Devon swerved to the far side of the road, Beth struggling to remain steady on her feet. Oberhufter and Hippolyta began to follow, but suddenly Cholmbaumgh flung himself at the field ornithologists, causing all three to collide with furious screams.
“Go!” Cholmbaumgh shouted to Beth and Devon, waving one arm desperately from within the tangle of limbs and lacy flounces. “Run!”
Beth and Devon shared a confused glance but did not hesitate. They raced on to the end of Exhibition Road, where several people were milling around the Coalbrookdale Gates, excitedly watching their approach. From somewhere farther inside the park arose the hearty sounds of what sounded like a full brass band.
“Perhaps this is not a good idea after all,” Beth said.
PEEP! the caladrius argued.
“We don’t have a choice,” Devon said, pointing behind them, where not only Schreib but also a crowd of ornithologists were in pursuit, wielding nets, binoculars, and birdcages…and was that a helicopter parasol rising above the Royal Albert Hall?…
No, it was four helicopter parasols, one with Monsieur Tarrou from the Parisian Ornithological Union, the remaining three bearing servants laden with his baggage.
They crossed the road, and the bystanders, cheering and whistling, shifted aside to allow them easy passage through the great iron gates. But as they entered the carriageway, Beth and Devon staggered to a halt, staring openmouthed at what lay before them.
“Oh gosh,” Beth gasped.
“Bloody hell,” Devon agreed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
All any of us want, bird and birder, is the freedom to find our own skies, our own magic.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Hundreds of people lined both sides of South Carriage Drive. They were waving bird-shaped flags and bird-painted balloons, and they chanted in exuberant unison, “Caladrius! Caladrius! Go! Go! Go!” Banners had been strung between trees, proclaiming such things as get higher education with ornithology! and birds are brilliant! A pair of clowns in plumed hats danced along the rows of people, handing out boiled lollies and university enrollment forms.
Upon noticing Beth and Devon, the crowd went wild. (Which is to say, they cheered and clapped in a slightly louder fashion, considering this was Victorian Britain, where “going wild” would seem like “disinterest” to tourists from more
“Um,” Devon said.
“Gosh,” Beth said.
“Caladrius! Caladrius! Go! Go! Go!” the crowd replied.
And to the left of them, a small child said in the kind of sweet, lisping voice that somehow managed to be heard clearly above any amount of general uproar, “Mummy, the bird people are holding hands. Does this mean they got married?”
“Aahhhh!” gasped the crowd in delight.
“Uh,” Beth and Devon said in unison, glancing at each other. Then looking back, they saw Schreib paused at the gates, struggling to catch his breath. He winked at them, flicking his pistol in a go on, hurry up gesture.
“Uh,” they said again, utterly bemused. But in the absence of any other option, they continued along the path. The crowd cheered and tossed paper confetti at them. Beth was appalled, bewildered, and overwhelmed, but Devon’s grip on her hand kept her steady. The strength of his presence, encompassed by boots and long coat, set with hardened muscles, offered sanctuary for her jittery nerves. Even so, she wanted to stop and find a quiet place beneath a tree where she could bring out her journal, write a risk-benefit analysis of placing the caladrius in the Albert Aviary, and maybe have a cup of tea. But there was no time. She would just have to trust the wind, adore the wind.
As they progressed, the two rows of people merged behind them, and before long they found themselves leading the crowd past the Albert Memorial, upon whose steps a brass band stood, playing Rossini’s “William Tell Overture” with a verve that obliterated whatever shreds remained of Beth’s composure. Some thirty yards beyond, surrounded by a colorful garden, stood the Albert Aviary. Its great glass dome bore a delicate, finely scrolled copper exoskeleton that created a diamond-paned effect; roses framed the arched, gold-painted doorway; and as sunlight flashed here and there, producing fragments of rainbows, the structure seemed altogether like a fairy-tale castle against the faultless blue summer sky.
But Devon stopped before they reached it, and Beth edged close to his side, tightening her grip on the birdcage’s handle—for standing near the entrance of the aviary were two men in dark suits and bowler hats, their identical mustaches twitching with what might have been delight, or possibly itchiness considering the noon heat.
“Lovebirds Meet Their Destiny!” exclaimed one in rousing tones.
“Higher Education Wins the Day!” declared the other.
As the crowd behind them fell silent with breathless anticipation, Beth and Devon turned to each other, dazed.
“Do you understand what’s happening?” Beth asked in a whisper.
“I think we’ve been played,” Devon whispered in reply. “Those are the men who’ve trailed us since Paris.”
“The agents of PRESS?”
“Oh!” Devon’s countenance lit with sudden understanding. “Press agents. I can’t believe I didn’t get that before.”
The dark-suited men were watching them as warily as if they were explosive thornbacked owls. Nearby in a tidy line stood the IOS executive committee, obviously as disconcerted by the crowd as Beth herself felt. And behind them, Laz Brady and another young man in Oxford blue held up a banner reading reach for the skies with an ornithology degree.
Comprehension struck Beth so forcefully, she gasped. “This has all been a recruitment drive!”
“I think you’re right,” Devon agreed.
“But that’s insane!”
He shrugged. “Ornithology.” Reaching out with his free hand, he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Awww,” the crowd cooed adoringly.
At that moment, the dark-suited men approached, briefcases in hand like weapons. “Good day, Professors,” one said with a polite nod. “I am Mr. Flogg, and this is my associate, Mr. Fettick. Congratulations!”
“Um,” Beth said. “Thank you?”
