His Clockwork Canary

leave Phin out of the joyous tradition. That wasn’t Reginald Darcy’s way.

Simon was also touched that Phin had taken it upon himself to show the Clockwork Canary her misstep in presenting Reginald Darcy to the world as an inept kook rather than the gentle and inspired spirit that he was. That one deed coupled with Willie’s tearful apology had somehow washed the hurt of that ugly article from his soul. Simon had taken the folded paper from his inner pocket and ripped it to shreds, declaring that grudge obliterated. He couldn’t quite forgive his own contribution to his father’s demise, but he could indeed forgive Willie for her insensitive transgression.

“This is it,” Willie said, stopping and pointing to a narrow two-story brick cottage wedged in between several other homes of the same ilk. This residential road ran just outside the ancient city walls on the fringes of the more bustling areas of the City of Canterbury.

“It’s lit up like Piccadilly Circus,” Phin said.

“They recently wired this section with electricity,” Willie said, rubbing her gloved hands together whilst studying the multiple illuminated windows of her father’s two-story home. “Father is a bit obsessed with technology and trinkets that harken of the twentieth century. You’ll see what I mean as soon as we step inside.”

“If you don’t mind,” Phin said, “I’ll skip the family reunion.”

Simon watched as Phin and Willie exchanged an awkward yet meaningful look before Phin focused on the city gate. “I have business I can attend to in town. Figure I’ll grab a meal and inquire about overnight lodgings.”

“I’d suggest the Hawthorne Inn,” Willie said, hugging herself against the night wind. “It’s on Dunstan’s Street. Just over—”

“I know where it is,” Phin said. He glanced to Simon. “Shall I secure two rooms?”

“Yes, please,” Willie said before Simon could answer.

“I’m not leaving you alone for the night,” he said.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with my father.”

“Then I’ll stay here with the two of you. We’re man and wife, Willie. I’m not going to keep that from your father.”

“I’m not asking you to, although I’m not sure how he will react to the news. Regardless,” she said with another glance at the cottage, “I’m not sure Father could accommodate us both. It gets worse every time I visit.”

Simon wanted to know what she meant by that, but didn’t ask. It seemed too personal and Phin lingered.

“Right, then,” the man said. “Two rooms at the Hawthorne Inn.” Bowler shading his eyes, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, Phin swiveled away on booted heel. “Good luck in there.”

Simon nodded and Willie scrambled up the steps ahead of him. She knocked on the old wooden door and seconds later the door swung open and a fit-looking man of perfect posture greeted Willie with a dazed look.

“Michelle?” he asked in a croaky voice.

Willie visibly trembled with emotion as she took off her tinted spectacles and pinned the man with her raw swirling gaze. “It’s me, Daddy. Wilhelmina.”

Michael Goodenough pushed his spectacles to the top of his head and rubbed his eyes. “But of course. You couldn’t be Michelle. She is gone to me. Your red hair threw me. You look so much like your mother.”

She blew out a tense breath. “Would you mind inviting us inside?”

“Us?”

Simon stepped forward and into the wash of light flickering from the entryway. He offered his hand in greeting. “Simon Darcy, sir.”

Goodenough gripped Simon’s hand, stared hard. “Name’s familiar.”

It should be, Simon wanted to say, but tempered his resentment. He reminded himself that this man had done what he thought best for his Freak daughter by thwarting their plans to elope. What perplexed Simon this minute was how young and physically fit this man appeared, and yet Willie supported him financially? Was there no job he could manage? Yes, he seemed a bit off, but not bonkers by any means.

Still squeezing Simon’s hand, Goodenough looked to Willie, who’d just unbuttoned her duster. Noting a glimpse of her gown, he frowned. “Why are you dressed as a woman?”

“Because I am a woman,” she said with a twinge of defiance. “I am through hiding, Daddy.”

“I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“It gets worse,” she said, as Goodenough backed inside, allowing them passage. “I’m married.”

Not the most flattering announcement, Simon thought as he followed her over the threshold. But at least she’d addressed their new status head-on. He hadn’t expected that.

Goodenough gawked from Willie to Simon. “To this man? But he doesn’t look like a Freak.”

“That’s because he’s a Vic, Daddy. The same Vic I was set to elope with twelve years ago. Only you and Mother put an end to that. Remember?”

“Of course, I remember.” He rubbed his temples. “Ah. That is why the name is familiar. I told Michelle love would find a way. I’m surprised it took this long.”

“But it wouldn’t have taken this long if you had not stopped Wesley from giving Simon my letter,” Willie said, red-faced.

“Letter? I know of no letter.”

The man looked truly perplexed and Simon wondered at Willie’s direct attack. It was as if she’d been harboring resentment for days only to explode the moment she confronted her father.

“But how can you be married?” Goodenough asked. “It is against the law.”

“Aye, well, call us rebels.”

The man paled at that term, probably thinking of his wife. The most famous of rebels. A Peace Rebel. Simon’s attention bounced between father and daughter and the man’s cramped living quarters. Indeed the entryway and parlor were crammed wall to wall, floor to shoulder, with so much stuff it was hard to determine useful items from bobbins.

“Why is it so cold in here?” Willie asked.

“Conserving energy,” Goodenough mumbled.

“Meaning instead of replenishing your firewood supply, you instead purchased what? This pop-up toaster? Don’t you have four of these already?”

“Five. But this is a new model. Four slices of bread as opposed to two.”

“But the four you had would make eight pieces of toast,” she pointed out logically. “And this tube thing . . . what is it?”

“A lava lamp.” His face lit up. “Remember how your mother used to talk about these? I purchased it from a traveling Mod-Tech peddler last week. Now that I have electricity . . .” He made certain the cylindrical object was plugged into a socket and then flipped a switch. A light shone from within the glass tube and colorful globs of goo rose to the top, breaking apart, then reshaping. “Magnificent, yes?” Goodenough asked.

“Groovy,” Simon said because in this instance a Mod term truly applied. He smiled a little, intrigued and saddened by the whimsical sight. His own father would have been entranced.

“Aye, but it won’t keep you warm, Daddy,” Willie said.

“I have your mother’s memory to keep me warm.”

Willie frowned at that and Simon placed a calming hand at the base of her spine. “Perhaps I could make us all some hot tea. Just point me to the kitchen.”

She met his gaze and nodded, seemingly understanding that he wanted to afford them some time alone and that perhaps she should relax. “I’m certain you’ll find a conventional teakettle hiding amongst all the infernal contraptions,” she said whilst indicating the next room over. “Most of which do not work and never did.”

Simon gave her good arm a reassuring squeeze, then took off his hat and gloves whilst serpentining through the barrage of collectibles. On the surface, Simon understood Willie’s frustration. She worked hard to help support her father and yet he squandered money on modern bits and bobs. Much of what he saw must’ve been purchased on the black market. Some items looked like fantastical hybrid reproductions of pictures he’d seen in the Book of Mods. In many instances, copycat tinkerers constructed superficial look-alikes. Superficial, because all thought