His Clockwork Canary

It was almost imperceptible, but not quite. Phin’s right eye ticked. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” As close as Phin and Jules were, there was something Simon knew about Phin that Jules didn’t. Even though he’d been several years older, Phin had been smitten with their sister and had stolen a kiss. An inappropriate advance that Amelia had rebuffed, Simon had witnessed, and Jules knew nothing about. He held Phin’s gaze.

“Wanker.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Never knew you had a vicious streak.” Phin regarded Simon with a hint of anger and a dash of respect. “I like it.”

CHAPTER 20

“Will I feel you?” Phin asked, looking uncomfortable. “In my head, I mean?”

Willie suppressed an eye roll. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Actually, I will.”

“He’s right,” Simon said. “Past transmitters were unaware that you were time-tracing. Phin knows that you’re going to trace his memories. Won’t that make a difference?”

“I don’t think so. It’s not as if I’m invading his present thoughts. As I said, I’m not psychic. Nor am I a hypnotist. I can’t manipulate your thoughts or bend your will. Time-tracing deals solely in established memories. It’s a wholly different process and unique to me, as far as I know. I can liken it to watching a play. I’m in the audience, watching scenes unfold, absorbing the dialogue and action. But I am not a part of the show.”

Willie sensed Phin’s lingering skepticism and wondered why he’d agreed to this at all. She’d been belowdecks, exercising her arm and trying to rid herself of the seething resentment and anger inspired by Simon’s attack on her past articles. His lowly assessment of her style, of her integrity, cut to the core. Aye, she’d pushed the limits regarding good taste in some instances, and aye, she consistently went for titillating. That’s what the public wanted. That’s what sold newspapers. That’s what earned her a living and supported her father. She’d never falsified facts. She’d never caused malicious harm. In fact, most of the people she interviewed or featured within an article benefited from the press. Most of them reveled in the exposure. The exception had been the write-up on Reginald Darcy’s death and that had been somewhat out of her hands. Although . . . she could have relinquished the byline. That thought had been humbling enough to cool her temper. She still resented Simon’s snobbish generalization of her work, but she also realized he’d spoken from an extremely personal point of hurt. By the time he’d joined her below, announcing Phin had agreed to a time-tracing experiment, she’d calmed herself to civil. The tension between them, however, lingered on both sides.

“If you’d rather not do this,” Willie said to Phin.

“What? And miss the thrill of being a crucible?” He shot Simon an enigmatic look. “I wouldn’t dream of it. One caveat, however. I choose the memory.”

“Nothing to do with war,” Simon said. “I don’t want her subjected to those images.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Willie said, touched and piqued at the same time. “But I am not faint of heart.”

“And for God’s sake no reminiscing about an intimate liaison,” Simon said as if she hadn’t spoken.

Phin started to say something, then thought better of it. There was however a contrary spark in his eyes. “Give me some credit, Darcy.”

Suddenly Willie itched to take charge and to move this experiment along. The flight had been uneventful and swift. The Flying Cloud hovered just outside the limits of Canterbury. They’d delayed landing until after Willie time-traced Phin. Now the three of them stood on deck, protected from the brunt of the frigid wind by the cockpit’s transparent shield. Beyond and below, the cathedral city glistened from a fresh snowfall. Just outside those city walls, her father lived in a small brownstone cottage, a home cluttered with his manic collections. Willie ached to see him, to make sure Strangelove hadn’t intruded on his life in some nefarious way. That new and troubling concern had occurred whilst Willie had been jotting notes in her journal. Provided her father was in good health and amenable to her request, she itched to probe his memories posthaste, to solve several mysteries concerning her mother and to advance their search for the Briscoe Bus engine. A clock ticked in her head as sure and loud as her cuff and pocket watch. Time had never seemed of more dire importance. It was as if by setting off the Houdinian, she’d ignited some sort of fuse.

“Right, then,” she said. “Let’s do this.” She met Simon’s gaze, ignored her skipping heart. It would seem that their tiff had done nothing to quell her intense attraction to the man. Time-tracing as a team would only deepen their connection. Even though he’d remain on the outside, in the real world, as her timekeeper and lifeline, he would be privy to a portion of her like no one else. She shivered with the relevance.

“You sure about this?” Simon asked.

“Absolutely.” She took off her gloves and stuffed them in her pocket, then ordered Phin to do the same.

He complained about the bloody freezing cold, but did as she asked. “Now what?”

“I need to touch you.”

“Good God, but I’m biting my tongue,” Phin said with a glance at Simon.

“Just give me your bloody hands,” Willie said. Her grip on his right hand was weak, but she squeezed hard with her left. “When I tell you, I want you to take a walk down memory lane. Any lane. It doesn’t matter if you deviate. I’ll trace wherever you go.”

Simon palmed her pocket watch, looking anxious. Phin held her hands, looking suspicious. As if he was plotting. What road did he aim to take her down? What experience did he wish her to see? She suspected he meant to shock her in some way. The man had no clue as to what she had witnessed in the course of her lifetime via time-tracing. Although she had not witnessed much of a sexual nature. Would Phin ignore Simon’s warning and expose her to some decadent liaison? A sex game? An orgy? She hoped not, but braced all the same.

“Remember what we discussed, Simon. Allow me two minutes. If I’m not out by then, pull me out.” She was determined to linger as long as possible, no matter what Phin had in store. Otherwise the experiment would be for naught. She glanced at her time cuff. “Do try not to bore me, Mr. Bourdain.” With that cheeky challenge, Willie looked to both men, signaling they commence. She held tight to Phin’s hands, focused and . . .

“Are you sure you don’t mind me intruding upon your holiday, Lord Ashford?”

The older man gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Of course not, Phineas. You are like family. Closer to us than most of our blood. As such, I insist you call me Reggie. Or Reginald, if you must. We are most informal here.” He leaned in and winked. “Much to Mrs. Darcy’s dismay.”

“Jules and Simon are right behind me. Amelia waylaid them, gushing about some new project.”

“Ah, yes,” the older man said. “The moonship.”

Willie caught her breath as she acclimated to Phin’s vivid memory. They’d just been welcomed into a small estate, a humble home decorated with boughs of holly, glitter-dusted angels, images of Father Christmas, beautiful wreaths, and an exquisite tree bedecked with candles and homemade decorations. The furnishings were modest but pleasant. The rooms tidy and warm. Ashford. Simon’s childhood home.

But what mesmerized her most was the skinny older man with the longish, disheveled silver hair. Simon’s father. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes bright, his smile infectious. Rectangular gold-wired spectacles perched on the end of his slender nose. His clothing was rumpled but festive. In the next instant, two other men pushed over the threshold. Both handsome. One dark. One fair. Jules and Simon. Willie’s pulse kicked as she backed into the shadows. Was this a memory from this past Christmas? Reginald Darcy’s last Christmas? It could not have been too long ago. Simon and Phin looked exactly the same.

“Sorry we’re late, Papa,” Simon said, embracing the man in an affectionate hug. “We missed the train we’d intended to catch and ended up twisting Phin’s arm for an airlift.”

“Didn’t take much twisting,” Phin said. “It’s not like I had anything better to do.”