His Clockwork Canary

“But you implied—”

“I merely intend to ascertain Jules’s situation and to make myself available should he need assistance.”

Phin snorted.

“I must go,” she said, gesturing for Simon to move out of her way. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have a heart. I did not wish to leave you wondering and worrying, hence this visit.”

“You could have called,” Phin said.

“That would have been unwise,” she said, rising.

“What is the speculation?” Simon asked. “Within the Mechanics?”

Posture ramrod straight, expression enigmatic, she lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Some say his mission is known only to the director of HMM and the queen herself. Some say he has gone rogue.” Her sensual lips flattened. “I’ll contact you as soon as I know anything,” she said to Simon, then turned on her booted heel.

For a moment he sat there stunned. “How can I know so little about my twin? What the hell is he about? What is she about?”

“Bella and I have our differences,” Phin said, “but I can tell you this. She’d walk through fire for Jules. He’s her greatest accomplishment.”

“She loves him.”

“Like Dr. Frankenstein loved his monster.”

Simon shook off a chill, watching as Bella Caro glided past the window and disappeared into the throng of pedestrians. “What exactly is her supernatural skill?”

“Superhuman mentality. An intelligence quotient far above that of a genius.”

He thought back to Edinburgh when she’d said Jules’s legs had been blown off and just now, her concern that he could be broken or malfunctioning. Both she and Phin had waved off her odd word choices, but Simon suspected now that she meant exactly what she’d said. He met his friend’s gaze, demanding an honest answer. “What is Dr. Caro’s area of expertise? Specifically?”

Phin blew out a ragged breath. “Something called bionics.”

CHAPTER 29

Upon leaving West Norwood Cemetery, the grave-poking threesome (as Willie had begun to think of herself, Simon, and Phin) had returned to the Covent Garden town house in order to wash away the odor and grime of the underground before setting off for Notting Hill. Fletcher had fussed over their “deplorable” outerwear, determined to pound away patches of dirt. Simon and Phin had ducked into the library to consult the city map, and Willie had slipped into another room to ring Dawson. Simon hadn’t flinched when she’d said she needed to touch base with her editor. She was, after all, officially on the job.

“How are you faring?” Dawson had asked. “Please tell me you’re in the midst of a rollicking adventure.”

“You have no idea.”

“Intrigue? Peril?”

“A brush with death and forbidden love.”

“Brilliant!” Dawson had bellowed, no doubt punching his fist to his desk to emphasize his exuberance. “Readers will be enthralled. The Informer will flourish. I knew I could count on you, Willie. The Clockwork Canary at his best.”

“Yes, well . . .” Adopting her former and feigned manner of speaking had proved surprisingly difficult. At some point she would have to come clean with Dawson about her true self, but for now, one challenge at a time. “I read about the attempted kidnapping of Prime Minister Madstone. Who did you put on the story?”

“Bloomenboyd.”

“Bloo is a narrow-minded ninnyhammer.”

“Everyone is a ninnyhammer in your book, Canary. Just carry on with Darcy and the Triple R Tourney and leave the delicious rest to me. There’s a reason I’m managing editor.”

Willie had been thrown by her extraordinarily ordinary discussion with Dawson. Had Strangelove’s taunt been a red herring? “On the run,” she’d said in her affected boyish tone. “What’s the blether around the pressroom?”

Dawson had spewed a dizzying amount of gossip before ending with “But the latest kerfuffle revolves around an anonymous tip that there’s an impostor on staff. Someone who’s leading a double life. Naturally there is much speculation and imaginations are running rampant. Abbernathy started a betting pool. And before you interrupt,” Dawson said, “yes, I know and quite agree that Abbernathy is a ninnyhammer. Still and all, a bit of intrigue and fun is jolly good for the spirits. Speaking of, you must be flying high with this Darcy assignment. Any scuttlebutt on Project Monorail?”

“Working on it. Speaking of, I best be off.” Willie had ended the conversation quickly, her pulse pounding with dread. Strangelove had flexed his browbeating muscles. Since she intended to come clean with her identity the moment she’d completed this mission, she couldn’t care less if anyone at the Informer pegged the Clockwork Canary as the impostor. She did worry, however, that Strangelove would step up his game and threaten the well-being of her family, which now included Simon.

Intensely motivated to manipulate the bastard toff and to bring this exasperating chapter of her life to a close, Willie had procured a secret keepsake from her cherished copy of the Book of Mods. Something with which to snag Thimblethumper’s attention. As a bonus maybe she’d finally learn the name and purpose of the thingamabob she’d found tucked into a secret crevice when she’d painstakingly re-covered the book years ago in an attempt to disguise its true content.

Now, less than an hour later, Willie entered Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities with a dual sense of anticipation and dread. Call it a revelation, an epiphany, or divine intervention. Whatever the reason, she was most certain she would glean valuable information pertaining to the Houdinians from the former Mod Tracker. She’d bet her wedding ring, her most valued possession aside from her BOM, that Thimblethumper knew far more than he’d first shared. Considering he’d been guarded and crotchety after learning Simon had gotten his name from a Mechanic, Willie thought it best to start with a clean slate, as a new acquaintance.

Upon her last visit, she’d been introduced as Willie G. She’d been dressed as a boy. Her hair had been dyed black. She had slouched her shoulders and spoken in a lower tone, using a more brash vocabulary.

This moment her hair was a brilliant red and she wore a fashionable and shapely ModVic greatcoat and a feminine, accessorized derby. Instead of brown corneatacts, she’d opted for the color of her youth, the same vivid green shade as her mother’s, and she planned to introduce herself as Mina. Her goal was to engage Thimblethumper in casual conversation and then to segue into a subject that would set her up to time-trace specific memories.

Her pulse skittered as she crossed the threshold. A bell tinkled as she shut the door behind her.

“With you in a moment,” Thimblethumper called from the till.

“Just browsing,” Willie called back.

He was speaking with another shopper and she preferred to have the merchant to herself. She’d wait until this customer left and pray for a slow period.

Willie pulled off her gloves and stuffed them in her pocket. She skirted a few tables, examining collectibles past and present, as well as a few reproductions of futuristic devices. Merchandise as described by the Peace Rebels or portrayed in the Book of Mods. She recognized a bong and a model of a moonship. Her mother had owned a similar model, a reminder of her time at NASA.

Intrigued, Willie skimmed more items—a jar of marbles, a telephone with buttons instead of a dial, and a mug sporting the sign of peace—but spied nothing similar to the thingamabob in her purse. The thin black square was a little over twenty centimeters in diameter, near the size of the front cover of the Book of Mods, and had a hole in the center. When she’d first discovered it, soon after her mother’s death, Willie had shown it to a few Mod enthusiasts, but no one recognized the article. Someone had likened it to a futuristic beverage coaster. Someone else, a durable page keeper or perhaps a portion of a modern ringtoss game. Willie had ended up tucking the black square back into its secret pocket, cherishing it simply because it had belonged to her mother—whatever it