“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
“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.
