His Clockwork Canary

boasted a huge and extensive map of the city, whilst another wall was covered in sketches and paintings of famed global architecture such as St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Vatican, and Notre-Dame. Willie also recognized several international engineering marvels—the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Great Wall of China, the Roman Colosseum, Stonehenge.

Along with multiple pencils and drafting tools, Simon’s own sketchbooks were strewn everywhere—the desk, the chaise, two tables. Some journals were wide open, some closed, and a few lone sketches stood on easels. One in particular caught her eye. “Project Monorail?” she asked.

“Mmm.”

She angled her head and studied the detailed sketch. An elevated railway system running through the heart of Westminster. Aside from the futuristic aspect of a smooth-nosed, streamlined train practically floating over the streets and gardens below, the attention to detail regarding Parliament, Clock Tower, and Westminster Abbey was quite astonishing. She’d never known Simon had such a flair for art.

He moved in behind her, the scent of fresh soap as potent as an aphrodisiac. Willie tried her best to ward off wanton thoughts. Most difficult considering their recent bout of lovemaking. All she could think was, More shocking variations, please, and How can I pleasure you, husband? Simon had unwittingly unleashed a wild streak within her that she had no wish to tame.

“What do you think?”

“Sorry?” Willie flushed and blinked out of her naughty musings.

“My design,” he said. “Do you think it ridiculous? Intriguing? An eyesore?”

“Intriguing, to be sure.” The train possessed no wheels and seemed to glide over a single track. “How does it operate?”

“A complex system based on magnetic levitation. I’ll explain it someday if you like. When we’re not rushed for time.”

“I would like that very much.” She turned in his arms and peered up at him with awe. “You are quite the visionary, Simon Darcy.”

“My father thought so.”

“Your father was right. Hang the Old Worlders who sabotaged this project. You must not give up.”

“Yes, well, one challenge at a time, eh?”

And hence they’d spent several hours at Lambert’s Literary Antiquities studying maps and making notes and thereafter almost two full days trudging through dank underground passages. Aside from several claustrophobic encounters, they had withstood everything from mud to cobwebs to spiders to rats. And of course dead people. Hordes and hordes of dead people. Not for the faint of heart. Fortunately, Phin and Simon were not easily spooked. Nor was Willie, for that matter. She was, however, discouraged.

“I don’t see it,” she said, studying another iron gate as well as peeking through the bars at the four coffins stacked on the shelves of two walls.

“Perhaps if you’d use the battery-charged torchlight I offered you,” Phin said.

“I told you, I can see fine.”

“Night vision,” he said irritably. “Right, then. And how does that work exactly?”

“She told you before,” Simon snapped. “She doesn’t know exactly.”

“We need to change tactics,” Willie said, slumping back against a cold brick wall. “We need to narrow our focus. We’re only two days into this search and we’re already sniping at one another.”

“I don’t snipe,” Phin said.

“The hell you don’t,” Simon countered.

“What? You think you’re a ball of sunshine, Darcy?”

“It’s the constant anticipation of being attacked like we were in Edinburgh,” Willie said. “That’s what has us on edge. Plus the constant dark and gloom. The tight spaces and odious smells. It’s oppressive. Suffocating. Not to mention being surrounded by so much death. How did they stand it?”

“Who?” Simon asked.

“The Houdinians. This was my mother’s life? Patrolling a dank catacomb? Trading shifts with Filmore and Rollins? Hiding in the shadows and staring at a bloody coffin for hours, primed to o’blasterate any person who ventured too close?” Willie heard the hitch in her voice and cursed her lack of control. But by God. “How wretchedly pathetic.”

“Or noble,” Simon said, giving her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “And perhaps they did not and do not guard the engine around the clock, sweetheart. Perhaps that is precisely why they chose underground crypts as their safe house. Few people venture into these places.”

Phin slouched against the wall next to her, flashed his torchlight on another gated vault. “You’re quite sure you’d recognize it. The conveyance housing the clockwork propulsion engine,” he clarified in a calmer tone.

“Aye,” Willie said. “Filmore’s memory was most vivid. Perhaps they utilize a different-looking conveyance in each city—whether it be a lone crypt or a coffin stacked into the walls like these—but the locking mechanism is constant and quite specific.”

This moment they were in South London, exploring the catacombs beneath West Norwood Cemetery. They’d already tackled another catacomb this morning and had another two ahead of them. Willie’s stomach cramped with the projected futility. Deep in thought, she gasped when she felt a strong vibration. Her coat pocket. The telecommunicator. Strangelove.

“What is it?” Simon asked.

“Nothing. I just . . . I need fresh air.”

“We’ll come with you,” Simon said.

“No!” Willie instantly regretted the outburst. “Please,” she added in a softer voice. “I need but a moment and there are still several vaults along this corridor. I’ve described the lock to you and Phin. Continue on. I’ll rejoin you as soon as I catch my breath.”

Simon balked.

Phin nudged him. “She’s safer up there than down here.” He looked to Willie then. “Are you wearing the stun cuff I gave you?”

She flashed her left wrist.

“Don’t hesitate to use it,” Simon said.

Indeed, she would not. Willie left without another word and hurriedly backtracked until her lungs filled with fresh air and her eyes gazed upon blue skies. She grappled with the telecommunicator, the code, her pulse revving when she deciphered the message.

LEST YOU DOUBT MY SINCERITY, CONTACT YOUR EDITOR.

Willie collapsed against the cool stone of an aboveground crypt. So. Strangelove had done something to prove he could and would crush her should she fail him. She didn’t need to telephone Dawson to establish the damage, but she would. Eventually. For now she accepted on faith that Strangelove was a motivated bastard. Motivated and perplexing. Astonishing that the man had such unflinching faith that Simon would indeed locate and procure an invention of historical significance. The mystery hoodlum was fast becoming a source of intense vexation. Had he conspired against other Triple R entrants in this manner? Was he a rabid and slightly mad appropriator of rare antiquities? Did he mean to steal away famous artifacts for a private collection or perhaps to sell them upon the black market? Or was he simply after the monumental prize money and global glory? Surely he had not set his sights upon Simon alone. Surely he could not know for certain what invention Simon sought.

Or could he?

Willie massaged her aching heart, wishing she’d never buckled under Strangelove’s threats. Yearning to come clean with Simon, but fearing he would never forgive her for setting out to betray him, no matter the reason. One thing was certain. He would never trust her again. Whatever it was between them that burned so bright would be forever dimmed.

She could not bear it.

At sea with her quandary, she caressed the wings of a stone angel. In a desperate plea for guidance, Willie prayed to someone, anyone, for direction.

One word, one name, flashed in her brain, a divine intervention. Heavenly direction.