Luckily for him, the bird in their cage was not a carnivorous lapwing. Beth contrived a polite smile, and Devon managed not to curse, despite his various aches and pains offering up a few eloquent suggestions.
“Just breakfast, thank you,” he said. “And coffee. Strong coffee. Coffee so strong it could lift this entire building and throw it, say, half a mile back down the road.”
“And tea, please,” Beth added. “Thoroughly steeped. I don’t so much need a reservoir of peace as a deep, deep well of strength. We have a long walk ahead of us to Sheffield.”
“Sheffield? My lad’s taking a wagon there this very morning!” The innkeeper pointed to a young man who was loitering in a doorway behind the registration desk.
“I am?” Apparently this was news to the boy.
“Yes,” his father said firmly. “And you’re going to give these nice ornith—um, nice people a lift, free of charge. We here at Fox House always do our best for travelers! And we have excellent rates too! Just in case anyone—say, a newspaper reporter—happens to ask.”
Devon and Beth exchanged a speaking glance. But they allowed the innkeeper to lead them into the dining room and seat them side by side at his best table, and order them a full English breakfast, his gift, no thanks necessary, hospitality was the name of the game here at Fox House in Longshaw, right before the turnoff to Hathersage.
As he bustled away, they set the birdcage on the floor beneath the round table, concealed by the long drape of its cloth, then Beth straightened the cutlery and Devon picked up the newspaper folded neatly on the tabletop. The front-page headline almost made him summon the innkeeper and ask for some rum in the coffee.
THE ROBIN HOOD OF ORNITHOLOGY!
Professor Lockley Rescues Caladrius from Tyrant!
Pretty Miss Pickering Joins Him in Race to Safety!
“Robin Hood? Really?” Devon said, grimacing at the pun (which, to be fair, only a bird lover would have noticed).
“Pretty Miss Pickering?” Beth said, more justifiably.
“And how did they even know?”
“The stable hand at the inn yesterday might have told them,” Beth said. “Or one of Professor Gladstone’s servants. Or even that Mr. Feh—uh, something.”
“The PRESS agent?” Devon said doubtfully, and Beth shrugged.
“No one can be trusted.”
“My cynical angel,” he said fondly, reaching out to brush a knuckle across her cheek. Her tiredness dissolved into a smile, and the atmosphere between them turned sugary with adoration.
“It is them!”
They looked up, startled, at the spirited exclamation from diners across the room. Two women in matching blue dresses were pointing spoons at them; at another table, a pair of octogenarian gentlemen whispered and giggled.
Devon and Beth barely had time to sigh wearily before they found themselves surrounded by diners requesting autographs, a glimpse of the caladrius, advice on how to become an orthonogonist, and the date of their wedding. Breakfast arrived in the middle of this, but enjoying it proved impossible. Inn staff joined the diners, and between their enthusiastic clamor and the chairs beginning to sprout green buds in an untimely show of avian magic, neither of them noticed a man entering the room. Only when he slipped through the crowd to seat himself at their table did they realize.
“Herr Oberhufter!” Beth gasped.
“Guten Morgen, Miss Pickering,” Oberhufter replied, tipping his hat. “Lockley. I’ve come for the caladrius.”
“Oh sure,” Devon said sarcastically. “We’ll just hand the bird over to you; it’s no problem whatsoever.”
“You will hand it over,” Oberhufter agreed. “As for there being no problem…”
He raised a pistol, aiming it at Beth’s face. “I guess that part’s up to you.”
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, Fräulein,” Oberhufter muttered, his voice so faint it sounded less German and more like a confederation of sovereign states dreaming of a kaiser.
