem with a local veterinary to create and apply a false iron beak and talons to “Leo.” It had been a grand accomplishment, since the falcon had recovered and adjusted to his prosthetic attachments with astonishing skill. Yet no one, except Jules, Simon, and Amelia, who’d adopted Leo as her faithful companion, had applauded the miracle. Reginald Darcy had never been one to brag, and the world, including the woman in Simon’s arms and the newspaper she worked for, had seemed determined to focus on the eccentric man’s failures.

As someone who’d suffered his own recent public humiliation, Simon marveled that his father had continually weathered the snub with such grace. Like Amelia, Simon had believed the best in Reginald Darcy, and were the man still alive, Simon would be tempted to enlist his advice concerning the injured and endangered Wilhelmina Goodenough. Instead Simon would have to rely upon his own wits as well as his brother’s resources.

Cradling Willie tight in his arms, Simon breezed past the scowling innkeeper. He ascended the stairwell and bypassed Willie’s room in favor of his own. He laid her upon his bed and proceeded to peel away the layers. Scarves, duster, sack coat, waistcoat. Blimey. Her white shirt was soaked through with crimson blood. Damn! He cursed his shaking hands as he gently peeled away the ruined fabric. Briefly he noted her bound breasts and the milky white skin of her stomach, three shades lighter than the ruddy complexion of her face and hands. For the moment, Simon concentrated on the messy wound. He grabbed one of his clean shirts—Fletcher had packed an abundance—and soaked it with water, washing away the blood to examine the severity of the wound. It did not look to be a bullet hole; rather, a goodly portion of her shoulder looked ravaged by several searing and deep cuts. He’d never seen anything like it. Shredding another shirt, Simon devised a compress and bandage. Thank God she was unconscious. He imagined the injury hurt like hell. An injury she’d sustained by shoving Simon from harm’s way.

His gut twisted with guilt as he fumbled for the communications device Jules had given him in case of an emergency. The tele-talkie felt like a block of ice in his clammy palm. Perhaps he should have left it in his room instead of carrying it about in the wintry cold. Praying it worked, he thumbed the appropriate button and moved across the small room, whilst composing his thoughts. Since the device operated on limited energy, he was especially cognizant of time.

The tele-talkie squawked and Jules answered. “What’s wrong?”

“A mishap with a Houdinian. Why didn’t you tell me they were dangerous?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, but my companion is.”

“What companion?”

“You need only know that she is . . . someone I care about and wish to protect.”

“Take her to a hospital—”

“She’s a Freak.” Simon absorbed the thoughtful silence. “Can you help? Do you know of a qualified physician? Someone nearby? Someone you trust?”

“Where are you?”

“Edinburgh, Scotland. High Street. The Squire’s Inn.”

“Sit tight.”

Jules disconnected and Simon glanced over his shoulder at the stricken Canary. He wasn’t going anywhere. She’d quite possibly saved his life. He owed her. He loved her. Or at least the memory of her.

His mind returned to the catacombs. To the moment before the attack. The revelation. Willie G. and Wilhelmina Goodenough were indeed one and the same. He’d suspected as much, but he had not guessed her a Freak. She thought he knew her race via some letter he’d never received. He had not put the pieces together until he’d looked down into those kaleidoscope eyes. Mesmerizing. Haunting. And filled with such pain.

The tele-talkie squawked. Simon answered.

“Dr. Bella Caro is en route,” Jules said. “She’s an associate. A friend. You can trust her with your companion’s life.”

“It looks bad, Jules. When should I expect—”

“Soon. Did you find the engine?”

“Nearly.”

“Perhaps you should give up the search. Leave things to me.”

Simon bristled. “We agreed to double our efforts. Where are you?”

“Closing in on Australia.”

Simon could scarcely believe that the tele-talkies transmitted over thousands of miles. The connection was weak and at times garbled, but by God, it functioned. Then again the device had been influenced by Mod technology and created by a Mechanic. What other wonders did Jules have up his sleeve? More than ever it chafed that his brother had withheld that part of his life. What’s more, why hadn’t he brought Simon into that world? Surely there was a place for Simon’s engineering skills within the agency. Did Jules doubt Simon’s talent? His courage? His wherewithal?

Needing to put them on even ground, Simon struck low. “What if Professor Merriweather slips your grip? Or what if he is unable to build a functioning time machine? From where I stand, your chances of winning the contest are no better than mine.”

“Since when have we been in direct competition?” Jules asked.

Since always, Simon thought, and Jules had always been ahead. “I’m not giving up on the Briscoe Bus’s engine. I was caught unaware. It won’t happen again.”

“If you need me—”

“Same here. I do have an area of expertise, you know.”

“Which is why I pointed you toward the Houdinians.”

With that, Jules disconnected and Simon pocketed the fantastic device. His brother’s parting words implied confidence, trust. Whereas Simon had been petty. Once again Jules had come out on top.

“Bloody hell.”

Someone knocked. Too soon for the doctor, although maybe not. Jules seemed prone to magic these days. Simon cracked open the door. A striking yet enigmatic woman stood on the threshold. Her ghostly pale complexion was offset by bold red-stained lips, dark purple–tinted glasses, and ebony hair sleeked back into a tight bun. Her attire was stark black—from her riding hat fitted with fur-rimmed goggles to her voluminous leather duster to her square-toed boots. She looked more like a mortician than a medical expert, but she did carry a physician’s bag. “Dr. Caro?”

Shoulders braced, she pushed her way inside. “Let’s get straight to it, shall we?” She swept off her hat, perching it on a table alongside her bag. Glancing toward the patient, she wrenched off her long coat, exposing a formfitting one-piece bodysuit and a utility belt rigged with various devices.

Simon tried not to gawk and failed. Mortician? Try dominatrix.

“Name?”

“Simon Darcy.”

“Not you,” she said with a raised brow and a tilt of her head. “Her.”

“Willie,” he blurted, not sure how much information he should share. Though this woman had Jules’s trust,