The sections for mental and temperament observations were blank. But at the bottom, two photographs had been affixed at their corners, showing Sarah only from her nose to mouth. All they’d captured was the “defect,” and nothing else about this little soul, so precious to her mother, was preserved or remarked upon.
A final note at the bottom of the form read, “With proven defects in her history, the mother did not bear children again.”
By the time Ivy returned with the promised breakfast, Elsa’s appetite had vanished.
The tenth of a mile walk between her apartment and the museum took Elsa a little longer than usual, but because she and Ivy left early, her pace hadn’t made them late.
Soon after Elsa settled into her office, Mr. Chapman called fora special, unscheduled meeting of the ornithology department. Since she hadn’t had a chance to give him the good news about the Spix’s macaw, she brought the box to the conference room.
She recognized Mr. Griscom, of course, whose guidebook for skinning and stuffing birds had kept ambitious patrons busy sending her their specimens. There was Dr. Murphy, who was usually working on his monograph of the marine birds of South America. Beside him sat Mr. Miller, who studied the internal workings of all birds in the flesh they received before he dissected them, then passed them on to Elsa to skin and stuff. Two other men less familiar to Elsa were there as well.
“I suppose you can guess why I’ve called you in this morning.” Mr. Chapman beamed. “Mr. William Rockefeller and Mr. Raymond Potter have returned from their expedition to Hudson Bay. I’ve invited them to show us the specimens they are most excited about and share with us any new observations about their behavior and habitat.”
Elsa added her greetings to the masculine rumble of voices around the table. The museum sponsored so many expeditions all over the world, she could barely keep them straight.
Grateful to be seated after the walk to work, she focused on breathing deeply while she listened. Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Potter took turns presenting trays of bird skins yet to be stuffed.
“Excellent, gentlemen.” Mr. Chapman stood at the conclusion of their presentation. “The specimens of the more northern breeding birds make an especially desirable addition to our collections, which have been, up until now, weak in the breeding plumages.”
Mr. Potter smoothed down the tie behind his vest. “Thank you, Frank. I’d love to know what I’ve missed since we left in May. What other exciting acquisitions does the museum have now?”
Sensing the perfect opportunity, Elsa removed the box from her satchel and set it on the table in front of her, waiting while Mr. Chapman described recent gifts of a one-wattled cassowaryfrom a generous patron and several king and Galapagos penguins that died in the New York Zoological Society aviaries.
“Marvelous!” Mr. Potter declared. “And dare I ask what treasure lies in this little lady’s box? Something other than a pair of charming slippers, I hope?”
Elsa smiled when the rest of the men laughed. “I’ve brought it in to show Mr. Chapman, but I think you’ll all be interested, as well. May I?”
Mr. Chapman nodded. “By all means.”
After lifting the lid with gloved hands, she brought out the bird and removed the paper cone she’d fashioned around it, then held it up for all to see. “Cyanopsitta spixii.Our first Spix’s macaw, the rarest macaw in the world.”
Mr. Potter gaped. “A hyacinth macaw, surely.”
“The hyacinth is more than twice the size of Spix’s,” Elsa corrected him. “And see the distinctive bare areas of greyish-black facial patches around the eyes, the cere, and the upper cheeks on this one? Hyacinth macaws are also a more royal blue, all one color.” The macaw she held had a grey head with plumage of varying shades of blue.
“She’s right,” Mr. Chapman said. “Well done, Miss Reisner, this is a most desirable addition to our collection, indeed. I see his mount is broken, but the Department of Preparation can fix that for us. If you would deliver it to them, let them know I’ll come by later with more complete instructions on how to incorporate this magnificent creature into the Birds of the World Hall.”
“Where on earth did you find it?” Mr. Griscom wanted to know.
“Behind a hatbox in Bernadette van Tessel’s dressing room.”
After a beat of silence, the table erupted in laughter. Mr. Potter wiped at his eyes. “So you’ve been on an adventurous expedition of your own, have you? All the way to Tarrytown? Well, good. Let the men do the real exploring while you clean out closets on behalf of the museum.”
Elsa’s face burned with irritation. Why had she phrased her find that way?
“Mrs. Van Tessel bequeathed hundreds of birds to the museum,” Mr. Chapman added. “Miss Reisner is performing a valuable service by sorting through and cataloging them for us. You know our collections are filled with specimens that come from all kinds of sources. I wouldn’t care if she’d found this bird in a nursery wearing a bonnet and doll clothes. The important thing is that, thanks to Miss Reisner’s work, we now have our first specimen of this elusive, almost mythical, macaw.”
Elsa sent him a grateful smile, but her ire had not yet receded. She left before she said something she’d regret.
———
Elsa’s breath came in hard, shallow sips as she entered the new Asiatic Hall, temporarily used by the Department of Preparation. She told herself her elevated pulse was due solely to what had transpired during the meeting and had nothing to do with the walk to get here.
Adjusting the strap of her satchel, she paused inside the hall to steady herself. Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t do to be out of breath when making her request with one of the preparators. Natural light filled the long space from several floor-to-ceiling windows. Four men in neckties and white coats worked on separate projects. One carved a window screen to look like a tangle of bamboo stalks. Two others bent over tables absorbed in tasks she couldn’t see. On the opposite side of the room, another painted a diorama to resemble a rolling savanna covered by thin woodland and scrub. Perhaps it was the habitat for the group of antelope staring at her from atop their wooden platform.
She looked again at the painter, whose back was turned to her, and smiled. It had to be Archer.
As she neared him, he faced her, his expression changing from one of deep concentration to one of pleasant surprise. “Fancymeeting you here.” He deposited his paintbrush in a glass on a stand that held his palette of paints.
