Chapter Twenty-Four
While you’re watching the starling in the field, remember that a hawk may be watching it too.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
The crowd of onlookers whispered avidly as the three ornithologists stared at each other with a professional degree of enmity.
“Point that gun away from Miss Pickering,” Devon said, chillingly calm, “or you will regret it.”
“Fair enough.” Smiling, Herr Oberhufter angled the gun toward Devon instead.
Crash.
Everyone jolted as Beth stood so abruptly, her chair slammed back against the floor. Face flushed, expression grim, she slammed her fist on the table. Cups and plates rattled violently. The milk jug spilled. Across the table, Oberhufter stared openmouthed with astonishment.
“I beg your pardon,” Beth said coolly. “But I have just about had enough. Put your gun down and get some bloody manners, or I swear I will expel you.”
The gun dropped with a thunk to the table. Immediately, Devon snatched it, flipped it in his hand, and aimed it right back at Oberhufter.
“Apologize to the lady for annoying her,” he said.
At his commanding tone, the crowd fairly swooned; one elderly gentleman had to be fanned with a chambermaid’s apron.
“Sorry, Fr?ulein ,” Oberhufter muttered, his voice so faint it sounded less German and more like a confederation of sovereign states dreaming of a kaiser.
“Thank you,” Beth said primly. With a polite little nod, she retrieved her chair, sat down, and reached for the cup of tea in front of her, despite it being entirely inadequate for peace at this moment. Drinking from the teapot, however, would have been déclassé. Her hand hurt, her pulse could have outraced a Geococcyx luna tunica (the fastest roadrunner in the West), and her own manners had begun to discuss among themselves putting her into a sanitorium.
Under the table, Devon set a hand on her thigh. A week ago, it would have sent her jumping up out of her chair again, but now she felt instantly calmed by his touch. Forgetting the tea, she set her own hand over his, gently nudging his fingers so she could slide hers between them. From the corner of her eye she noticed him draw in a rather tremulous breath.
“Heiliger Strohsack,” Oberhufter muttered, retrieving a handkerchief from his breast pocket and using it to wipe his forehead. “Women certainly are liberated these days.”
“How did you know where to find us?” Beth asked, making it clear that if he did not answer to her satisfaction, she’d immediately seek out a blackboard and drag her fingernails down it.
“My butler insisted he saw you on the road last night. I thought it would do no harm to come back and check. Besides…” Reaching out somewhat shakily to the rack at the center of the table, he snagged a piece of toast and bit down on it. “Have you heard how loudly Quirm snores? I say, pass the jam, would you?”
Beth reached automatically for the jam dish but then snatched her hand back. “We won’t be giving you anything today, Herr Oberhufter!”
“Ooh,” said the crowd. They whipped their wide-eyed attention to Oberhufter, but he only shrugged.
“Fair enough.” Leaning over, he grabbed it for himself. “I like you, Fr?ulein ,” he said, straightening, and jabbed the piece of toast toward her. “You’re interesting. But Birder of the Year is even more interesting, and the fact that I was willing to shoot you to get the award is why I deserve to win it.”
“Whether you deserve it or not makes no difference,” Devon said. “The Birder of the Year competition is a sham.”
The crowd gasped at this, but Oberhufter guffawed, crumbs spitting from his mouth. “You think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”
Devon leaned back, slipping the gun into his coat pocket. “Actually, I think you’re stupid in a broad range of ways. And this conversation has become boring.” He nodded—whereupon the innkeeper stepped up behind Oberhufter and tossed a tablecloth over the man’s head.
“Mein Gott!”
“Let’s go,” Devon said to Beth as Oberhufter floundered wildly beneath the cloth. They rose, still holding hands, and a breathless “aww” went through the room.
“Is that the caladrius?” someone asked Beth as she lifted the birdcage out from beneath the table.
“Oh, no,” she answered easily. “This is a handbag. It’s the latest fashion.”
“Aah,” said the crowd. Beth squeezed Devon’s hand before he could laugh.
“I apologize for the disturbance,” she told the innkeeper. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“It’s a pleasure… ugh, stay still …to help,” he replied, wrestling with the enshrouded Oberhufter. “We here at Fox House are always… ow! don’t bite me! …willing to support a noble cause. You’re getting the full-quality experience when you stay in our—”
“Right,” Devon said, nudging Beth, who was listening politely, albeit a little impatiently, to this speech. “We ought to run.”
“This way, Professors!” called the innkeeper’s son, waving from the dining room door.
“Wait!” Oberhufter shouted from beneath the tablecloth. “Let’s discuss this, ja ? If we joined forces, we could be undefeatable.”
Devon laughed.
“But listen! Quirm is planning to set a booby trap for you at the Sheffield train station!”
“Why would you tell us that?” Beth asked warily. “You’re her…special friend.”
“To say nothing of the fact that you were pointing a gun at us two minutes ago,” Devon added.
“That’s just sex and death,” Oberhufter scoffed. “This is ornithology. None of us want Quirm winning Birder of the Year. Come on, Lockley, let’s get back together. We had fun, ja ? Remember when we stole the pileated deathwhistler from…er…”
Beth and Devon exchanged a grin, then headed for the door.
“Good luck!” the innkeeper called after them. The crowd whooped, brandishing spoons, coffee cups, and at least one rasher of bacon.
“I can’t believe I did that,” Beth gasped as they hurried toward the stable yard, carefully avoiding Oberhufter’s servants, who waited near the inn’s front door. She broke into laughter—then promptly began hyperventilating.
Devon jiggled her hand in his. “You were really quite impressive. Makes me want to attend one of your lectures, just to watch you teach.”
She laughed again, although it was as trembly as her heart felt. “I guess that’s not the last we’ll see of Herr Oberhufter.”
“Don’t worry,” Devon assured her. “We’ll catch a train in Sheffield, reach the Dover docks this afternoon, and be eating boeuf bourguignon in a French hotel for dinner. It’s going to be plain sailing from here.”
—
“I think I just saw Hippolyta,” Beth warned Devon as they walked through the Sheffield train station toward its first-class booking hall. Although walked was perhaps an exaggeration; after spending two hours in the back of a juddering wagon, every muscle in her body hurt, and upright creeping would have served as a more accurate description of her progress. Beside her, Devon did not seem much better.
“Where?” he asked, and she surreptitiously flicked a finger toward a space farther along the platform. But then a small crowd of passengers milling near the train parted, revealing that what she’d actually seen was a brightly canopied stall selling lollies.
“Sorry, my eyes must be tired.”
“All of me is tired,” Devon said.
“Maybe we should buy some of those lollies, to give us more pep.”
“I’d rather have coffee,” Devon said. “Or,” he added with a roguish smile, “kisses.”
“Gosh,” Beth breathed, fanning herself with a hand.
“Sadly, the train leaves soon,” he said. “So instead of”—he bent to whisper close to her ear—“lifting your skirt, pulling down your drawers, and kissing you there until you can’t stand…” He straightened, brushing back his hair casually, “We should get our tickets.”
And while Beth was fanning herself with both hands now in an urgent effort to stave off internal combustion, he opened the door to the booking hall—
And stumbled back, shouting in alarm, as the booby trap Herr Oberhufter had predicted hit him in the face, literally.
Beth glimpsed a flash of yellow and white, a furious blur of wings, and identified Sula dactylatra sicarius , the masked assassin booby, with a speed that proved just how clever indeed she was when it came to birds. Unfortunately, that cleverness did not extend itself to avoiding said bird; it swooped at her, slamming a webbed foot against her shoulder before flying out of reach again. Hot magic spiked through her nerves, and Beth staggered in pain, almost dropping the caladrius’s cage. An inch higher and that blow would have knocked her unconscious.
“Everyone run!” Devon shouted as he turned, arms crooked defensively over his head, to track the bird’s movement.
“Hey, you’re those orthologigs!” someone shouted.
“Has she got the caladrius in that cage?” someone else shouted.
Nobody ran. In fact, they clustered nearer, voices rising with enthusiasm, as the booby emitted a high-pitched whistle and dove again. Beth ducked, holding the birdcage protectively against her legs, and Devon hunched over her. She enjoyed only the briefest delight in his gallant behavior before he grunted with pain as the booby struck his shoulder blade. Magic speared right through him to crackle against Beth’s skin. The bird soared up and they straightened, looking around for some means of capturing it.
“Use your special net, Professor Pickering!” someone in the crowd suggested.
“I’ve got an umbrella you can have!” another called out.
Devon began removing his coat. “I’ll try to catch it,” he told Beth. “Worst-case scenario, I have Oberhufter’s gun. Stand back, keep the caladrius safe.”
She nodded, smiling encouragement. The vitality of the past few days flashed between them, the laughter and the passion, making that brief moment feel like an eternity of perfection. Then Devon smiled quickly, brightly, in reply before turning away. Taking the coat in his hands, he gave it a brisk flap.
The crowd cheered. “Catch that bird!” began a general chant, accompanied by rhythmic clapping. “Catch that bird!”
Wincing at the noise, Beth backed up, all the while trying to unhook the latch of her satchel one-handedly so she could hunt for something that might subdue the booby. But someone tugged on her arm.
PEEP! the caladrius complained as its cage jerked.
Glancing around, Beth discovered Hippolyta standing close behind her, a great deal more colorful than the lolly stand, and significantly less sweet. “Hello, Elizabeth dear,” she said, smiling viciously as she clamped one hand around Beth’s wrist.
“Let go!” Beth demanded (proving that even the most intelligent woman can be hopelessly naive at times). Hippolyta only chuckled and gripped more tightly.
Eeeeeeee!
The booby’s piercing whistle sounded as it attacked again. Devon flung his coat over it with perfect timing and the bird tumbled, crashing into him in a chaos of wings and cloth. As he staggered, the crowd cheered again with a rather bloodthirsty enjoyment of the show.
“Time to go,” Hippolyta snarled in Beth’s ear, and began tugging her through the crowd. “Gladstone’s waiting for you.”
Beth gasped. “How could you do this?!”
“An ornithologist has to play the long game. You’ll understand one day.”
“Never!” Beth declared. “Help! Help!”
But her voice was lost in the hullabaloo of the crowd as Devon wrestled the booby safely to the ground. Glancing back, Beth saw his face dripping blood, his jaw clenched as he worked to firmly but carefully wrangle the bird inside his coat. He was hurt! In a rush of panic, she began kicking Hippolyta, but the woman’s skirts were so layered, it was like kicking a cloud. Suddenly, one of Gladstone’s servants appeared before them.
“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the train.
“No!” Beth shouted. It didn’t matter. The servant snatched the birdcage from her and both he and Hippolyta hauled her across to the open door of a first-class compartment. Professor Gladstone sat within, smoke billowing serenely from his pipe. Beth increased her struggle, but the servant just shoved her through the doorway. She landed hard on her hands and knees on the compartment floor, hair falling around her face. Shaking it back, she glared up at Gladstone.
“Tsk tsk,” he said, tipping his spectacles so as to frown over their rim at her. “D-minus for attitude, Pickering. A Birder of the Year and tenured professor deports herself more elegantly than that.”
He snapped his fingers, and the servant hauled Beth up, placing her on the seat opposite Gladstone. The caladrius’s cage was set beside her, and she immediately laid a protective hand on it.
“Make way,” Hippolyta ordered majestically, lifting her skirts so as to enter the compartment. But the servant pushed her back, and she did not even have time to take Jove’s name in vain before the door was slammed shut. The servant yanked the window’s curtain closed and positioned himself before the door, feet apart, arms crossed. One look at his bulging triceps, to say nothing of the pistol strapped to his thigh, and Beth knew she had no hope of escaping. Outside, Hippolyta bashed on the door, hollering furiously, but then apparently decided on a new tactic. Silence fell. The world shrank to one small train compartment filled with the smells of pipe smoke and bird guano.
“Kabelo, run and tell the engineer that his clock is slow,” Gladstone ordered. “We want to be gone before Lockley realizes what’s happened and tries to play hero.”
“I’m the one you should worry about,” Beth said with a fierceness she actually felt.
But Gladstone only laughed. “You talk as if I don’t know you, Pickering. You wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
“I beg your pardon, but that’s not true. There was a goose in Liberia that I—”
Peep! cried the caladrius at that moment, wings fluttering madly. At once, Beth forgot everything but her concern for it. Lifting the cage, she peered beneath its cover. The bird was clinging to the vertical bars, scraping its beak against them. Its tail fanned out, twitching; its feathers were fluffed up; and wet splotches of guano littered the cage floor. Even as Beth watched, leaf buds began to appear along the wooden perch.
Setting the cage down, Beth gave Gladstone a somber look. “The bird is distressed.”
He shrugged. “It will be fine.”
“Its magic has become unstable, thanks to whatever you’ve been doing to it. I fear that if it doesn’t fly soon, to release the thaumaturgic energy, it will become ill or die. We must set it free in a safe place.”
“Set it free?” Gladstone sputtered, his bushy goatee twitching. “Why would I be so stupid? I will be using my finely honed behavioral training techniques to get it into good performing shape, then touring it around England to demonstrate its healing abilities.”
Beth gasped with shock. “But it’s only a juvenile!”
“Best time for training. I’ve had good success with other thaumaturgic birds thus far, and I anticipate plenty of funding to come my way because of it. But the caladrius will be the star in my crown.”
“It’s not like this is a bird bred for domestication, learning tricks to enliven its existence. You’re depriving a wild bird of its natural self-expression, manipulating its magic for your personal gain, and making it sick in the process. I can’t believe you would do such a thing.”
“You’ve spent too long among field naturalists, my girl, if you don’t believe facts when they’re laid before you. I just told you I was doing it. And you can hardly condemn me. The funding alone will make me moderately well-off, to say nothing of all the free meals I’ll be given on tour!”
Beth shook her head, dismayed. “So this was IOS’s scheme from the start.”
“IOS.” Gladstone hissed a laugh. “They wouldn’t know their beak from their tail. I must say, though, the excitement over the caladrius that this competition has whipped up will be helpful indeed in attracting investors.”
He blew a smoke ring from his pipe. Behind him, patches of green mold were beginning to appear on the seat back.
“I won’t let you succeed!” Beth vowed.
“You have no choice,” Gladstone answered calmly. “You may be clever, but you’re just a girl.”
“I’m a doctor of—”
Gladstone snatched the pipe from his mouth. “You’re a girl . You could never best a man like me. And you might as well give up on Lockley coming to your rescue. He thinks you betrayed him to take Birder of the Year for yourself. He thinks you left him. You know he does.”
Swallowing back a heated reply, Beth forced herself to focus on the spreading mold. Tiny yellow flowers blossomed here and there amid it. Peep peep , the caladrius cried as it emitted a surfeit of erratic magic. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the burly servant turning pale. Gladstone just blew another smoke ring.
She glared at him, wishing she had enough courage to shout that he couldn’t have been more wrong! Devon trusted her. They’d walked together in the sunshine, swinging their hands. They’d kissed (et cetera) in the bird-lit night. And his eyes had lit like burnished copper when she told him that she loved him, revealing a depth of emotion surely no man could counterfeit. He would trust her just as she trusted him. Undoubtedly he was even now searching the crowd on the station platform, desperate to find her. And when he failed to do so, he’d realize that she’d been kidnapped.
Wouldn’t he?
Or would his skeptical heart assume the worst?
As the nasty little fear crept forward, sharp-clawed and sneering, a bitter taste filled Beth’s mouth. She realized she was chewing her gloved thumbnail. Grimacing, she removed it from between her teeth and instead laid her hand on the birdcage, as if doing so might somehow reassure her and the caladrius both. Her palm tingled beneath the glove. Her throat tightened.
No, Devon would trust her. She refused to believe otherwise. After all, what good was love if it failed at the first uncertainty?
Shoving the fear away, she lifted her chin and stared with supercilious disgust at Gladstone (specifically, his shoulder, since her newfound courage was still a little wobbly).
Toot!
The train began to move. And just like that, Beth learned the most important lesson of all: it didn’t matter if someone loved you, trusted you, was sure to come and rescue you, when the locomotive power of steam engines was involved.
There now existed a real and present danger of her winning Birder of the Year, and only she could save herself from it.
Thud! Thud! Someone outside bashed on the compartment door, no doubt furious that the departure time had been advanced without warning. “Stop!” they shouted, confirming her hypothesis. Gladstone chuckled, puffing on his pipe with triumphant equanimity, even as the vine reached out to twine around his bowler hat.
Closing her eyes, Beth repressed tears as the train carried her south toward London and tenure.