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.”
C HAPTER 4
J ANUARY 12, 1887 K ING’S C ROSS R AILWAY S TATION
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
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.”
C HAPTER 4
J ANUARY 12, 1887 K ING’S C ROSS R AILWAY S TATION
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
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