went into the exterior design, whilst the inner workings were either completely ignored or faulty. Many guessed at how a
Simon was sorting through the mechanical chaos of the small kitchen, remembering with fondness the chaos of his own father’s workshop, when he caught wind of another kind of mayhem altogether. Angry voices booming from the parlor. Willie and her father fighting. He tried to ignore it. None of his affair. Yet, dammit, it was. Setting a kettle of water upon the stove, he adjusted the flame of the burner, then braved the verbal row.
“I won’t hear of it,” Goodenough blasted whilst wearing a path in the narrow space between the parlor and staircase. “Every memory regarding your mother is precious to me and there are many that I and I alone are privy to. Intimate moments. Private yearnings and dreams. Cherished reminiscences of her life in the future. I won’t have them tainted—”
“I won’t meddle in any way. The memories will go unchanged. I will be in and out. A fly on the wall—”
“No. Absolutely not. Discussion over,” he snapped, then stomped up the stairs like a petulant child.
Willie stood ramrod straight, watching his retreating back. Her eyes were wide, her voice wobbly as she commented on the man’s exit. “I did not anticipate a refusal,” she said as Simon wrapped his arm around her waist. “I am his only daughter and I ask so little. I thought . . . I thought he would want to help.”
“He obviously loved your mother very much. Some memories are sacred, Willie.”
“But I need to know. She lied about the clockwork propulsion engine. She lied about her job. What else did she keep from us?”
“Does it really matter?”
She turned to him then, fists clenched at her sides. “It matters to me. What if I’ve set a terrible course of events into play by rooting out a Houdinian, Simon? What if that engine falls into the hands of someone who means to use it for selfish and nefarious means?”
“The Houdinians have kept the engine safe and hidden for thirty-some years now.”
“But that’s when there were three of them. Now there is only one. Filmore. Thimblethumper said the third was missing, remember?”
“Perhaps that only means that Ollie Rollins eluded Thimblethumper. I’ve been thinking about that day in the catacombs, Willie. Are you certain that it was Filmore who attacked us? He did not seem suspicious when we left him at the pub. Why would he leave in the midst of his shift? Why would he follow us?”
She closed her eyes as if thinking back, envisioning the moment. “It happened so fast,” she said. “A tall man, a big man, sliding out of the shadows. An enormous gun.” She opened her eyes, locked gazes with Simon. “I focused on the weapon. Not his face. I did not see his face plainly. I cannot swear it was Filmore.”
“If they patrol the vault, it would make sense to work as a pair. Maybe the shooter was Rollins.”
“I saw Rollins in Filmore’s memories. Just a glance. A memory from just before they arrived in this time. He was a shorter man and Filmore’s senior by at least ten years. That would make him quite old now. Although I confess there was something familiar about Rollins, I do not believe he was the shooter.”
“All right, then maybe Filmore enlisted two other Peace Rebels to act in Rollins’s place as well as your mother’s.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, with a glance at the empty stairway. “Something I saw,
Simon guided her into the kitchen. “Let’s have some tea. Perhaps your father needs a moment to absorb your request. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”
“Maybe,” she said, whilst locating two teacups.
Simon took the hissing kettle from the stove and soon after, they were sitting at a cluttered table, drinking hot tea and wrestling with inner thoughts. Simon was thinking about how he should leave and procure chopped wood for the hearths.
Willie chimed in with something altogether different. “I live like this too,” she said softly.
He raised a brow. “You collect things you don’t need? Hoard?”
“No. But my belongings are typically scattered. Although I always know where everything is. Organized chaos, I call it. Dawson typically refers to my desk as a disaster area.” She shrugged without meeting his gaze. “I just thought you should know.”
Meaning she was thinking about them living together. He’d been too wary to bring it up, knowing she was already skittish about their union. Her train of thought warmed him much more than the damnable tea. He suppressed a smile. “Have I mentioned Fletcher is a meticulous sod?”
“Your valet.” She nodded. “I’m thinking we’ll butt heads.”
“Most assuredly.” Now he did smile, even if only a little. “I’m looking forward to it.”
She didn’t respond and he knew she was still torn. At least they were making progress.
They sipped more tea. A clock on the mantel ticked. No sign of Mr. Goodenough. “Your father’s much younger than I imagined,” Simon ventured in a low voice. “And in fine health. A little thin but . . . Does his mind really wander so wretchedly that he’s unable to hold a job?”
“Oh, he works,” Willie said. “There’s a merchant in town, a kind and patient man. He owns a sundry shop. My father works there four days a week, helping with stock and chores. I think he’d go simply mad if he had nothing to occupy his time other than thoughts of my mother.”
Simon dragged a hand down his face. “But you send him money—”
She motioned him to lower his voice. “Not directly. His pride would not stand for it. I made arrangements with his landlord to pay the bulk of his rent and I struck a deal with the woman who lives next door to cook for him at least a few times a week. When he needs new clothes, I try to finagle something through the merchant he works for. As you see, my father is obsessed with anything that reminds him of my mother or her century. He spends his money unwisely, but as my mother handled the finances in our house . . . he no longer understands the concept of budget.”
“So you take care of the essentials for him?” Simon bristled. “Blimey, Willie. Would it not be better to have a talk with him?”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’ve tried, but to no avail. He would let himself starve before passing up the opportunity to surround himself with another ‘piece’ of my mother. He is beyond obsessed, Simon. You don’t understand. When she died . . .”
He reached across the table and grasped her hand. “It’s okay. Truly. Please don’t—”
“I have come to a decision,” Mr. Goodenough announced whilst bursting into the kitchen. He’d already changed into his nightclothes and a tattered robe. A nightcap sat askew upon his head.
The rumpled sight made Simon think of his own father. He hadn’t been there for Reggie as much as he could have been. Maybe he could make small amends by helping another distracted soul. Simon stood. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Goodenough?”
“What? No. Too late for tea. I always have a snort of brandy before bed. But never mind that. I’ve come to make peace with my daughter.”
Now Willie stood as well. “You’re going to allow me to time-trace?”
“I can’t do that, Wilhelmina. But I will grant you this. Make a list of questions regarding your mother and I will answer them to the best of my ability.”
Simon saw that Willie was torn between disappointment and euphoria. He could also see that she was emotionally spent. “That would be most helpful, Mr. Goodenough.”
“Aye,” Willie managed. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He gave a stiff nod. “I’m afraid it will have to wait until tomorrow. I find I am most distracted tonight,” he said whilst rooting through a box. “Ah, yes. Here it is. They call this an electric blanket.” He showed them the electrical cord dangling from one edge. “Most ingenious. Well worth the cost.” Then he glanced from Willie to Simon, looking chagrined. “I’m afraid I only have one.”
“That’s all right, Daddy. We’ve arranged for lodgings this evening at a bed-and-breakfast.”
