His Clockwork Canary

“Nor do I,” Willie said, then smiled. “But I do know of someone who might have the past knowledge to point us in the right direction.”

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