Chapter Twenty
The wise ornithologist keeps her friends close and her enemies tied up somewhere they cannot trouble her.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
An ornithology professor is a master at skulking. Not only can they creep up on the most jittery little bird without its realizing, but they are also skilled at slipping past farmers, police officers, and students wanting to ask for an extension on coursework. Consequently, entering Gladstone’s house unseen presented no difficulty to Beth and Devon.
Avoiding his various household staff proved simple also as they made their way along the narrow service corridors.
Ducking into a broom closet to save themselves from the butler’s notice was a snap.
On the other hand, not utilizing that broom closet for the purposes of grabbing each other, kissing each other, and generally behaving in a wanton manner that would have jeopardized their mission proved considerably less easy. The darkness and intimacy of the setting seemed to override all Beth’s prudence, which had been growing fragile even in broad daylight, and Devon hadn’t possessed much to begin with. They managed to refrain, however, due to being consummate professionals—and, more to the point, being interrupted in their reaching for each other by footsteps sounding just outside the closet door.
A feminine voice rang out. “Mrs. Grant, I’ve finished with the chamber pots. I’ll sweep the entrance hall now.”
The door handle began to move. Beth’s breath snagged; Devon hastily grasped the handle. They looked at each other with a mix of alarm, trepidation, and simmering lust.
“It’s stuck,” muttered the woman on the other side. “Darn!”
She began to tug on the handle. Devon tugged back.
“Mrs. Grant!” the woman called out. “I think there’s someone hiding in the closet!”
“Nonsense!” came a distant voice. “What a silly idea! It’ll be the ghost.”
“That makes sense,” the woman said with relief. “All right, I’ll dust the library instead.”
“No, the professor left a bird in there and doesn’t want it disturbed. Come help me with these pans.”
The handle gave a final rattle, then footsteps could be heard moving away. Beth released a long breath. Devon cracked the door open cautiously, peering out.
“She’s gone,” he whispered.
“Thank goodness,” Beth said.
There followed a moment of riveting silence as they contemplated closing the door again and having another go at wanton behavior. Their overstimulated glands campaigned strongly for this (thus revealing to them the existence of adrenaline a few years before its official discovery, had they but known it); their professionalism, however, sent a belated reminder that the caladrius was within reach and urgently needed their help.
“To the library?” Beth whispered.
“Yes,” Devon said. He opened the door—
Then closed it and spun back to her, reaching out to cup her face with a barely restrained desperation. He bent until his lips hovered inches above hers, and Beth went so still she did not even breathe.
“Just be aware,” he whispered, “that as soon as I can, I’m going to kiss you until your corset falls off.”
“Understood,” she said shakily.
A smile flicked across his mouth. A thread of desire knotted around Beth’s heart. Her attraction to this man was so deep, it was practically geological. But there was a bird to rescue, a wicked plot to foil, and hopefully still the possibility of tenure to be awarded. So she stepped back just as Devon pulled himself away, and they both sighed.
Reopening the door, Devon double-checked that the corridor was still empty, then they crept out with what was objectively silence, despite the thundering of their hearts. Having visited the house more than once as Gladstone’s student, assisting with his annual study of Little John, Beth directed their way. She managed to do so without grabbing Devon’s wrist or otherwise womanhandling him, but there was no opportunity to point this out to him in a gently educational manner. And she actually would have rather liked to hold on to him, for she was nervous. Should Gladstone catch her, not only would she bid farewell to her hope of becoming Birder of the Year, but she’d probably end up demoted to the role of remedial tutor for first-year students, teaching the difference between a sanderling and sandpiper, and cleaning blackboard dusters at the end of each day.
Ascending a flight of stairs, they came to a hall lined with marble busts of famed scientists. Along the ceiling, taxidermied birds hung in a gruesomely motionless parody of flight toward the library at the far end. Beth paused at one diverging corridor, peering into its dusty shadows, but this part of the house seemed entirely unoccupied. The quiet only worsened her nerves, however, for if there was one thing an experienced birder knew, it was that danger didn’t advertise its presence while lurking in wait to pounce on you. But they reached the end of the hall unchallenged and paused outside the library’s half-open door. A sound of disconsolate peeping came from within.
“Well, that’s certainly a bird,” Devon said. “How much do you want to bet it’s the caladrius?”
“Gambling is an illogical pursuit; I never do it,” Beth replied. “But extrapolating probabilities from the available evidence, I’d say that is indeed our Caladria albo sacrorum .”
They shared an excited glance. Never mind the competition; they were about to meet an exceedingly rare bird that hadn’t been seen in the wild for decades. Beth’s pulse began to speed up, and it was all she could do not to run at the same pace.
Her instincts, however, were trying to stop her altogether. She’d always disliked Gladstone’s library, a vast collection of mostly unread books filled with outdated information and archaic science. She would like it even less if Gladstone occupied it at that moment. But instinct must bow before courage. Opening the door wider, she peered inside. Seeing no one, she slipped in, and Devon followed, closing the door behind him.
Whereas Gladstone’s university office had been a chaotic jumble, this chamber was so clean as to appear entirely unvisited. Its leather sofas gleamed. The air lay torpid, scented with furniture wax and slowly decaying books. Summer’s warmth seemed to have drained away through the old lead-lighted windows.
“There,” Beth said, pointing to a round display table at the far end of the chamber. Twigs were protruding from cracks in its surface; they sprouted leaves here and there and glistened with thick golden rivulets of sap. Amid them stood a canvas-hooded item about one foot tall and dome-topped.
Peep peep came a sound from beneath the hood.
The lonely little cry pierced Beth’s heart. Rushing across, she bent to lift the hem of the canvas a few inches and peer cautiously inside. Sure enough, a cage stood beneath, beautifully wrought with iron bars and scrolled designs. Glimpsing a small white body huddled trembling on a perch, she lowered the hem and stepped back so as not to distress the bird even more.
“It’s our caladrius,” she said in an awed whisper. “The poor little thing doesn’t seem in good condition.” Laying a hand atop the cage, she peeped in an approximation of the bird’s own voice. Beside her, moving with a professional gentleness, Devon crouched to look beneath the cover, then after a brief moment straightened again, pushing back his hair.
“Judging from the bird’s size, soft plumage, and the color of its beak, it’s a juvenile,” he said. “I’d suggest the altered state of this table is due to unstable thaumaturgic energy, but that seems unusual in a bird past fledging. I know you didn’t want to believe that Gladstone would indulge in exploitative research, but this really does look like a bird who has been provoked into overusing its magic. And it’s clearly having a negative impact on its health.”
His voice was grim, his expression devoid of its usual ease, and Beth knew suddenly, unequivocally, that she loved him. Not even necessarily in a romantic vein; she loved him for who he was, and how he cared about birds, and the fact that he’d assessed the caladrius so confidently with just a quick look.
(There was also the matter of his strong forearms and gorgeous, skilled mouth, but she didn’t want to spoil the high-minded moment by mentioning them.)
“You’re right,” she said. “We need to get the bird out of here.” She took the cage by its handle, whispering reassurances to the caladrius as she lifted it carefully. She and Devon turned—
And stopped, staring at the footman who stood in the library doorway with feet apart and arms crossed, looking eerily like a university porter hunting down recalcitrant students.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“We’re Professor Gladstone’s associates,” Devon lied without hesitation. “He asked us to bring the bird to him.”
The footman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I’ve never seen you before. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“My good man,” Beth replied in the tone of voice she reserved for emergencies, such as when a local suggested razing a forest to get rid of a sweet little bloodsucker owl, or a hotel concierge offered her a room overlooking the market square. “If you are deficient in elementary memory retrieval, that is not our responsibility. As representatives of the finest pedagogical facilities (pertaining to ornithology) in Her Majesty’s realm, and more specifically, practitioners of academic specialities affiliated with those of Professor Gladstone, we reserve the unassailable right to—”
“Fine, fine,” the footman interrupted, holding up his hands in defense against this linguistic assault. “I believe you. Only a professor would talk like that.”
“Quite right,” Beth said. They took a step forward, then stopped again, frowning with nervous impatience, as the footman made no move to retreat.
“I still think I should double-check with Professor Gladstone,” he grumbled.
Devon nodded. “That’s reasonable. You’re obviously very intelligent, and I respect that. You run off and double-check, and we’ll wait right here for you.”
“I shall!”
The footman turned smartly on a heel and marched away, and Devon rolled his eyes at Beth. She bit her lip, repressing a laugh.
“Thank you!” she called out to the footman as he left the room.
Angel , Devon mouthed to her. Now she was the one to roll her eyes, but less from amusement than from a confusing mix of shyness, mild exasperation, and being utterly, hopelessly charmed by the rogue. There was no time to sort through the feelings, however. As soon as they saw the footman turn the corner into another hallway, they ran from the library—
And stopped again, hearing voices from around that same corner.
“What do you mean, ‘associates’?”
Beth’s entire body turned colder than a frostbird’s breath. “Gladstone!” she whispered.
Instantly, Devon manhandled her back into the library and closed the door behind them. He dragged a chair across to wedge beneath the door handle, and Beth turned the key that was protruding from the lock. Moments later, a thud reverberated through the door as someone bashed on it.
“I know you’re in there, Pickering,” came Professor Gladstone’s stentorian voice, sounding bored.
“Open the door!” shouted the footman, thumping it again.
“There’s no escape!” Beth gasped, looking around the room as if another exit might suddenly materialize among the books.
“We’ll go out the window,” Devon said, striding toward the far wall. Hurrying after him, Beth conveyed a lecture as to the danger of this plan, along with charts and comprehensive recommended reading list, via the silent arch of her eyebrows. Devon merely grinned at her.
“Trust me,” he said. He unlatched the window, swung it open, and looked down. “Hm, no drainpipe. Well, that’s inconvenient. I don’t suppose you have a helicopter parasol on you?”
“Oh yes, I keep it under my hat,” Beth answered, provoked to sarcasm.
Thud! Thud! The efforts on the other side of the door had escalated to kicking, with considerable success: the barricading chair fell, and the key began to rattle in its lock.
Devon regarded Beth mildly. “You aren’t wearing a hat.”
“Mr. Lockley,” she chided, “this isn’t the time for bantering. Please confine yourself to helpful suggestions.”
He glanced out the window again. “We could climb down using the window ledges, but only if we left the bird behind. And I’m not doing that.”
Beth had never heard anything more sexy in her life. I really do adore him , her heart sighed. I could kiss him all over this very moment. (Which was not a particularly helpful suggestion either, but she couldn’t blame herself.)
They looked at each other in taut silence, then Devon’s eyes lightened, a smile gliding across his mouth.
“Oh dear,” Beth said. “You’re going to hijack something.”
He laughed. “No. We simply have to make a run for it. We’ll head back down the way we came, and out the back door. You take the bird and keep going, no matter what happens.”
Beth’s expression grew wary. “And what about you?”
He cupped his hand against the back of her head and drew her closer, setting a kiss upon her forehead. “I’ll be right with you,” he said—at least, that is what Beth thought she heard dimly through her nerves’ delighted singing.
THUD!
With one enormous crash, the door broke open and the footman veritably tumbled into the room, followed at a more sedate pace by Gladstone. Beth did not spare a moment to assess the degree of anger on the professor’s face. She was running even before he’d fully entered the room.
“Out of the way!” Devon yelled as he led the charge, using all the authority vested in him by an organization whose goal was to keep a bunch of high-spirited young adults from wreaking havoc impart a valuable education upon its students. Startled by this sudden offensive, the footman instinctively leaped aside, and they barreled past him, past Gladstone—catching a whiff of pipe smoke, a broken gasp of outrage—before speeding down the corridor. They were almost to the stairs before the footman reorganized his wits and gave chase.
Hauling up her long skirt with one hand, Beth began a cautious descent of the stairs, the caladrius beating its wings frenetically within the cage and peeping at her to go more slowly while Devon, one step behind, practically vibrated with the desire for her to hurry up.
“Stop!” shouted the footman in their wake, proving once again his unfortunate lack of intellect. More unfortunate, however, at least for Beth and Devon, was that he made up for it with physical prowess: he’d run so fast, he would probably reach them in another few steps.
Glancing over his shoulder, Devon muttered a curse. “Keep going,” he told Beth. “I’ll catch up.”
Beth paused. “What—”
“Go!”
A lifetime of obedience forced her onward, around a bend, down another flight of steps. From above came a terrifying series of noises… thud! crash! “aarrgh!” thud! smack! “nooo!” …but she did not stop until she reached the ground. Racing past the closet in which she and Devon had previously hidden, she took a sharp corner into a musty, unlit corridor. At its end she arrived at an entryway cluttered with raincoats, galoshes, and rusted old cages. Opening its external door, she looked out to the lawn at the side of the house. Not far away was a hedge, some three feet high, and beyond that, a line of elm trees gleaming in the vivid morning sunlight.
Devon arrived, running straight for the door. His shirt was ripped at the collar and his hair disheveled, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. “Quickly!” he urged.
They sprinted across the lawn toward the hedge. Devon hurdled it without pause, but Beth struggled, hampered as she was by her skirts and the fact that the hedge was more than half her height. Taking the birdcage and setting it down, Devon helped her over—which is to say, half dragged her over, with a display of uncouth and decidedly unromantic handling that Beth was nevertheless grateful for under the circumstances. As soon as she was on her feet again, he picked up the cage and they dashed into the shadows among the trees.
“We have to get back to the village and catch that eleven o’clock train,” Devon said.
Checking the fob watch pinned to her satchel, Beth frowned. “It’s ten thirty now. We’ll never make it.”
Just then, with impeccable timing, voices sounded on the far side of the trees. Devon stopped so abruptly, Beth collided with him. He reached out automatically with his free hand to steady her, but his attention strained toward whoever was speaking.
“Damn it, you Arschgeige !”
“Desist from pushing me, by Jove!”
Beth and Devon shared a knowing glance. Moving forward cautiously, they noticed a narrow lane on the other side of the trees. Parked there was the curricle that had almost plowed into Beth earlier. Herr Oberhufter and Hippolyta Quirm stood a short distance from it, arguing.
“I’m not pushing you!” Oberhufter hollered. “I’m patting you!”
“Reprehensible liar!” Hippolyta retorted, smacking his arm.
“Ow!”
“Violent, pompous clodhopper!” She smacked him again.
Devon caught Beth’s gaze then tilted his head toward the curricle. She nodded. They crept between the trees, wincing with every crack of twigs beneath their feet, barely daring to breathe—although they probably could have sung a shanty in two-part harmony and they wouldn’t have been heard above the shouts of the field ornithologists.
“Idiot, I told you Gladstone didn’t have the caladrius! Your idea to follow Pickering and Lockley was a complete waste of time!”
“We only searched half the house! If you hadn’t worn an orange dress, we wouldn’t have had to flee when that chambermaid spotted us!”
“It’s not as orange as your face!”
This insult was not particularly fair, since Oberhufter’s face had in fact turned bright red. He grabbed hold of Hippolyta by the ruffles of the aforementioned orange dress and, pulling her hard against him, kissed any further vitriol from her mouth. Immediately, Beth and Devon dashed from the tree shadows. Climbing into the curricle as quietly as possible, they set the birdcage on Beth’s lap, she placed her satchel in front of it for protection, and Devon grabbed the horses’ reins.
“Oi! Stop!”
Glancing back, they saw Gladstone’s footman making hot pursuit through the trees. The command alerted Oberhufter and Hippolyta also, and they stared with shocked confusion as the curricle began to drive toward them.
“Lockley!” Herr Oberhufter shouted. “Was zur H?lle?!”
But there was no time for conversation. Devon urged the horses into a gallop. Beth, clinging to the bench seat with one hand and the birdcage with the other, heard only incoherent screams from Oberhufter and Hippolyta as they were compelled to leap into a hedge or else be run over. Had she ever diversified her education to include cultural studies, she would have appreciated the karma of the moment. Unfortunately, her only instinct was a British one.
“Sorry!” she called out.
Alas, judging from Hippolyta’s roar, she was not forgiven.
They sped along the sloping lane, sending birds flying up from the hedgerows in alarm and an elderly pedestrian into paroxysms of outrage at the side of the road. The footman gave chase for a while but was soon left in their dust, literally. As Beth tried to keep the birdcage safe despite the wild shuddering of the curricle, she heard nothing from beneath its cover and began to worry that the bird had expired from fright.
Within a few minutes, the lane descended at a steep angle toward the main road, and Devon slowed the horses. They trotted into the village.
“How long have we got until the train leaves?” Devon asked.
Beth reached for her fob watch—and blinked in surprise. The glass surface was freckled all over with tiny white crystals, as if some magical force had tried restoring its original state. But the only performer of magic in the vicinity was the caladrius, and according to all the information Beth had reviewed, its power was healing illness, not actual regeneration.
“Um,” she said, holding up the watch.
Devon shot a quick glance at it. “Um,” he agreed.
The bird in its hooded cage had no comment.
“We’ll just have to hope we’re not too late,” Devon said.
Looking back over her shoulder at the diverging roads behind them, Beth noticed dust clouds in the distance and realized the race was on. Fear gripped her stomach tight. Forget hope; it was going to take a whole lot of luck to get out of this situation, and as a scientist, she knew that was the most precarious thing of all.