His Clockwork Canary

was spontaneous and when he didn’t push me away . . .” Her throat caught. “Because of my tracing quirk, it’s been so very long since he allowed any sort of physical contact.”

“So you hugged,” Phin said, “and it just happened? Suddenly you were in a memory? I thought you had to focus.”

“I’d been focused,” she said. “For over two hours. Intently focused. On my father and his every word and expression. I suppose I was primed.” She looked now to Simon. “How did you know? When it happens that fast, no one’s the wiser.”

“I’m not sure. Sensed it, I suppose.” Torn between curious and perturbed, Simon shook his head. “He didn’t want that, Willie. You in his memories.”

Her cheeks flushed brighter. “I know. But as I said, it wasn’t on purpose and he didn’t feel me in there. He doesn’t know. So no harm done, aye?”

Something ugly stirred within Simon. “If you truly believe that, then you and I have very different views on trust.”

She hugged herself and looked away. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty for something I didn’t intend.”

“You could have pulled away the moment you realized what was happening.”

“Except it happened too fast and then I was stunned for a moment. Stunned by what I saw, heard. For what it’s worth, I did break the connection sooner than I wanted. I did, do feel remorse for invading Daddy’s privacy.” She chewed her lower lip, met his gaze. “Are you happy now?”

“Not precisely.” But her tormented gaze somewhat cooled his temper. It had been a trying day, a volatile day. As a gesture of peace, he brushed a thumb over her cheek and stated another concern that had set him off. “You didn’t have a lifeline, Willie. If you’d gotten lost in there, distracted—”

“But she didn’t,” Phin said reasonably, reminding them of his presence. “At the risk of stirring things up more, since the deed is done, as it were, I’d like to know if she learned anything of consequence.”

Phin was being a diplomat and a pragmatist and Simon had to admit he, too, was curious. He felt hypocritical, but tried to focus on the greater good. “Did you?”

Her eyes widened. “There’s a traitor amongst them.”

“Who? The Houdinians?”

“I think so. I need to rethink the memory. Sort things out. My father’s memories were like a twisted collage.”

“I can imagine.” And the thought of her getting lost in those memories, any memories, caught up in some sort of psychic limbo, chilled Simon to the bone.

“Right, then,” Phin said. “Let’s go below. Work the puzzle until we can determine our next move. I don’t know about you, but I could use some real coffee. Protect me from that drip-o-matic swill of the future.” Mumbling on, he took the lead, expecting them to follow.

“You go on,” Simon said to Willie. “I want to try Jules one more time.”

Willie slipped into his arms, eviscerating the lingering tension between them. “Being his twin, don’t you think you would feel something in your stomach, in your spirit, if something was terribly wrong?”

“Yes. I do believe I would. I felt it when he was horribly injured in the war, even though we were miles apart.” Simon was feeling several things just now, but no ominous portent. He hooked her hair behind her ears. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

She smiled up at him, though the smile was troubled. “I do believe we’ve stepped into a monumental mess, Simon.”

He couldn’t argue that, and though this was monumental, being steeped in larger-than-life drama was all too familiar. “All part of being a Darcy.”

CHAPTER 24

GREAT VICTORIA DESERT AUSTRALIA

Although Bingham had insisted upon a swift journey to Queensland, after being cooped up within the foul bowels of the Iron Tarantula for almost twenty-four hours, he was desperate for fresh air and steady ground.

The gigantic metal arachnid was an impressive terrain vehicle merely for its size, durability, and innovative design. The iron cephalothorax housed the cockpit, sleeping quarters, and galley, whilst the abdomen boasted a sophisticated engine room and cavernous storage area. The eight towering legs crawled easily if not evenly over sand and rock and did indeed carry them safely over treacherous landscapes at a goodly speed. But the constant and jolting rocking motion coupled with the questionable ventilation system and high temperatures had taxed Bingham’s titled being. He always traveled in style and the Iron Tarantula was not even remotely comfortable. However, the most distressing aspect of this trek was Bingham’s inability to communicate with the outside world. He knew not whether to attribute the vexing phenomenon to the remote setting or the thick iron walls of the beastly steam-powered spider.

Stomach rolling, Bingham made his way to the cockpit on shaky legs. He did not knock upon the closed door. He slid it open with a vengeance and braced his hands on the iron frame so as not to pitch forward. “I insist you divert to the nearest town.”

“The nearest town’s not so near, mate. Not on this course.”

“Then plot a new course.”

The Rocketeer swiveled in his leather captain’s chair, cigarette clamped between his teeth, jaw bristled by two days’ growth of beard. He pushed up the brim of his slouch hat and regarded Bingham with boredom. “You hired me to deliver you to Queensland as quickly as possible, mate, and now you not only want me to veer off course, but to stop?”

“I’m not your mate. I’m your employer. And yes, I am requesting just that, Mr. Steele.”

“Your money, Lord Bingham. My mistake. I thought time was of the essence.”

Bingham gritted his teeth. “Most assuredly. But because of my inability to communicate with the outside world, I have no way of knowing if I am already too late.”

Steele waved him inside, then swiveled back around. “Who do you need to contact and how?” he asked, flicking switches on a complex console. “What do you need to know? I can access various communication devices as well as the latest global news. Take a load off, mate.”

Bingham ignored the insolence and dropped into the seat next to Steele’s. He stared at the instrumental panel before him, entranced, impressed, and vexed as hell that not one of his transports had anything like this. “Where did you acquire all of this advanced technology?”

Steele quirked an infuriating grin. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Your humor is unwelcome.”

“Who’s joking?” The ash on Steele’s cigarette glowed like a taunting beacon of disrespect. “What do you need to know? Who do you need to contact?”

His list was long, but he homed in on his most fervent concern. “I need to contact a Mod Tracker by the name of Crag. I need coordinates on a man by the name of Jules Darcy. But mostly I want to make sure Professor Maximus Merriweather is exactly where I’ve been told he would be.” At that moment, Bingham shared his most detailed coordinates.

“You’re a demanding but direct bloke, Lord Bingham. Let’s see what we can do,” Steele said whilst pushing multiple buttons. “Meanwhile, a word of advice. Your traveling companion, Renee? I’d treat her more kindly, mate. Hell hath no wrath like an automaton scorned.”

Bingham barked a humorless laugh. “Renee has no feelings.” In addition to enlisting one of his Mars-a-tron crewmen as a bodyguard, he’d brought Renee along as a way of amusing himself should he grow bored. He had, in fact, been most bored last night. Her stamina and inability to register pain or fear was both a boon and an annoyance. “Renee is a machine.”

“When abused or neglected, machines tend to malfunction. Just a friendly observance, mate. Oh, crikey,” he