Chapter Eleven
Ornithologist is another word for hero .
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
The frostbird’s scientific binomial was Ardea ignis , due to its thaumaturgic emanations being cold enough to burn instantly through muscle and bone, although in Greenlandic it was more colloquially known as—
“Run!”
Devon’s voice broke through Beth’s thoughts in the same moment he began pushing her toward the station’s waiting room. All around them, mayhem reigned. Larger than its cousin, the Kievan firebird, and far more dangerous, the frostbird darted above the panicked crowd, breathing gusts of high-pressure air. Luggage exploded in great bursts of blue-white ice. People shoved and bashed at each other, desperately trying to reach shelter. Just in front of Beth and Devon, a woman fell to her knees, and they stopped to help her up.
“Please,” she cried, clutching at them. “My Louis—I can’t find my Louis!”
Beth’s pulse skipped. “What does he look like? How old is he?”
“Not even two years old!” the woman sobbed. “Green and gold, with—”
“I’m sorry, what?” Beth interrupted confusedly.
“You mean his clothes?” Devon said.
Now the woman was confused. “I mean my suitcase. My Louis Vuitton suitcase. It’s worth a fortune!”
Beth gritted her teeth. Devon’s face looked pained. They propelled the woman toward the waiting room, then dashed to crouch behind an overstacked luggage trolley. Their bodies pressed together in the limited space, but Beth had no time for tingling.
“Frostbirds aren’t normally aggressive,” she said. “It’s not attacking out of malice; it’s frightened. Which means we’ll never get it to land.”
“Agreed,” Devon said. “And the train arriving might scare it away into the city.”
The thought of that disaster darkened their shared glance. Beth opened her satchel, rummaging through its contents, while Devon peered around the trolley, tracking the frostbird as it spiraled toward the apex of the station’s roof.
“Fascinating,” he said mildly, then turned back to her. At the sight of the object she held up, his expression blanked. “What is that?”
“Just something I invented in my spare time.” Unwrapping a web of string from around a narrow metal pipe, she unfolded that pipe at two hinges, gave a brisk flick, and thus transformed it with practiced efficiency into a long-handled net.
“Clever,” Devon said. “What’s your plan?”
“I need some bait.” She scrutinized him in such a way that he leaned back defensively.
At that moment, a voice called out from farther along the now-abandoned platform. “Miss Pickering? Are you there?”
“Miss Wolfe!” Beth recognized the woman from her refined American accent. “Are you safe?”
“Yes. If you want to try catching the bird, I have a red scarf I’ll donate to the effort in exchange for a share of the reward.”
“Another person with a faulty dictionary,” Devon muttered.
“Thank you!” Beth called. “That will do perfectly for a lure! If we—”
Screeee , the frostbird interrupted as it glided the length of the station. The crackle of magical energy echoed eerily through the silence. Tiny icicles formed on Beth’s hair. She watched with trepidation and more than a little wonderment as the bird flew out of the roofed area, glowing alabaster when it met the morning sunlight. It’s long, ribbonlike tail feathers spread, the rime of ice along them flashing, and for a moment Beth thought it was going to leave. But it soared up to perch on the roof of the signalman’s box.
“Now!” Devon urged. “While it’s—”
“Excuse me,” came a polite masculine voice from directly behind them. Beth and Devon turned their heads to see a young man in an ill-fitting suit crouch down, smiling eagerly. He held a notepad and pencil in his hands. “The two of you are orthogolists, right?”
“What are you doing here?” Devon demanded. “You’re in danger. Find shelter!”
The young man just nodded, smile widening. “The name’s Spencer, from the Canterbury Times . By sheer chance I happened to be on the scene and would love to ask you a few questions.”
They stared at him incredulously, but he went on grinning like a lunatic an entertainment journalist. “Are you competing for Birder of the Year? Have you any special plans to catch the caladrius? What about this bird? I heard someone say it’s leafy, but it looks more like snow to me.”
“Lethal,” Devon corrected him. “As in, it will kill you when I toss you to it, if you don’t get into that waiting room and close the door behind you. Right. Now.”
The smile shriveled into a pout. “I say, jolly poor sport!”
Devon’s expression grew darker, and Mr. Spencer hurried away. Beth and Devon looked at each other, stunned. Then they rose from their crouches.
“I’ll get the scarf from Miss Wolfe,” Devon said.
“I’ll be ready with the net,” Beth told him.
He nodded, then jogged away down the platform toward where Miss Wolfe hid behind a bench seat. The thud of his boots matched Beth’s heartbeat. She turned to watch the frostbird in case it reacted to his movement.
Such a magnificent creature! (The bird, that is, not Mr. Lockley.) Beth had never seen one outside of a field guide, for the species lived in the most remote areas of the northern polar zone, avoiding humans. It certainly would never have migrated of its own volition to England in midsummer, but she also couldn’t fathom anyone releasing such a rare and perilous creature to help eliminate their rivals for Birder of the Year, even with tenure at stake.
Something in the back of her mind cleared its throat officiously and tapped a memory Beth could not quite see. But there was no time to think about it. Removing her jacket, she draped it over the net, tying the sleeves around the handle to keep it in place. Goosebumps from the bird’s magic rose beneath her cotton shirtwaist, uncanny but not unpleasant, and she tingled with more than cold. Really, only one thing was better than engaging with a wild magical bird (belatedly remembering your cup of tea but discovering it still warm).
“Ready, Miss Pickering?”
She glanced up to see Devon striding back along the platform, scarf in hand. Ice shards cracked beneath his bootheels and glinted on the sweep of his long dark coat. He was unsmiling, focused on the frostbird, and he looked so strong, so expert, that Beth’s stomach flipped at the thought of such a man having kissed her.
Then again, she was strong and expert too. She might be uncomfortable around people, but when it came to birds she knew exactly what she was doing. Tugging on the jacket’s knotted sleeves once more to ensure they would hold firm, she stepped out from behind the luggage trolley. Devon halted, raising the scarf and waving it slowly above his head. The frostbird stirred on its rooftop perch, letting out a haunting, lucent cry.
“Once it takes flight, drop the scarf and run,” Beth instructed.
Devon did not even glance in her direction. Beth frowned, wondering if he’d heard her. But it was too late to inquire: the frostbird’s lush wings spread, and with another cry it sprang aloft, shedding ice crystals as it aimed straight for Devon.
He tilted his head, watching it. The air began to crackle and splinter into ice, but Devon remained motionless, even while the frostbird sped closer…closer…
Beth began to run. The bird blew a deadly gust of polar magic toward Devon, who did not even flinch in response. Using a fallen suitcase as a springboard, Beth leaped, lifting her net as high as she could in a double-handed grip. It intercepted the stream of magic less than two feet in front of Devon and instantly turned to solid ice. Beth braced herself.
Thud!
The bird flew into the frozen net and dropped, stunned. Ice skittered across the ground.
Immediately, Beth tossed the net aside and crouched beside the frostbird. With gloved fingers, she stroked its long neck, checking for signs of life. A steady pulse reassured her. Further hurried observations suggested the bird was unharmed beyond its stupor, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Devon squatted beside her. “That really was very clever,” he said.
Beth, however, was in no mood for compliments. “Why did you just stand there?” she demanded in her most severe, teacherly voice. “You could have been killed!”
He shrugged. “I trusted you to act in time. I wanted to watch it fly. There was something odd about how it used its tail feathers.”
“Oh.” Beth found her mood veering in the direction of accepting compliments, after all. Besides, she agreed with him, confound the man. “I noticed that too,” she confessed, watching as he gently employed Miss Wolfe’s scarf in binding the frostbird’s wings to its body. “Almost as if it was going against its natural instincts.”
Devon looked up at her thoughtfully, and a whole library of ornithological theory filled the quiet between them. Once again, Beth felt a vague memory of frostbirds drift into her awareness, then out again. But before either she or Devon could speak, the passengers began to emerge from shelter, chattering more excitedly than a flock of garden sparrows in springtime. Devon hastily finished binding the frostbird’s wings; Beth stood to act as a guard. But she was almost knocked down by Monsieur Chevrolet charging onto the scene, followed by Miss Wolfe. An iron cage swinging from the latter’s hand whacked several times against the monsieur, even though Miss Wolfe had to extend her reach considerably to make this happen.
Suddenly Beth felt enclosed by a warm shadow as Devon rose to stand beside her, his arms crossed, expression tight and cold, as he stared at the other two ornithologists. “Mind you don’t step on the lady’s feet,” he said in a tone that implied a further clause, “or else I will break your legs . ”
“It’s fine, Mr. Lockley,” Beth said nicely. “Miss Wolfe brought a cage to protect the frostbird. We should thank her.”
Devon drew breath to reply with something Beth guessed would be not remotely close to thanks, but at that fortuitous moment a woman in a tweed dress and hat appeared.
“IOS,” she announced, holding forth a silver badge in much the same manner as a police inspector arriving at a crime scene. Beth noted the engraving of a phoenix, symbol of the International Ornithological Society, before the woman pocketed the badge once more. “Mrs. Hassan, Kent division. By complete and pure coincidence, I just happened to be present. Which one of you bagged this bird?”
“It was my scarf that allowed its capture,” Miss Wolfe said immediately. The crowd of passengers gave her a hearty cheer, and she smiled and waved to them.
“I provided vital supervision, without which disaster might have ensued!” Monsieur Chevrolet offered. Cheers sounded again, intermingled with a few whistles in appreciation of the gentleman’s fine mustache.
Mrs. Hassan turned to Beth. “What about you?” Her tone made it clear that she’d witnessed the whole thing. “Perhaps, in a thrilling display of ornithological skill gained from your university education, you and the handsome young Professor Lockley here partnered to capture the deadly bird and save everyone?”
“Ooh!” said the crowd.
Beth looked to Devon in the hope he’d supply a response. But he seemed as taken aback as she felt.
“Handsome?” Monsieur Chevrolet muttered sulkily.
“How did you know who he is?” Miss Wolfe asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“And I wouldn’t call him young,” Monsieur Chevrolet added. “Besides, he got his degree in America .”
“Pardon me, I must dash,” Beth murmured, and turned to hurry away before anyone could further inflict conversation upon her. But she’d not gone a dozen steps before Devon appeared at her side.
“You were wise to leave,” he whispered. “Whoever claims that bird’s capture will have to transport it to an aviary, which means being diverted from the competition.”
“I wonder if that was the intention all along,” Beth said. “Perhaps someone wanted to eliminate competitors. Why else would they deploy a trained frostbird?”
“Shh,” Devon hissed. Glancing around warily, he caught her arm and guided her even farther along the platform. Beth considered rebuking him for yet again manhandling her, but refrained out of fear he’d stop doing it.
“I agree with you,” he whispered. “I also think the lapwing in Paris was trained; otherwise it’s hard to understand how we all survived, including whoever stole it from the Fotheringhams.”
Beth stared up at him. “The lapwing was stolen?”
“Yes, the—” He stiffened, abruptly somber. “Damn.”
Alarmed, Beth followed his gaze to the station’s entrance, where a group of men were strolling onto the platform. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s our French friends!”
At Devon’s sigh, Beth frowned reprovingly. “They’re nice people.”
“You say that about everyone.”
“Not everyone.” She gave him a pointed look, and he grinned in response, biting his lower lip in a way that sent her stomach reeling.
“Why, Miss Pickering, whatever has befallen your good manners?”
“ You have,” she said sternly, although humor danced beneath the words. Turning away lest she start giggling, she waved to the fishermen. “Bonjour!”
“If only Hippolyta Quirm could see you now,” Devon murmured, tapping his knuckles against her arm amiably. Her stomach, only just recovered, swooped all over again. But the fishermen had noticed them and began to run, shouting with a wrath that took her by surprise.
“Merde alors! Agresseur de femme!”
“Goodness me,” Beth murmured a second before Devon shoved her protectively behind him. In the next second, the fishermen arrived, shouting mere inches from Devon’s face and brandishing their fists. Beth tried to step forward so she might calm the situation, but Devon extended his arm, barricading her.
“Really, this is silly,” she said. “Just let me explain…”
But there was no point: none of the men listened, nor even seemed to require her existence to justify their dispute. She was on the verge of walking away, to find a quiet spot in which to read while awaiting the train, when a cheerful voice sounded behind her.
“I say! What ho!”
The men’s voices stumbled into confused silence. Everyone looked around at the young Canterbury Times journalist, Mr. Spencer, who had joined them. He held notepad and pencil in anticipation of an interview.
“My French is a bit rusty,” he said to Devon, “but I believe they’re accusing you of beating the young lady. Do you have any comment? Perhaps the stress of competing for Birder of the Year drove you to it?” Turning to Beth, he aimed the pencil at her like a weapon. “Ma’am, have you any bruises I might detail for my readers? I’m certain they—”
Devon scowled. “Bruises? This is preposterous!”
“Prépuce?!!” the fishermen raged. One lunged for Devon, who hastily stepped back, almost knocking Beth down as he did so. This whipped up a veritable storm of French fury.
“Mr. Lockley has not beaten me!” Beth averred, quite horrified.
The journalist noted this down. “In that case,” he said helpfully, “may I suggest you offer some proof that you are friendly with each other? Perhaps a gesture that transcends language, if you know what I mean.”
He winked so broadly, it was a wonder he didn’t pull a facial muscle.
Devon expelled a sigh of exasperation. Turning to Beth, he gave her a look so intense, her stomach forgot swooping and donned a sparkling leotard to begin performing arabesques instead. “What do you think?” he asked. “Shall we illustrate our goodwill toward each other?”
Beth thought back to their demonstration of marital association for the innkeeper yesterday. A brief hug seemed like a reasonable solution to the current dilemma. “Yes,” she agreed.
Devon immediately stepped close and set an arm around her back. Beth girded her loins in anticipation of being embraced.
Instead, he swung her into a dip.
The world swayed, filling with sunlight. Staring up at Devon, she felt her sudden bewilderment melt in the heat of his regard. He raised one eyebrow questioningly, and all at once she realized his intention. For about half a second, she considered saying no. But words to that effect could not be found anywhere inside her (although to be fair, she did not exactly search for them). She gave the slightest nod, and Devon smiled.
Then he bent and kissed her.
The fishermen gasped. The journalist gasped. But Beth did not hear them. Indeed, the entire world might have gasped, clutched its handkerchief, and swooned dramatically among the stars, and she would not have noticed. Devon kissed her with such brash, cheerful vigor that all her senses were bowled over. She tried to remind herself that he was a villain who disliked her utterly, but the fun of the moment banished such thoughts. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to climb into the kiss and build a home there, grow a bright garden, and wake every morning to joyful birdsong.
Then it ended, as suddenly as it had begun. Devon lifted her straight again. But the camaraderie in his eyes kept her off-balance, and he tucked her in close against his side to hold her steady.
The fishermen began to laugh. They clapped Devon on the shoulder and took Beth’s hand, squeezing it in a rough, sympathetic manner that had her feeling giddy all over again. “Pardon” was babbled in French and English by all parties; the journalist urgently scribbled notes and demanded to know names; and the crowd of passengers began to cheer and whistle. But Mrs. Hassan was tapping her IOS badge against her jaw, staring at them intensely, and Beth felt a chill, like a sharp sliver of frostbird magic, penetrate her heart. A woman’s reputation was everything, and she imagined IOS would entirely disapprove of her kissing a man in public. Think of the damage it might do to the public’s ideas about ornithology!
Just then, a train arrived, the sound of its horn breaking the scene into pieces. With a final adieu, the fishermen departed, the journalist ran to interview Mrs. Hassan, and Beth found herself standing alone with Devon in taut silence. He still had an arm around her, and she slipped away from it. Straightening her satchel, she frowned at a fascinating patch of concrete beside her feet.
“So this is goodbye,” she said, just as she had what seemed like hours ago. Back before the world filled with shimmering frost and kissing. Really, the concrete was so very fascinating , she could not tear her gaze from it.
“Miss Pickering,” Devon said. When she did not look up, he set a finger beneath her chin, lifting it. She tried to avoid meeting his gaze, but one accidental glimpse of it, all shining darkness and sultry eyelashes, arrested her.
“We’re catching the same train,” he pointed out.
“But we’re making different journeys,” she said. After all, fun was lovely and kisses were sweet, but tenure was forever. And birds were her only friends. People, on the other hand, showed interest in her only when they wanted something. Beth had no doubt whatsoever that Devon’s charm would end just as soon as the caladrius flew into sight, leaving her with a whole lot of regrets to add to her stack of unhappy memories
Retreating from his touch, she offered a polite, collegial nod of farewell. He stared at her silently. The morning sun glowed red-gold around him, flaring in rainbow fragments where the frostbird had shed its icy magic in his hair. But his eyes were almost black with an emotion too intensely human for Beth to identify. Farther down the platform, a group of buskers began to play music that soared above the hum of the crowd. Beth thought wryly that someone ought to capture the scene with a kind of rapid, repeat-action camera, then display it in motion on a large screen; people would surely pay good money to watch and weep over it.
She did not weep, however. She turned away and hastened away to board the train, alone, ruthless, and without looking back.