His Clockwork Canary

Willie tamped down her pride, snorted. “You’re jesting.”

“Our investors are not happy,” Dawson went on, grave as a hangman. “The publisher and executive editor are not happy. Which means . . .”

“You are not happy.”

“Get the dirt on Darcy or dig up something even more titillating.” He jabbed a finger at the door. “Now get out.”

Although Dawson could be a curmudgeon, he’d always had at least a sliver of good humor hiding beneath the guff. Willie sensed no humor now. The pressure from above must be severe indeed. Pausing on the doorstep, Willie voiced a troubling notion. “When did I stop being your favorite?”

“When you went soft on me. That original piece you typed up on Ashford’s death was fluff. And the revision wasn’t much better. Our readers want sensational, Willie, not respectful. They can get that from the quality press.” After a tense moment, Dawson sighed. “You’ve had a good run at the Informer, Willie. Some people think you’ve gotten too comfortable. Too arrogant. Most people don’t know you as well as I do, and even I don’t know you that well. But I do know that you have a special gift. I’d hate to lose it.”

Sensing freedom and security slipping away, Willie spoke past her constricted throat. “You’ll get your story.”

SOUTHEAST OF LONDON PICKFORD FIELD

“Rough landing.”

An honest observation, not a criticism. Still, Simon bristled at his brother’s greeting. Jules had taken the train from Ashford to Pickford Field—a private aeropark outside of London where they’d agreed to rendezvous. Simon had commandeered the ramshackle airship designed by their father, a small boat modified with a hot-air balloon and steam engine components enabling the vehicle to fly—albeit without great altitude or grace.

“The engine stalled twice and the steering mechanism seized,” Simon said whilst descending the splintered gangway. “It is fortunate that I landed at all. I anticipated crashing every five minutes of that two-hour flight, which, by the way, should have taken but an hour.” Adrenaline pumping, he wrenched off his goggles and stalked toward the aero-hangar owned by their mutual friend Phineas Bourdain. “Considering Papa’s shaky design and my mediocre piloting skills, you should be applauding my wretched arrival.”

He realized suddenly that Jules was not on his heels but lumbering behind. Damn the injury that had left his brother with a stilted gait. Pretending not to notice, Simon paused and jammed a hand through his wind-ravaged hair. “The Flying Cloud is a flying death trap.”

“Yet Amelia would have utilized that death trap in order to join in the race without a second thought.”

“The only reason I took the damned thing.”

Jules clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man.”

Simon’s conscience twinged. Their father was dead due to his arrogance. How good could he be? “I’m a lunatic, clearly. But at least Amelia is grounded and safe at Ashford with Mother.”

“Let us hope she stays there.” Jules squeezed past him and into the cavernous hangar.

Simon glanced over his shoulder, noted the murky silhouette of the city’s edge, the buildings cloaked in a wintry gray and the persistent haze from the countless smokestacks and culminating fumes of ground transportation and industrial factories. Had Project Monorail flourished, pollution would have diminished by at least a third. Resentment churned as he turned away from his failed vision.

Moving into the aero-hangar, he noted two sizable dirigibles, one in complete disarray. He expected their friend to emerge from behind the exposed steam engine, tools in hand, grease smearing his face, but there was, in fact, no sight or sound of the crack machinist. “Where’s Phin?”

“Somewhere over Yorkshire,” Jules said as they sidestepped scattered engine components and cluttered work areas. “Last-minute booking.”

Retired military, Phin was not only a skilled machinist but a bloody impressive pilot. He’d been operating a private aero-repair and charter business for two years, and making a damned fine living. Simon followed his brother into the man’s cramped but tidy office. Shoulders tense, Simon shrugged out of his greatcoat whilst Jules helped himself to Phin’s brandy and poured them both a glass.

Simon drank to warm his chilled bones. He assumed Jules indulged to subdue his chronic pain—not that the proud man ever admitted the need for medicinal spirits. Instead Jules allowed his friends and acquaintances, as well as their mother, to believe his fondness for liquor and various drugs was rooted soundly in hedonism. As he was a novelist—a science fiction writer no less—no one questioned his eccentric ways or decadent lifestyle. Indeed, they expected such folly from an artist. Out of respect for his brother’s dignity, Simon supported the illusion.

“I could not speak freely at Ashford,” Jules said.

“Because of Amelia?”

“Because of anyone.” Jules poured more brandy, then leaned back against the weathered chair, glass in hand. “You said you had information pertaining to the clockwork propulsion engine.”

“Not precisely. But I know where to find specific instructions on how to build the clockwork propulsion engine.”

“The Aquarian Cosmology Compendium?”

Simon nodded. The sole and elusive journal that included designs and notes compiled by the scientific faction of the time travelers, known as Mods. “Amongst other scientific data, that compendium supposedly contains details regarding the dimension-hopping heart of Briscoe’s time machine, as well as the Peace Rebels’ Briscoe Bus.” The vehicle that had enabled the Mods to time travel.

“So you intend to find the legendary compendium and replicate the engine? Your engineering skills are exceptional, Simon. I’ve no doubt that, presented with the design, you could construct a working model, yet —”

“It would be a replication, not a historical find. Hence my plan.” Simon leaned forward and lowered his voice even though they appeared to be alone. “If I build the clockwork propulsion engine to Briscoe’s specifications, I can test it. Utilizing a time machine of my own construction, I’ll travel back to 1856 and pinch the Briscoe Bus’s original clockwork propulsion engine and then return to our time to collect our due fame and fortune. Other than Briscoe’s time machine, surely the Peace Rebels’ time machine is the invention of unparalleled significance and will therefore win the Triple R Tourney.”

“That is your plan.”

Sensing skepticism in his brother’s voice, Simon frowned. “I confess it is not without challenge. Locating the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium—”

“—would be a damned miracle.”

“I realize no Vic has ever laid eyes on those notes,” Simon said, using the Mod term for the rightful citizens of Queen Victoria’s England. “But the compendium is referred to in the Book of Mods. Therefore it must exist.”

“Searching for the ACC is a waste of your valuable time.”

“You have a better idea?”

“I do.” Jules swilled the remnants of his glass, then leaned forward as well. “According to my sources —”

“What sources?”

“Government sources.”

“You’re retired.”

“But still connected to people in high places. What I’m about to tell you—”

“Is highly confidential.” Simon had long suspected his brother still dabbled in stealth campaigns, but he’d never known for sure or in what capacity. Just now his senses buzzed with curiosity and a hint of danger. Pretending nonchalance, he raised one cocky brow. “Fascinating. Do tell.”

“It is possible that the Mods’ clockwork propulsion engine was not destroyed along with the Briscoe Bus, as reported, but that it was whisked away and hidden. There’s reason to believe the knowledge of the secret location is guarded by three reclusive Mods known as the Houdinians.”

“An odd and unfamiliar title.” Simon frowned. “Who are these Houdinians? And why have I never heard of