Halfway across the room and moving fast—but probably not fast enough, she feared—Beth grabbed a kiwi from a pedestal and threw it, creating one poignant airborne moment for the flightless bird before the lapwing leaped up to snatch it.
Snap!
“This way!” Devon shouted, racing in the same direction the curator had gone. Beth followed, spurred on by the hideous sound of the lapwing gobbling up the taxidermied kiwi. They rounded a corner—
And almost stumbled at the sight of Miss Fotheringham and Miss Fotheringham strolling toward them along a corridor. The tiny, elderly birders were deep in discussion about something that made them giggle like little girls.
“Rabid lapwing!” Devon shouted in warning.
The Fotheringhams looked up with wide eyes, their giggles collapsing into gasps.
“Run!” Devon added, for they seemed rooted to the spot. This advice failed to stir the women, however, and Devon and Beth were forced to veer around them or else die on the altar of good manners. Not looking back, they turned another corner just as the screams began. Stumbling to a halt then, they stared at each other, white-faced.
“We can’t help them,” Devon said. “We’d be killed ourselves.”
“Only a fool would try,” Beth agreed.
Thud!
“Aagghhh!”
“Damn.” Devon’s expression twisted with conflicting emotions. Abruptly, he bent to pull up one trouser leg and draw a knife from the sheath strapped to his calf. Straightening again, he cocked an eyebrow at the sight of Beth holding up her own blade, which she had taken from a skirt pocket. “I thought you were a nice girl,” he said.
She looked him in the eye steadily. “That doesn’t mean I’m weak.”
Devon grinned. “Very well, let’s at least try to injure it, giving us all a chance to escape.”
Taking a deep breath, they turned.
And saw Misses Fotheringham round the corner, lapwing writhing in a sack fashioned from a hat veil.
“Thanks for leaving us the catch!” one of the sisters called out cheerfully.
“Jolly decent of you,” the other added.
Beth and Devon glanced sidelong at each other. “Um,” Devon said.
“Three thousand pounds at least for one of these,” the first Miss Fotheringham said, holding up the sack. Beth could see through its silk tulle that the bird’s beak and feet had been bound with frilly garters. “I wonder where it came from.”
“Wherever it did, it’s good luck for us,” the second Miss Fotheringham said. “A lapwing capture and the caladrius call in our possession, all in one afternoon!”
“But I have the caladrius call,” Beth said without thinking. Beside her, Devon winced.
“Is that so, my dear?” Miss Fotheringham held forth the netted lapwing in the manner of a weapon and smiled meaningfully. The bird’s sweet odor flashed through the air.
Sighing, Beth took the call from her pocket and handed it over. With a brusque nod of farewell, the Misses Fotheringham marched along the corridor toward the museum’s lobby, heels clicking sanctimoniously against the floor. Beth and Devon stared after them.
“I’m not sure why I bother being polite,” Beth said, “considering how rude everyone else is.”
Devon gave a brief, dry laugh. “Things are only going to get worse with this new contest. Really, I can’t think of a more foolhardy idea than offering Birder of the Year and tenure.”
“Reckless,” Beth agreed.
Nevertheless, the gaze they shared was filled with longing—for a permanent departmental office, that is, and their own aviary, and a lifetime’s supply of free tea and biscuits. Then Devon’s mouth began to slide into a crooked smile, as if he simply could not keep his wicked charm suppressed for long.
Beth sighed. “I fear you are also very rude.”
“And yet, you’re still staring.”
Her jaw dropped with incredulity—no, outrage!—no, horror! But while she was thus occupied searching for the most appropriate synonym, Devon leaned forward to whisper.
“I suspect you may be rather impolite yourself beneath all those good manners, Miss Pickering.”
Beth’s mouth snapped shut, and she drew herself up to the dignified height of five feet six inches (although to be honest, three of those inches included her hat). “I am not. Some of us can be fine ladies and rational creatures in the same form, sir, regardless of what novelists may suppose. You will not disturb my calm waters. Furthermore…”
“Yes?” he prompted when she fell silent.
She frowned. “Stop smoldering at me like that.”
Now he was the one who frowned, although it somehow managed to be mischievous, and a smile lurked at the edge of his mouth. “Smoldering?”
Beth gestured awkwardly. “With your eyes like that. We can’t have a reasonable discussion while you are smoldering.”
His frown swayed out of mischief right into wickedness. “Why, Miss Pickering, I thought I couldn’t disturb your calm waters.”
Beth bristled so much she feared becoming like the thornbacked owl, an unsurprisingly rare species that tended to explode when touched. Taking a deep breath to settle herself, since there did not seem to be a convenient tea station installed in the museum corridor, she said politely, “Good afternoon, sir. I shall be on my way.”
“Of course.” He stepped back, gesturing along the corridor. “After you.”
