His Clockwork Canary

“I lived in Edinburgh,” she said, pulse tripping. “Where precisely?”

“Don’t know precisely.”

“Vaguely,” Simon pressed.

“Old Town,” Thimblethumper said in a gruff whisper, flipping up the visual loupes and casting an anxious gaze toward the three shoppers perusing a nearby collection. “Know this, Darcy. The Houdinians swore to protect and they kill to do so. Proceed at your own risk.”

Before Simon could comment, before Willie could blurt her next question, the man veered off and on to his potential customers.

“We’re done here.” Simon grabbed and stuffed the paper with the list of names into his pocket, nabbed Willie’s arm, and guided her through the clutter, toward the exit.

Her curiosity and journalistic instincts demanded more information. Who are the Houdinians? What do they protect? She spied the yo-yo. “One moment.” She snatched up the nostalgic toy. “Wait here,” she said to Simon. No distractions.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Willie said with a gallant and apologetic smile. “I am anxious to purchase this toy for my brother. Fascinating, yes?” she asked whilst demonstrating the “sleeper”—one of the only tricks she’d mastered, unlike her mother, who’d been a whiz. Tempering a wisp of melancholy, Willie blinked back to the present and Thimblethumper. “Could you tally my purchase, sir?”

Frowning, the man rushed back to his desk, utilizing the mechanical till as he named a ridiculous price.

Dipping into her wallet once more, Willie passed over the cash. “An invigorating purchase,” she said, noting the time on her cuff as she offered her hand in a proper gesture of gratitude. “I thank you. For this and for your assistance regarding the other matter,” she added, prompting Thimblethumper to reflect on the Houdinians.

Properly focused, the moment he clasped her palm, Willie traced Thimblethumper’s past, a semimeditative trance where she experienced a portion of the “transmitter’s” life. A vibrant memory. It felt as though she were there, but she was not. Seemed to last for hours, but it did not. She blinked back to the present, blinked at her cuff watch. She’d been away but five seconds. Registering that reality, Willie breathed easier and backed away with her yo-yo, a location, and an exhilarating discovery.

Heart pounding, Willie caught up with Simon and prodded him toward the door. “Now we have what we need.”

CHAPTER 4

JANUARY 12, 1887 KING’S CROSS RAILWAY STATION

Oddly invigorated after yet another insomnious night, Simon approached the platform assigned to the Flying Scotsman. The newly enhanced (and somewhat famous) steam locomotive would speed him and his confounding associate from London to Edinburgh on this cold and dreary day. Given the faithfully dismal weather in Scotland, no doubt they’d be greeted with icy rain or a snowstorm by the time they reached Waverley Station later this evening. Simon’s valet, Fletcher—bless his vexatious, meticulous soul—had insisted upon packing as though Simon were visiting Antarctica.

Tickets purchased and pocketed, Simon set his overstuffed traveling valise alongside his booted feet and checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes to boarding. Surely the Canary was already here somewhere. Given the sensational story waiting to be told, and the fact that the journalist’s job was at stake, Simon had every faith the kid would show. Perhaps he was purchasing fruit for the ride or a penny dreadful to help pass the hours.

Simon searched the mob, looking for the dark-haired bohemian with his colorful scarves and voluminous duster. The cavernous station served as the London hub for the Great Northern Railway, and as such teemed with a goodly quantity of travelers. Voices of passengers and vendors mingled and bounced off the vaulted ceilings and glass panes. Iron wheels screeched. Steam engines coughed and hissed.

Simon vibrated with the thrill of the chase and a possible colossal triumph. One of the three Houdinians— Jefferson Filmore—was living and working “underground,” protecting something, hopefully, possibly, according to his brother, the Briscoe Bus’s clockwork propulsion engine. Simon hadn’t mentioned the precious and banned time-traveling device to the Canary, but he suspected the pressman knew precisely what he was searching for, either from research and deduction or from that curmudgeon Mod Tracker.

Shortly after leaving Thimblethumper’s the previous morning, Simon and Willie had parted ways—but not before exchanging heated words. The infuriating pressman had refused to share whatever specifics he’d learned from the retired Mod Tracker, saying, I’d rather not risk you embarking on this expedition whilst leaving me in the dust, Darcy. No offense, but I don’t trust you.

Of all the cheek. Especially since Simon now suspected the kid of a colossal lie.

They’d agreed to take the rest of the day to prepare for the journey and to meet this morning at King’s Cross Station for the ten o’clock express. Simon had visited his bank as well as his solicitor. Once again, he’d avoided his gentlemen’s club, although he had slipped into Lambert’s Literary Antiquities, owned by his trusted friend Montague Lambert, who’d reluctantly allowed Simon to borrow his banned and now rare copy of the Book of Mods. Simon’s own treasured edition had been pinched by someone at the Institute of Civil Engineers, a personal violation that rankled to this day.

Sequestered in his home library, Simon had burned the midnight oil, reviewing the fascinating compilations of futuristic sketches, essays, and cautionary tales, written by a faction of the original Peace Rebels. He had searched every page, every sentence, hoping to find mention of the Houdinians. There had been none, although admittedly Simon’s mind had wandered time and again. He could not shake his intense and undeniable physical attraction to the quirky pressman who irritated and fascinated him simultaneously and beyond measure.

At least he’d managed to deduce that he was not, in fact, attracted to a boy. During their parting row, Simon had taken intense notice of certain physical details. The Canary possessed no stubble, no signs of shaving, and the kid was certainly old enough to have facial hair. At one point the fabric of the kid’s scarf had slipped enough to reveal a slender neck—no Adam’s apple. Not to mention the kid’s feet were overly small for a man. The more he thought about it, the greater his certainty.

Willie G. was a fraud. A woman passing as a young man. But why? Androgynous? Gender confused? Or perhaps simply motivated by a desire to excel in a man’s world, earning a man’s wages and rights. Simon could think of a few reasons and he mulled over each one. He also contemplated the niggling feeling that he’d met the Canary before. Something about him . . . her. The way she’d exclaimed, “Cheese and crackers!” The vision of her finessing that yo-yo with shaky skill. Just prior to dawn and in a state of delirious exhaustion, Simon had entertained a bizarre speculation.

The physical attraction he felt toward Willie G. was much like the instinctual and intense pull he’d felt toward Wilhelmina Goodenough. Could they be one and the same? The hair and eye color were wrong. The skin tone was off as well. Mina’s complexion had been most pale, whilst Willie’s was ruddy. Mina had also been shorter in stature, although, at sixteen summers, perhaps she had not reached her full height, or perhaps Willie had inserted lifts inside her boots.

Willie had a slight Scottish lilt and a crude vocabulary, whereas Mina had spoken eloquently—her most vulgar expression being the infamous “Cheese and crackers!” Then again, Mina had moved to Scotland with her family. Depending on how long she’d lived there, that could account for the odd and wholly undefinable accent of the Canary. If they were, indeed, the same person. It boggled the mind, and yet Simon could not rid himself of the possibility.

Another glance at his watch. Five minutes to boarding.

A newsboy appeared hawking the morning edition of the London Informer. Unable to resist, Simon purchased a copy. Just as he unfolded the wretched tabloid, someone snatched it out of his hands.

The Clockwork Canary.

“You don’t want to read this,” the kid said.

“Oh, but now I must.” Simon retrieved the newspaper and focused on the front page.