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 She’d always disliked Gladstone’s library, a vast collection of mostly unread books filled with outdated information and archaic science.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.
