His Clockwork Canary

“Good news?” Northwood asked from his console.

“Excellent news from London.”

“Should I set a course for home, sir?”

“Continue as instructed.” Bingham could not leave without inspecting Professor Merriweather’s compound first. There was, after all, a possibility that Crag had missed some clue. Meanwhile, England was several days away and Bingham worried that Goodenough might bobble the deed, allowing Simon Darcy to submit the ACC to the Jubilee Science Committee. As the anonymous benefactor, Bingham had commanded a first look at all submissions, but he was out of the country and he did not trust the committee’s director to sit on such a momentous discovery. P. B. Waddington had proved to be a competent subordinate thus far, but he was also a man of science and a loyal subject to the Crown. At this point, Bingham trusted no one. But there was someone he could count on to procure the ACC from Miss Goodenough and to keep it hidden and safe until Bingham’s return.

A mercenary Freak ruled by greed and vengeance. A young man who’d been manipulating the weather to advance the plundering exploits of the Scottish Shark of the Skies—compliments of Bingham. Considering Captain Dunkirk had failed Bingham in a monumental way and knowing the man would welcome a chance to benefit again from Bingham’s power and wealth, Bingham sent a tantalizing directive, engaging the infamous sky pirate and his secret weapon—the Stormerator.

GREATER LONDON

Willie had spent the last day and a half on pins and needles awaiting word from Rollins. Oh, how she wanted to revisit Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities, but Simon had thought it best not to pressure the old man.

He promised to intercede, Simon had said, on behalf of his fellow Houdinian and old friend’s daughter. He said it could take a couple of days. Patience, sweetheart.

Yet Simon had been equally tense, poring over various sketches of his inspired designs in order to distract himself from thoughts of the Triple R Tourney as well as his brother’s mysterious circumstances. To Willie’s dismay, he had shut away his sketches of Project Monorail, deeming that idea dead in the water. A failure. She did not agree, but she did not press. Not now. Not when he was so worried about his brother. In addition, though he’d been told his sister and mother were in London, he had not been able to locate them, nor had they phoned or stopped by. Aye, they thought he was aboard the Flying Cloud and in pursuit of a legendary invention. Still . . . not to check in with Fletcher in hopes of obtaining news of Simon’s progress and safety? Unfortunately, Willie understood her husband’s concern.

Meanwhile Phin kept in touch, also awaiting the news from Rollins that would alert them as to their next step.

Willie relied on her acting skills to present a strong and confident front, although she was most certain Simon and perhaps even Phin saw through her facade. In truth, she was scared spitless. She had sent a message to Strangelove informing him that she was in possession of the ACC. She had not heard back. Did he not believe her? Had the transmission failed? Was he at this moment en route to meet her face-to-face? Surely he would not do so without warning. He would not want a confrontation with Simon. He would simply want the priceless, legendary compendium.

This moment, she had taken sanctuary in Simon’s library . . . along with Simon. Fletcher had made his opinion known regarding Willie’s “organized chaos” and was in the process of putting the master bedchamber to rights.

Let us keep the chaos to the library, shall we? he’d said with a sniff.

Whilst Simon sat at his desk tinkering with her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace in an attempt to make it even more effective, Willie pored over her journal trying to pen an exhilarating yet tasteful version of their adventure thus far. If they did not win the Triple R Tourney prize, she wished to contribute to their financial standing in her own way. Chronicling a tale that would captivate the whole of Great Britain might well ensure her job with the Informer, even after she disclosed her true gender and race. A long shot, but as a way of advancing a more utopian future, she had made a personal pledge to adopt a more optimistic outlook.

The telephone rang and Willie nearly catapulted from the pillow-laden sofa. She had provided Rollins with Simon’s telephone number as well as his address, although she had not mentioned Simon by name.

“Hello?” Simon said into the mouthpiece—ambiguous as they had discussed. “Miss Goodenough? Yes. Hold on.” Brow raised, he passed the receiver to Willie.

Holding Simon’s supportive gaze, she willed her hand not to tremble. “Miss Goodenough here.”

“Thimblethumper calling.”

“I’m glad. Good news?”

“There’s a skytown hovering southeast of London. Ask around for specific coordinates. Meet me at nine p.m. in the Vulcan Grogshop aboard the USS Enterprise.”

“Aye, but—”

“Don’t be late.”

•   •   •

“Eight oh five,” Phin said as he steered the Flying Cloud toward a pier floating alongside their appointed destination. “Unfashionably early.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Willie said, noting her dual timepieces. “Rollins sounded nervous and he was most adamant about punctuality.”

“Feeling anxious myself.” Simon squinted through his goggles at the transient skytown and the banner that declared this airborne mecca as The Milky Way. “I’m not crazy about you going into that pub alone.”

“The USS Enterprise is famous for its international captain and crew,” Willie said as she studied the collection of rigged airships. “Somewhat like the crew of the American courier ship the Maverick.”

“Captained by the Sky Cowboy,” Phin said as he docked. “Didn’t you interview him once?”

“I did,” Willie said, hugging herself against the frigid air.

“Tucker Gentry is a fugitive from justice,” Simon said, cringing at the thought of Willie mixing with a murderer.

“He’s an innocent man wrongly accused of a hideous crime.”

“How can you be certain of his virtue?” Phin asked.

“I traced his memories.”

“Bloody hell,” Simon mumbled. Gentry had been a former US air marshal. He’d wrangled with heinous outlaws. The man was no stranger to mayhem and bloodshed. Surely his memories mirrored a gruesome battlefield.

“I merely meant that the USS Enterprise fosters a mixed clientele even more so than other digs in various skytowns. The Vulcan Grogshop is a popular watering hole for Freaks. I’ll be amongst my own kind.”

“Some of which could be the more dangerous faction of the Freak Fighters,” Simon pointed out.

“No more dangerous than the rabble-rousing Vics who board these skytowns looking for a hell-raising good time,” Phin said. “Don’t flash that piece I gave you, brainiac, but remember what it’s for.”

Willie frowned up at Simon. “You’re carrying a gun?”

“A Disrupter 29,” Phin answered for him. “A peashooter compared to what I’ve got holstered beneath my coat, but it’ll make a point. Give me your wrist,” he said to Willie.

“I see no need for a stun cuff,” she said.

“I do,” Simon said.

“You’re not going into that pub unarmed,” Phin said.

“Wear the cuff,” Simon said, “or I’m coming in with you.”

“In which case Rollins might spot you.” Scowling, she offered her left wrist to Phin. “I won’t have the two of you scaring him off.”

“Rollins has never met me,” Phin said. “I’d just be another face in the crowd.”