Chapter Twenty-Two
Out in the middle of nowhere is often where you find your answers.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
“When he said ‘go up the east road,’ I did not think he meant literally up,” Beth said, pausing to wipe her brow with the back of her wrist. Since leaving the village of Grindleford, their route had made a moderate but relentless incline through woodlands, and the day’s heat had intensified to such a degree that they half expected to see a flock of firebirds in the trees overhead, singing flames across the sky. Their steady pace slowed, and “three hours to Sheffield” had transformed into “all damn afternoon to go one-fifth of the way.”
To be fair, they’d spent much of that time sitting beneath an oak tree. Their pursuers not appearing, perhaps having taken a different route, it had seemed only logical to rest from the hectic morning and to eat a nourishing luncheon purchased from a baker in the village, whose spectacles were so scratched he’d barely been able to see them, let alone identify them as famous ornithologists. This logic had then extended to gazing around at the lovely, tranquil countryside (reconnaissance), noting various birds within it (professional development), and drifting slowly, sweetly closer to each other (team building). Their eyes had begun to haze, their lips parted…since, after all, kissing would be the most logical thing to do, because, er, um, because it would reinvigorate them for the walk ahead…
And suddenly the caladrius had embarked upon a bright, trilling song, calling to its peers in the wild. They’d moved apart with surprised laughter.
“We must get back on the road,” Beth had said, forcing good sense back into her brain.
Devon had sighed and nodded. “Yes, we ought not loiter like this. At any moment a reporter from the Morning Herald might pop up to ask us when we’re getting married.”
“Ha ha,” Beth had said.
“Ha ha,” Devon had agreed.
They’d gathered up the leftovers of the food and resumed walking.
Soon after, however, a yaffingale had flown across the road, and they’d felt a professional obligation to stop and admire it, and argue cheerfully about it being a harbinger of rain, and for Beth to make rudimentary notes in her field journal before Devon stole the book to draw a tiny dancing carnivorous lapwing in the corner of one page. Beth had watched him with a lump in her throat. When he’d returned the book, she’d hugged it while Devon had shoved his hands into his pockets and scuffed a bootheel against the dusty road. They’d smiled rather bashfully at each other, there in the middle of the road, and kissing would have almost certainly ensued had not the yaffingale circled back and deposited a large wad of guano only inches away from them, rather spoiling the mood.
Then a carriage had appeared on the road behind them, coming out of Grindleford, requiring an urgent dash into the protection of tree shadows…and the holding of hands when they emerged again…the swinging of those hands…light conversation and smiles…lingering looks…
All of which made for much enjoyment but very little actual progress toward Sheffield.
Finally, they noticed the sun’s lowering and agreed they’d have to give up their trek for the day and find an inn before darkness fell. (Granted, sunset wasn’t due for another four hours, allowing plenty of time to travel the remaining eight miles to Sheffield—but an ability to do basic math disappears surprisingly quickly when one’s brain is being so flooded by the oxytocin hormone that one can barely walk at all.)
Beth sighed. “I wish the train had stopped in Hathersage,” she lied. In fact, she’d never felt more blissful than she had this afternoon, strolling the woodland road with Devon. It was even superior to the time she’d been about to join a faculty Christmas party when the fire alarm had gone off, forcing everyone to leave the building.
“At least the caladrius is happier,” Devon said, holding up the birdcage to watch its little white inhabitant hop from perch to water bottle to perch again, peeping excitedly at all the sights of the woodlands around it. After leaving the village they had removed the cage cover and pressed a chunk of pear between two bars, and the caladrius had perked up considerably. Its pretty white wings and its delight with the world made Beth smile every time she looked at it.
“Come on,” Devon told her, lowering the cage again, his own smile rather sappy. “We should keep going.”
Beth sighed. “Can’t we just wait here until someone imports one of those newfangled motorcars into England and happens to drive past so we can hijack them?”
Devon laughed. Hooking a finger around two of hers, he lifted her hand and turned it so she found herself spinning beneath their raised arms like in a dance. Then he began walking backward, cajoling her, gently tugging her, until she was laughing and walking, with all her heart willing to go anywhere in the world he might lead.
—
A few minutes later they came to the edge of the woods and discovered before them moorlands spreading to a far horizon, bare, brown, and swept with cool wind. Not a single building was in sight. Devon stopped, his heart swooping.
But Beth slipped away from him and drifted forward, becoming illuminated by the clear light from a vast, pallid sky. Tipping her face up to the wind, she closed her eyes, and long strands of hair swept across their lids, brushed her smile, and draped over the arms she stretched out as if she’d take flight.
Devon could not move, not even to glance away from her. The weight of attraction he felt for this woman had become almost unbearable. He’d dawdled all afternoon, taking any excuse to stop along the way, reveling in her company. He found her so endlessly beautiful, decent, fun, and interesting, and he liked her equally as much as he felt in love with her. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. In fact, he wished he never had to at all. But his whole life had been a series of farewells: from his mother when she died, from his family when he was sent to Yale, from casual lovers and temporary friends…He could not trust in wishes.
“It doesn’t look hopeful,” he said.
Beth turned to smile at him. “Oh, you never know your—”
She stopped abruptly as the clatter of traffic sounded in the distance. There was just enough time for Devon to utter a curse (and Beth to give him a chastising frown) before a hansom cab appeared around a bend some hundred yards back, dust clouds rising from beneath its wheels and shouts from within its body.
“Tyrannical woman!”
“Idiot! I told you going west was a stupid idea!”
“Will you both stop shouting?!”
“Don’t shove me!”
Devon reached for Beth to pull her off the road, but she was already running. They sprinted down a mild slope to crouch behind the nearest clump of dusty, dried-up gorse, and seconds later the cab emerged from the woodland. It drew to a halt where they had been standing, almost causing a collision between the several vehicles behind it.
“I swear I saw people on the road here!” the driver called from his high seat.
Peep! the caladrius sang, and Devon hastily swept one half of his coat around its cage. Hippolyta rose to stand on the cab’s footrest with her hands on her hips, ringlets stirring in the wind as she examined the view.
A yellow gorse flower blossomed in front of Devon, glimmering slightly with avian magic.
“I see no one!” Hippolyta declared.
“The driver’s telling the truth,” a Miss Fotheringham said from her perch on the cab’s left step. “It was two people, a man and a woman.”
“Yes, and the woman wasn’t wearing a hat,” the other Miss Fotheringham said disapprovingly from the cab’s right step.
“And the man had a magnificent golden mustache,” the first added.
Suddenly a score of flowers burst forth at the uppermost tips of the gorse bush. Beth gasped. Devon drew the birdcage closer and wrapped the other half of his coat around it. Peep came from beneath the cotton drapery.
“That’s strange,” Hippolyta boomed, peering in their direction. Devon suppressed a curse; beside him, Beth tensed in preparation for running.
“Those weren’t there a minute ago, by Jove!” Flinging out her arm dramatically, Hippolyta pointed a pink-gloved finger toward the bush behind which they hid.
“What is it?” Herr Obherhufter and the Fotheringham sisters all asked at once.
“Two albino hawks in that tree over there!”
“Verdammt!” Oberhufter shouted. “We have no time for hawks and shadows! Lockley will be in Sheffield by now! Drive on!”
With a loud, aggrieved sigh, Hippolyta sat down and the driver urged the horse into a trot once more. Within moments, the cab and its attendant vehicles had disappeared beyond the eastern horizon.
Devon and Beth let out simultaneous breaths of relief. Unwrapping the birdcage, Devon gave the caladrius a mock frown. “Rascal,” he chided.
“How did it make these flowers bloom?” Beth asked, gently touching a yellow petal. “Rejuvenation is never mentioned as one of its powers.”
“Perhaps it has naturally evolved since last observed,” Devon suggested. “Or perhaps Gladstone’s attempts to manipulate it have triggered a change to its thaumaturgic energy profile.”
Beth frowned. “If it can regenerate things in this way on a consistent basis, and not just as an expression of stress, then everyone will want a piece of it.”
“Well, we have it now,” Devon said, “and we will ensure its safety.” He rose and held out his hand; Beth took it, and he helped her up. They gazed out at the scruffy landscape.
“Not a building anywhere in sight,” Beth said with a weary sigh.
“I could have sworn there was an inn nearby,” Devon murmured. “Mind you, it’s been a while since I was last here.”
“Oh?” Beth asked, sounding as if she wanted to hear more. He gave her a slightly uncertain look but, seeing her smile, realized the interest was genuine. The woman appeared hell-bent on melting every rough, jaded shard within him and replacing it with a warm haze of delight. He answered her; of course he did—he would give her anything at this point.
“These moors contain a wellspring of thaumaturgic energy. When I was twelve, my cousin Gabriel convinced his parents to camp here at the start of summer so that he could study the effects of magic on the land. He always wanted to be a geographer, don’t ask me why, no one really understands him. I may be clever, but Gabriel is something else altogether. Anyway, in those days, wherever he went, I followed—we’re around the same age, and we used to be more like brothers than cousins—so they invited me along. He spent the whole time walking hither and yon with a compass and a notebook, muttering to himself, while his sister Amelia and I chased flying pebbles and tried to locate hidden singing rivers. But my favorite part was witnessing a certain nocturnal bird that nests here.”
Instantly, Beth’s eyes lit up. “Do you mean Setophaga lapis , the warbler that turns itself to stone by moonlight?”
He shrugged his mouth. “Maybe.”
“Or was it Lagopus lagopus aoidos , the grouse that sings epic poetry to the stars?”
“Perhaps.”
“My legs hurt,” she said at once.
“Oh?”
She nodded. “Yes. And my shoes are full of road dust. I can barely walk.”
“Poor darling,” he said. “Perhaps we should just camp out for the night.”
Her expression could have taken flight into a dream of moonlit wings, but she bit her lip with the most unbelievable pretense of disconcertment Devon had ever seen. Thankfully, she didn’t bite her thumbnail—that glove was so filthy now it would have made her ill.
“If you think that’s wise,” she murmured. Then without even looking, she flung out an arm in the same manner Hippolyta had, pointing to a scattering of trees a hundred yards northeast of where they stood. “That seems like a good spot.”
“Can you walk that far?” Devon asked, just to tease her. But she was already striding away, plowing through bracken and wildflowers, weariness forgotten at the thought of an interesting bird.
Devon smiled at her back. In all honesty, he had no idea if stone warblers or poetic grouse lived on this moor. But he remembered vividly what did, and he loved the idea of surprising Beth with it.
After all, he thought as he followed her into the wild, it was only logical that they spend a little time away from observers, outside the chase, to experience some private magic for themselves.
—
The problem with wanting to see wild avian magic is that it doesn’t just appear on command. (There’s also the problem of it often proving deadly, but that’s beside the point.) Beth and Devon had set up camp beside a few oak trees, building a fire circle and making a bed from ferns, grass, and sphagnum moss. (Only one bed, because the night would be cold … the greenery was limited …some good reason that they eventually gave up trying to invent.) They had eaten a small supper comprised of leftover pork pie, cheese, and pears they’d bought in the village, as well as nuts from an emergency supply Beth carried in her satchel. They’d even tried discussing their plan for getting the caladrius to the sanctuary in Bergerac, where the little bird would be safe from schemers, at least until it was old enough to be released into the wild. But the specter of farewelling each other afterward drew them into a melancholic silence. Night had begun to rise gracefully from the old, dry land. And still they waited.
“I’m sorry about tenure,” Devon said. “And Birder of the Year. But I admire the way you said no to Gladstone.”
Beth gave a quiet, droll laugh. A week ago, she’d never have refused Professor Gladstone anything. Who knew that racing across the country, being attacked by deadly magical birds and kissed by a handsome rogue, would be so transformative to one’s character?
“It’s really fine,” she said, and meant it. “Of course, you yourself could still win Birder of the Year. You’d just have to take the caladrius and…” Leave me , she almost said, but her throat closed, set up a barricade, and threatened to shoot her if she dared approach it with such painful words.
“I’m taking the bird to sanctuary,” Devon answered quite simply. “With you.”
The barricade in her throat began to preclude breathing. She hastily changed the subject. “I hope the others reached Sheffield without any problem.”
Devon cast her a wry smile. “You’re such a sweetheart. Personally, I hope they ended up in a ditch.”
“I don’t. The farther they are away from us, the better. Let them arrive safe in Sheffield—then have someone steal their vehicles and luggage.”
He laughed. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“I’ve told you, niceties don’t mean I’m nice.”
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her. “Do you mean to say all those polite manners and kindnesses of yours actually hide a cynical heart?”
“I’m not cynical,” she answered, busying herself with straightening the cover of the birdcage, beneath which the caladrius slept, its beak tucked snugly into its soft back feathers. “I’m realistic. If you’re nice to people, they won’t…”
“Hurt you,” he said into her stiff silence. She shrugged.
Devon brushed at a wildflower beside him in the grass, making its tiny petals scatter like fragments of dreams in the thickening dark. “So,” he said after a moment. “Who, exactly, hurt you?”
It sounded like a casual inquiry, but beneath the words Beth heard a coldness that evoked weapons, the gathering of addresses, and a plan for vengeance. Her stomach fluttered as if it were trying to fan her suddenly heated pulse.
“It’s not important,” she tried to say, but he interrupted her, his voice still so casual, so dangerous.
“Yes it is.”
Goodness, how was she supposed to talk again after that? She rubbed at a knotted thread in the cage cover, and her finger seemed to gleam slightly—from the firelight, she guessed, rubbing it against her skirt, feeling it tingle from the friction.
And then words began slipping from her throat, as if of their own volition. “You’re kind, but I must confess, ‘hurt’ is an exaggeration. I’ve never been beaten, or had my glasses broken—at least, not more than twice. I’m just not liked. I’m a weird know-it-all.”
Seeing Devon frown, she bit her bare thumb knuckle anxiously. “That’s a verbatim citing of what my peers would shout across the playground or write on the blackboard before class. I promise I’m not so unscientific as to falsify quotes!”
His frown darkened. “I don’t doubt you,” he said, and Beth’s brain spun confusedly as she realized he was angry for her, not with her.
“It really isn’t important,” she insisted. “And please understand, I’m not complaining. They didn’t have to like me, or answer when I spoke to them, or give me a seat at their table. It wasn’t their fault I have no instinct for the principles of social behavior among Homo sapiens sapiens . Birds are easy; people are utterly bewildering. At least etiquette rules provide a framework for how to act. They stop me from saying things like ‘Homo sapiens sapiens’ and mentioning over afternoon tea the fornication habits of sandpipers. They enabled me to become fr—associates with Hippolyta, and got us across the English Channel in a boat full of fishermen who had knives tucked in their boots. That is why I’m nicely behaved even though I’m not nice inside.”
The words stopped there, leaving a stunned silence. Even the moor had gone quiet. Oh God, had she really just exposed her humiliations like that? Appalled, Beth lifted her chin, smacked her hands on her thighs, and said briskly, “Let’s go look for birds.”
She began to rise, but Devon reached out, catching her arm, forestalling her. He let go at once, but Beth forgot that she had ever wanted to move.
“You have moss in your hair,” he said. “May I?”
She nodded mutely, and he leaned forward, his fingers gentle as they plucked bits of greenery from the tumbled strands. As he worked, not looking at her, he said lightly, “ I like you. I like you a great deal. Frankly, anyone who doesn’t is a fucking idiot. And anyone who says cruel things, or uses silence as a weapon, is a bully who knows how to be violent without lifting a finger. Don’t blame yourself, sweetheart. It’s not your fault or your shame.”
And while her brain was trying to cope with that, her heart hyperventilating, and her memory preparing a full-on flood of tears, he added: “I promise I will never, ever want to hurt you.”
The words made such a warm glow within her, she saw it like stars in her eyes against the night landscape. But she had no idea how to respond. Thank you, Mr. Lockley , seemed too polite. Let me take off your clothes and demonstrate my gratitude , probably not polite enough. Finally, worried that too long a silence would offend him, she said, “Gosh,” and he smiled as he smoothed a stray lock of her hair.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” she continued. “You never have. You’ve been…” She paused, her breath catching as his fingers brushed against her cheek. “You’ve been aggravating, nettlesome—”
“Um,” he said.
“—and respectful, thoughtful, kind. I haven’t had to be nice with you. Perhaps that’s why I lov—”
She stopped, lacking the courage to finish that word. But Devon wasn’t a genius for nothing. He reached out again, cupping her face with his hands, looking almost distraught with emotion.
“No one’s ever said such things to me before,” he whispered, searching her gaze for a lie. “No one’s called me thoughtful or lov—” Now he stopped, swallowing hard.
“Loved you,” she dared for the both of them.
Something seemed to break in him, collapsing his expression. He closed his eyes, and Beth pressed her hand against the hard beat of his heart, wishing she could soothe it. “I’m not just being nice,” he told her, his voice as velvety dark as the sky. “I meant what I said. You can trust me.”
“I do trust you. You’re a good man.”
She leaned closer, wanting to kiss the humor back into him. But something flashed in the night behind his shoulder, closer than a star, brighter than a fragment of moonlight. Beth stared as the speck of light began to dance.
“What is that?” she breathed.
Opening his eyes, Devon looked only at her. He smiled. “That, darling, is my favorite bird.”