Jess stared at me blankly while Oscar laughed out loud.
“I’m not sure which is worse – the fact he’s a thief, a Clocker mix, or a highlander,” Oscar said with complete sincerity.
Jess snapped her mouth shut and spun to face Wilde. “Bein’ a thief ‘as much to recommend it.”
“I can’t disagree with her,” I said smiling.
Oscar inclined his head to her. “I bow to your superior understanding of such matters, young lady. Forgive me.”
“What’s a Clocker?” she said in response.
This time Oscar looked to me to answer the question. I forged ahead. “In the same way the Mongers have their ancestor’s trouble-making skills, so do the Clockers have variations on their ancestor’s ability to travel in time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand ‘travel in time.’ What does that mean?”
I sighed. The story I’d avoided telling was the simplest means to communicate the concept. “A few years ago, when I was still thieving for my living, I met a girl with strange clothes and a strange way about her. I helped her, and we became friends of a sort, and before she left, she gave me a device from her time.”
“A device … from her time?” Jess asked hesitantly. I had Oscar’s full attention as well, since this was not part of any story he had ever heard.
“Saira gave me her torch. It was an electric light that she held in her hand like a wand.”
“Magic?” Jess breathed.
“It seemed so to me at the time. But since then I’ve been to Saira’s time, and devices such as the electric torch are commonplace then, as are the batteries that power it.”
“When, exactly, is Saira’s time?” Oscar asked.
“More than a century from now.”
He exhaled, but said nothing. Jess’s eyes gleamed in the dim gaslight, and she practically whispered the words, “You’ve been there?”
I nodded and assessed her understanding of the magnitude of what I had just revealed. She seemed to be absorbing this concept like she did everything else – fully, and without judgement.
Oscar looked around my makeshift workshop, and his gaze lingered on the generator motor I was attempting to wire. “You’ve seen the wonders of the future—” he began.
“—And they will remain in the future,” I finished for him. “I am merely attempting to invent the things which are being invented by others now, using available technology and materials.”
Oscar smiled and tapped a finger to his head. “A little bit of knowledge can go a long way, eh, Devereux?”
I’d been holding myself very tightly since the conversation began, and some of the tension began to seep away. “It’s remarkable what an eidetic memory can accomplish when given the right tools.”
“What’s an eidetic memory?” Jess asked, looking to both of us for the answer.
“The ability to take a mental photograph of something and then “see” a perfect recreation of the memory at will,” Oscar explained.
“Oh. I can do that,” Jess said dismissively.
Oscar raised an eyebrow at me across the top of Jess’s head. I just grinned. “Of course you can,” I said.
“I want to know what happens in the future,” Jess insisted.
“You will. Each day you live, you’re learning what happens in the future.” She scowled, I laughed, and Oscar regarded us both with an amused smile.
“It is rather tempting to know. When I realized that the lovely Saira knew my work, it was all I could do not to probe for the juicy bits of gossip about my life, my fame, and my fortune.”
I knew what he was asking and kept my expression as neutral as possible as I thought about the ignoble end of Oscar Wilde. “I wish for us all a life full of love, laughter, and the wisdom to pursue whatever creative endeavors feed our souls.”
It didn’t fool him for a minute, though Wilde raised an imaginary glass in a toast. “Hear, hear!”
Jess watched us pretend joviality neither of us felt, then she said, “When do we go lookin’ for the red’eaded woman?”
“She’s a ginger?” Wilde asked.
“Apparently, a flaming redhead.” My words brought to mind the image of Leighton’s Flaming June painting, but I shoved it away. “Beyond noticing the woman’s red hair, our primary witness has the approximate observational skills of an oak plank,” I grumbled.
“He can’t have been the only one to see her though?”
I exhaled. “I’ve been avoiding the prospect of searching for witnesses. It really has nothing to do with me, and certainly no one has asked me to look into it.”
Wilde looked me straight in the eyes. “You should look into it. If, as you suspect, the woman is of the Monger persuasion, this was not an isolated crime. She is by nature a Machiavellian schemer, and I suggest it would be best to know as much about her as you can before you actually come face-to-face with her in a dark alley somewhere.”
“I’m good in dark alleys,” I mumbled in a surly tone. I knew I should investigate further, and it certainly wouldn’t take much time, but I’d resisted doing anything at all that could be construed as Sherlockian. As it was, I knew it was historically inevitable that Conan Doyle would get wind of the story of the Redheaded Men’s Club and turn it into The Redheaded League for The Strand magazine.
“Of course you’re good in dark alleys. Shall I join you in my pink and green frock coat, or can you be trusted to investigate without my fashion sense to brighten those alleys for you?”
I smirked. “I almost want to see you in the pink and green frock coat. I would have to wear a burgundy cravat to clash loudly and painfully with your wardrobe.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Wilde said in mock horror.
Jess shoved her stool back and stood. “Why ye two are on about frocks when there’s Mongers about, I don’t understand!”
“We don’t know she’s a Monger,” I cautioned.
“And ye won’t until we find ‘er, and maybe not even then. I’m goin’ for supper. Reesy’s bacon cottage pie’s not to be missed, and I can’t listen to talk about pink, green, or burgundy a minute longer.”
She stomped up the stairs dramatically, and Oscar sighed. “It pains me.”
“What does?” I asked as I cleaned up the work table.
“To be no longer young enough to know everything.”