His Clockwork Canary

cross paths again—”

“I might find myself in the line of fire?”

“I might well kill him.”

“What? With your drafting compass? Your bare hands?” Phin grunted, then reached under his coat. “Ever shot a gun?”

“Only at a carnival,” Simon said, eyeing the augmented pistol in Phin’s hand. “Nick the cast-iron bird and win a trinket for your lady.”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Win a trinket for your lady?”

“Several.” Indeed, he had won a china doll for Willie the first week they’d met and then last night, a mechanical bird. She had admired the novelties as if they were diamonds. Simon’s heart jerked just thinking about it.

“Must have decent aim, then,” Phin said. “That’s something. This,” he said, “is a Disrupter 29. The latest black market version of a McCabe Derringer as enhanced by me. Listen and learn, brainiac.”

Simon focused as Phin pointed out the working parts of the ominous-looking pistol. Unlike Phin and Jules, Simon had not been in the military. Nor had he been drawn to hunting. Beastly business, that. He was an academic. A man of math and science, not war. Regardless, when he thought about the blood that had poured out of Willie’s wounds, murder raged in his soul.

“Got it?” Phin asked.

“It’s not rocket science,” Simon said as he engaged the safety mechanism and slid the weapon into his pocket. “Not leaving you defenseless, am I?”

Phin opened his coat and flashed a shoulder harness and a much bigger gun. “I have more of an arsenal on board the Flying Cloud. You told me to come armed. I did.”

Just then the door to the colorful suite opened and Willie walked in and stole away Simon’s breath. For some reason, he’d expected her to revert to her baggy trousers, but she had purchased a fetching traveling ensemble. An ebony long-sleeved bodice cinched with a leather under-bust corset. A full skirt with tassels rimming its hem stopped just shy of her black ankle boots. Simple yet feminine and accentuated by a whimsical chain looped twice around her waist. It reminded him of a charm bracelet with its multitude of dangling fobs. The only evidence of the former Clockwork Canary was the time cuff upon her wrist and the chain of her pocket watch dangling from a skirt pocket. Her vibrant red hair was tucked behind her ears, exposing her lovely face and slender neck. Instead of a floppy cap, she wore a flattop derby accented with a quirky combination of clockwork, lace, and feathers, and, by jiminy, Simon’s mechanical bird. Charming.

Noting Simon’s appreciative gaze, she flushed and focused on Phin. “I apologize for rushing away without a proper introduction, Mr. Bourdain. Last night Simon had mentioned we were to meet you promptly at eight and I fear we overslept. Most unsettling, as I am always cognizant of the time. At any rate I had to return a dress and . . . and now I’m rambling, delaying our departure even more. Gads.” She set aside a small basket and offered her left hand in greeting. “Willie G. Or rather Wilhelmina Goodenough.”

“Darcy,” Simon corrected, moving to her side just as Phin pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He could tell by Willie’s expression that the intimacy had caught her off guard. Masquerading as a man, she’d been accustomed to shaking hands. Simon put his arm around her waist and gave a supportive squeeze.

“Willie G.,” Phin said, taking a step back and regarding her with interest. “The Clockwork Canary?”

Her shoulders tensed. “Does that present a problem?”

Phin cut Simon a glance. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“She’s chronicling the expedition for a serial in the London Informer.”

“Ah.” The aviator angled his head. “Rumor portrayed the Clockwork Canary as a cocky young lad.”

“A necessary ruse,” Willie said. “At the time.”

Phin said nothing, but Simon could hear the man’s wheels turning. “We should get going,” Simon said, then glanced into the basket Willie had set aside. “Are those fresh croissants?”

“And Danish. I thought warm pastries might make up for our tardiness.” She focused on Phin. “Are you fond of pastries, Mr. Bourdain?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Darcy. I can provide coffee or tea once we’re aboard the Flying Cloud.”

Anxious to break the tension and advance their cause, Simon helped Willie into her old oversized coat, then gathered their bags.

“Have you no reservations about flying with my kind, Mr. Bourdain?” she asked whilst looping scarves around her neck.

“Why would I be spooked by a journalist?”

“Simon didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Oh, hell, Simon thought. Not knowing Phin’s views regarding Freaks, he’d decided to allow the man time to warm to Willie before breaking the news. He watched as she took off her tinted spectacles and established unflinching eye contact with Phin.

To his credit, the man didn’t react. He simply nabbed the basket of fragrant pastries and held open the door, initiating their exit.

Willie crossed the threshold. Simon followed and Phin spoke at a volume for Simon’s ears only. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

•   •   •

Willie leaned into Simon as they crossed the deck of the Flying Flower. “He does not approve. Of me. Us. I warned you, Simon. And Mr. Bourdain is your friend.”

“Technically he’s my friend by way of Jules. Those two share a long and complicated past. And it’s not that he disapproves. He’s intrigued. Skeptical, maybe. Doubting my sanity, definitely. Who marries on a whim?”

“Us apparently.”

“Twelve years in the making is not a whim. Phin doesn’t know our history. You look beautiful, by the way.”

She harrumphed. It was rude. But she was in no mood to be seduced. She hated that she’d overslept, that she’d lost track of time in a haze of blissful exhaustion. She hated that she felt so fiercely out of sync. Still connected to her old ways, whilst inspired to strike out in a bold new way. As a woman. As a Freak. As the wife of a Vic. One thing was clear. She could not dredge up an iota of motivation to bind her breasts or to hide her shape. Nor did she wish to alter her complexion or to remind herself incessantly to slouch and to speak in a lowered, gruff pitch. She’d woken up resenting the fact that she’d lived a lie for so long. That she’d suppressed her femininity, that she’d denied her race. She resented having to pretend she was a male Vic simply to work in a profession she excelled at. And she regretted her penchant to operate on the fringes, hiding behind costumes and pen names rather than fighting out in the open for her cause. She preached equality, yet she did not present herself as an equal.

A troubling realization.

Indeed, the dawn had introduced a maelstrom of conflict. It was as if thwarting the law and marrying Simon had jarred every rebellious bone in her body. And yet she felt . . . unfocused. Restless. She’d known how to contribute to the cause whilst incognito, but could she truly make a positive difference regarding intolerance and equality operating as a female Freak? Aye, she’d been accepted on Skytown, but the real world would judge her most harshly, limiting her freedom and rights. Making it harder to achieve her goals. This morning, in the light of day, with reality looming, she questioned her brave new agenda. At the same time she would not, could not, revert to living a lie.

“At the risk of appearing vapid,” Simon said as they crossed the gangway to the Love Bug, “what happened between last night and this morning? Why are you angry with me?”

She stopped cold. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with the world.”

“Then let’s change the world.”

“You say that as if we can do so with the snap of our fingers.”