“Proof?” Devon asked.
Opening the binder, flipping to its third page, she bit her thumbnail as she read. “Circumstantial evidence. Last term Professor Gladstone asked for an inventory of all the birds in both his and the department’s aviaries that had been included in his T-2 research program. I thought I remembered having seen the frostbird’s name somewhere, and here it is.” She tapped the page. “Along with the carnivorous lapwing and feuerfinch, among others.”
“Huh,” Devon said. “Interesting indeed. But the most important question is…”
When he paused, she looked up over the rim of her spectacles at him. “Yes?”
“Why is Gladstone getting you to do an inventory for him? That’s work for a secretary, not a professor.”
Her expression went utterly blank for a moment. Then she blinked, and blushed, and looked everywhere but at him, muttering something about “diligence” and “happy to help” and quite possibly “better than washing dishes.” Devon took pity on her—and on himself, since if he remained on that subject, he’d likely find himself in prison for smacking Gladstone in the face.
“What is T-2 research?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Professor Gladstone kept it secret. But considering what we’ve experienced of those birds, probably it involves training them.”
A grim pause followed.
“But I must be wrong,” Beth murmured, frowning at the inventory. “It’s hard to believe even Professor Gladstone would do that. He’s a misogynistic reactionary who teaches outdated science, is callous toward his students, and only leaves the tea bag in for less than two seconds…But clipping a bird’s wings? Manipulating its instincts and exploiting its magic? That represents a corruption unlikely in such a reputed ornithologist.”
Devon knew his face displayed more skepticism than an entire consortium of scientists, but the second Beth looked up at him, so troubled by this threat to her essential goodwill, he smiled. “Perhaps we should draw up a chart of all the possibilities and formulate a hypothesis from that.”
The ring binder swung shut. “What kind of chart?” she asked eagerly.
He took a step forward, intensifying his gaze. “A radar chart.”
Beth drew in an audible breath of delight, and thus encouraged, he took another step. With the desk between them and the shadows looming like outspread wings behind her, he glimpsed what she must look like in a lecture theater: mesmerizing, and more beautiful than he could ever describe.
“I should clarify something,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I intend to win this competition regardless of what charms a conniving villain might try to work on me.”
Devon set a hand on the desk and leaned forward. “Is that so?”
“We can make a chart, we can even indulge in some analysis, but there can be—”
“Only one Birder of the Year,” they chorused.
Devon repressed a sudden wistfulness. “I have a particularly interesting algorithm I’d love to show you,” he said.
Then the clever, clever woman turned his world upside down. Setting her own hand on the desk, she leaned forward until her face was mere inches from his. “I know how to plot variables, Mr. Lockley. I read more than field guides, you know.”
He watched courage crackle and flare in her lovely, halcyon blue eyes, behind the spectacles. It sparked fires all through his body. “You smell like lavender,” he murmured.
She blinked, thrown off-balance, but did not retreat. “It calms birds.”
It was doing the opposite to him. He’d tried being good, being restrained, but she was simply too delectable. “I’m going to kiss you,” he warned.
Instantly her face turned red, her expression lighting with the same desire that had propelled Devon through Spain and France, then across England in helpless pursuit of her. He moved the last tiny distance, even as she moved to meet him in the middle. Their breath mingled, their lips parting.
“Aaaaggghhhh!”
A scream rang out from the museum’s courtyard below. Beth jolted back, her eyes growing wide. Devon bowed his head with a frustrated sigh.
“Tsk,” she said, pulling off her spectacles as she frowned toward the office window. “Students.”
Devon looked up fiercely through his eyelashes at her, determined not to lose the moment’s impetus. “I—”
But what words might have followed, he’d never know for sure. I want you? I’m in love with you? I’m so impressed you won the Audubon Award for Academic Excellence three years in a row? The truth was lost as another scream broke out, chilling his blood. It was not a human sound, after all. He straightened; Beth turned to him, her face white. They stared at each other in stunned silence as the air began to shake with percussive magic.
“Whopper swan,” they identified in unison.
And then they began to run.
Chapter Fifteen
Faint heart never won fair lady, nor fabulous bird either.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Down the stairs and through the Arctic birds display chamber they raced, their boots thudding on the stone floor, Beth’s hat tumbling unnoticed from her head. Outraged museum patrons scattered before them with cries of Egad! How rude! and Good heavens, Agnes, did you see the thighs on that man?! In the courtyard outside, they found several people huddled on the grass, moaning and weeping, while others staggered about aimlessly, clutching their ears. A loud, thumping bass note of avian magic assaulted the air, but no bird was to be seen.
“Which way?” Devon shouted to a nearby woman. She stared at him dazedly, her face streaked with tears of blood.
“North!” called out a dark-suited man, waving his bowler hat.
“The park!” Beth said, seeing it in her mind’s eye: sunlit grass, gentle tree-lined paths, occupied by dozens of picnickers and pedestrians at this noon hour.
They ran from the courtyard and along the footpath, barely noticing people cowering behind trees and in doorways as screams echoed from the park ahead. Arriving in moments, they discovered a large black swan circling the field. It was shrieking intermittently and exuding a booming magic that sounded like an orchestra’s drum section had jammed itself into a tin box. Several groups of picnickers huddled beneath large umbrellas or blankets, clutching their cushions and hampers, unable to flee without risking attack.
