His Clockwork Canary by Beth Ciotta Page A

much as a pesky caretaker. Of my home. Of me. Take the damned
     gloves, Canary.”
    She knew not what to think of the gesture of goodwill, but she had been raised not
     to snub a kindness. “If you’re sure you won’t need them.”
    “I’m sure.”
    She nodded. “Thank you.” She quickly traded her own gloves for his, her eyes widening
     upon realizing they were lined with . . . cashmere? They must have cost a pretty pence.
     “I’ll return them when—”
    “Consider the gloves a gift. Albeit an ill-fitting one,” he said.
    “I do not mind that they are too large.”
    “I suspect not,” he said, eyeing her baggy, overly long duster. “By the way. I am
     not a Flatliner. A Flatliner is self-serving and cares nothing about the fate of mankind.
     Project Monorail was conceived as a way of relieving street and underground congestion
     as well as pollution. Cost-efficient, fuel-efficient. Utilizing magnets to propel
     the vehicle forward and . . .” He swiped off his derby, jammed his fingers though
     his hair. “It doesn’t matter.”
    Dawson had prodded Willie to get the scoop on Project Monorail, and here Simon was
     dishing. “Magnets? How would that work exactly?”
    “It’s complicated.” Frowning, Simon checked his pocket watch. “Filmore’s shift starts
     at ten o’clock?”
    “I do not know precisely, but that’s when the pub opens and I know he works during
     the day. If he starts later, we can at least find out when, and perhaps I can glean
     information about his lodgings.”
    “You mean
we
.”
    Willie cursed the bitter and wistful ache in her gut. There was no
we
. Not in the sense that she had once dreamed.
    “Thirty minutes to kill.” Simon tugged on his derby and looked up and down High Street.
     “I received an earful of ghost tales last night, and several originated near or along
     the Royal Mile—all underground. Mary King’s Close. South Bridge Vaults.”
    “I know them both.”
    “I’d like to get my bearings.” Without warning, he grasped Willie’s elbow, inciting
     a dizzy surge of wanton desire. How preposterous! It was not as if he’d grasped her
     hand. Nor were they skin to skin in any manner. Several layers of her clothing separated
     his gloved hand from her flesh and yet . . . she burned.
    Clearing her throat, Willie pointed left. “Mary King’s is just ahead, but it’s been
     closed to the public for years. In 1645 the plague struck hard and the city bricked
     up the close and the victims. Grisly business. Hence the ghost tales.”
    “Grisly business indeed. Anyone with a lick of sense would avoid a place once cursed
     with the plague. Hence the perfect hiding space.”
    “Aye, but as I said, it is sealed. It would take magic for the Houdinians to get inside.”
    “Or,” Simon said, rattling her further as he urged her toward the famous haunt, “someone
     with the imagination and twentieth-century expertise to engineer a secret entrance.”

C HAPTER 8
    What horrible thing had she done in life to deserve such torture?
    For the hundredth time in half an hour, Willie dug deep for calm.
    Searching for secret entrances alongside Simon had proved exhilarating and infuriating.
     For the past three days he’d battered her senses, inciting opposing emotions that
     left her drained. Confusion, frustration, amusement,
desire
. Vexing, that. Willie was quite certain that the man took advantage of every opportunity
     to discombobulate her.
    Standing too close. Staring too long.
    The mere brush of his arm weakened her knees, yet she did not swoon. Not only would
     giving in to the attraction endanger her family and career, but most assuredly it
     would damn her heart. Even if they didn’t have a past history, no good could come
     of a Vic and Freak union. Something her parents had preached. Something she’d been
     averse to believing, but a fact she had long since accepted. The British Empire had
     outlawed marriage between Vics and Freaks. Just as