His Clockwork Canary

Frustrated, Simon pushed on. “So how will it work? Me being your lifeline?

“We’ll agree upon an increment of time. If I don’t come out on my own before then, you will pull me out.”

“How?”

“Physical contact. Tug my hand, grip my shoulders. Something firm. And call me home. To you.”

His heart pounded with the unexpected sentiment. The responsibility. “Have you tried this before?”

“No.”

“How do you know it will work?”

“A calculated guess.”

“Not good enough.” Yes, Simon projected and took chances whilst drafting many a project. His mobile staircase, for instance. Others had patented a design to transport pedestrians up and down several stories via mechanically moving steps, but no one had engineered a working model. Simon had been distracted by Project Monorail, but lately he’d been tinkering with his designs for a mobile staircase, a device composed of motorized chain-linked steps, and projected his new version would absolutely work.

In theory.

Theory and execution were two different animals.

“I’d feel better if we took a test run,” he said. “Experiment on someone of sound mind. What about Phin?”

She snorted. “As if he’d agree.”

“He’ll agree.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t say no. Instead she asked his assistance with the Thera-Steam-Atic Brace. “It’s only been a day and I already feel as though I am slacking on my therapy,” she said whilst unlacing her under-bust corset.

Simon tried blocking images of her striptease the night before, but that didn’t work. Cursing an untimely erection, he helped her into the brace and the attached customized corset. “How do you plan to exercise your arm?”

“I thought I would practice some yo-yo tricks and then concentrate on penning some notes of our expedition thus far. Whilst details are fresh in my mind.”

The adventures most keen in Simon’s mind were of the intimate nature. He caught her gaze, noted the flush of her cheeks.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.”

“So in other words you’ll leave out the best parts,” he teased, although his humor was somewhat taxed. As far as he was concerned, they had shared several moments of intimacy that extended beyond the bedroom. Their first encounter on the streets of Notting Hill, the exchanged looks within the private compartment of the Flying Scotsman. “What about the risque romance element?”

“Pardon?”

“The Informer promised its readers tales of risque romance, high drama, and nail-biting intrigue.”

Gaze averted, she rooted the yo-yo and journal from her valise. “Ah, well, you’d be surprised at how I can spin a tale.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She shot him a sharp look, her color high. “I’ve apologized regarding that article on your father and I explained—”

“I’m speaking in general.” Although, damn, that insulting death announcement still rankled. Rather than expanding on a personal level, he tried an objective approach. “You’ve made a career out of writing titillating, sometimes scandalous pieces. I don’t fancy seeing a cheapened, sensationalized account of our unexpected and, may I say, emotionally charged reunion in a national tabloid.”

“Are you mocking my body of work? Judging my morals? Questioning my integrity?”

“No. A little. Maybe. Christ. How did we get to this?”

“It’s been festering in the back of your mind,” she snapped. “Obviously.”

Maybe she was right. The explosion that had ripped Simon’s father from his life had happened almost three weeks ago and yet he still carried that damnable article on his person. Folded and tucked into his inner coat pocket, it was a grim reminder of the part he’d played in his father’s death, and because the Canary’s name was attached to the piece, he couldn’t disentangle her from his feelings of guilt and grief. “I should get some fresh air.”

“Good idea.”

She was furious with him, but in that moment he hadn’t cared. He’d left her to her therapy, to her creative spinning of their alliance. He’d sought calm on the main deck. Twenty minutes later, he still struggled.

Simon turned away from the wintry landscape and focused on the Flying Cloud. A creation of his father’s. Far from perfect, but brimming with passion. He closed his eyes, remembering how hard Papa had worked, utilizing used parts and his imagination to give this abandoned clipper ship wings. Part of him wished Willie could time-trace his memories; then she’d see for herself what a great man Reginald Darcy had been. Then again, she’d also see how Simon had been too busy with his own projects to stay on at Ashford and offer his father a hand. Simon had always thought the design of the Flying Cloud faulty. He could have helped, had it not been for his selfish ambition. He’d had bigger fish to fry in London.

Shame washed over him now. Willie had been right back at St. Giles’ Cathedral when she’d charged him self-involved. It would seem they both had their faults. Breathing deep and finding his air legs, Simon made his way across the deck to the altered cockpit.

“Done brooding?” Phin asked.

Simon didn’t bother arguing the obvious. “You banished the wooden walls in favor of a thermoplastic shield.”

“Better visibility,” Phin said, his hands at ease on the controls, the wheel.

“Agreed.” Looking skyward Simon added, “And the whirling arms are a brilliant addition.”

“I thought so. Swiped the blades from a junked monoplane. The rotation maximizes lift and thrust.”

“Amelia will be impressed.”

Phin shot him a concerned look before focusing back on the skies. “How is your sister?”

“Mourning my father.”

“I regret missing the funeral. If I could have—”

“We know.” Simon rolled back his shoulders and eyed the heavens. “Dismal turnout, not counting the curious, morbid few who showed up simply because of Papa’s ties to the Time Voyager.”

“As brought to light by the Clockwork Canary. Surprised you were able to get past that,” Phin said.

“I wasn’t. A recent realization and most vexing.”

“I take it that’s why you’re up here with me and she’s down there alone?”

“I need to ask you a favor,” Simon said by way of an answer. “You know Willie’s a Freak.”

“The swirling rainbow eyes? Dead giveaway, my friend.”

“She’s a Time Tracer,” he said, anxious to make her normal by speaking frankly and casually.

“Meaning?”

“If she connects with a person, physically, and focuses, mentally, she can experience a portion of the transmitter’s past via their memories.”

“Fascinating, I guess. What does that have to do with me?”

“She needs to probe her father’s memories for some vital information, but his mind is unstable and I might need to pull her out.”

“Sounds tricky.”

“Exactly. Which is why I’d prefer to test this ‘lifeline’ plan of hers on a transmitter of stable mind.”

Phin raised a eyebrow. “You’re asking me to allow your woman to tread through my mind?”

“Your memories.”

“Bugger off.”

“Don’t make me resort to threats, Phin.”