Chapter One
For the master ornithologist, trouble is like water off a duck’s back.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Spain, 1890
It was afine day for birding. Almost too fine. Sunlight glazed the sky of northern Spain, unrelieved by cloud or breeze. Heat pressed down on the forest path.
Mrs. Quirm and Miss Pickering strolled beneath the shade of hats and lace parasols, employing their white-gloved hands in the manner of fans to cool themselves. Every now and again they lifted delicate silver binoculars to search the surrounding trees. Several birds flitted between branches, singing, courting, and generally participating in occupations typical to the avian species. But the ladies’ quarry was one bird in particular, far shyer than the common breeds. They had seen glimpses of it throughout the morning and were intent on pursuit, despite the overbearing weather.
“By Jove, I could use a glass of lemonade right now!” Mrs. Quirm declared.
“Indeed, it is atrociously warm,” Miss Pickering agreed.
“Rupert!” Mrs. Quirm snapped her gloved fingers. “Lemonade, if you please.”
Rupert, walking behind her, turned to the contingent of porters, guides, and servants walking behind him. He gestured, and a man hurried forth with bottle and glass. Lemonade was poured, the glass was set on a silver tray, and Rupert presented it.
Mrs. Quirm took the drink, but before she could bring it to her robust lips, she sighted something that caused her to gasp.
“A bastard, here in the forest!”
Miss Pickering stared at her with astonishment. One simply did not speak of people born out of wedlock if one was a lady, and in all her twenty-four years, Miss Pickering had met none more ladylike than Hippolyta Quirm, despite the vigorous galumphing of her vocal cords.
“You do well to be surprised, Elizabeth!” the woman said in what would have been termed a shout had it come from a less reputable person. “The great bustard has no business being in a forest! It is a bird of the fields.”
“Oh, abustard,” Beth said with relief. No doubt the heat had suffocated her ear canal as it was attempting to do with her lungs.
She blew restively at a chestnut brown strand of hair that had slipped over her damp brow. If only it was decent behavior to remove one’s hat in company, or loosen one’s collar, or leap naked into a nearby river! Ornithology tended to be a mucky venture—scuffed shoes, snagged stockings, guano-splattered parasols—but the worst of it was the perspiration.
When Hippolyta had announced they were going to Spain in search of the elusive pileated deathwhistler, Beth had considered feigning illness so as to remain behind. She was British right through to her tea-flavored, rain-colored core, and thethought of a summer without fog and storms horrified her. But in the end she had been unable to resist the opportunity such an expedition offered. To capture the deathwhistler would result in universal accolades. And if anyone could pull it off, it was Hippolyta Quirm, field ornithologist, wildly famous authoress ofBirds Through a Sherry Glass, and at only thirty-one, a five-time recipient of England’s prestigious Best Birder award.
Beth was pleased to be the woman’s associate. The moment they met in Epping Forest, accidentally smacking each other over the head with their nets while their mutual quarry, a fine specimen of rain-singing robin, flew away in a teeny-tiny storm, they knew they’d work well together. For one thing, Beth was prepared to take all the blame for the mishap, and Hippolyta was glad to give it.
“You can extend your postdoctoral research into the psychic habitats of thaumaturgic birds,” the woman had suggested as they walked back to town together afterward, “and I can get your help in the field.”
“Yes,” Beth had said without pausing for thought. Then again, even had she taken time to consider it, she’d have answered the same way. Hippolyta might at times be more discombobulating than a whole flock of thunder-winged loons, and certainly traveling with her left much to be desired in terms of quiet reading time, but that was a small price to pay for the literal broadening of one’s horizons. Over the past two years, in between teaching classes as an Oxford University professor, Beth had visited places of whose existence she’d never before known, thanks to Hippolyta’s resources. Certainly it was more than she’d have been able to afford herselfon a professor’s salary. Now she was even beginning to think that one day she might reach New Zealand, land of the giant carnivorous moa.
First, however, she had to not drown in her own sweat.
Buck up, she chastised herself. At least it was not as bad as chasing the fire-breathing sand curlew in Cairo. Granted, she’d been dressed in black at the time, to honor the anniversary of her parents’ death, but heatstroke almost saw her following them into the grave. More than once, the only thing that saved her from feverishly tumbling off a camel’s back had been the ballast of her petticoats. If Hippolyta hadn’t discovered that the curlew liked arrowroot biscuits, and was thus able to lure it into a cage for the voyage back to London, Beth’s career would have burned out before it properly began. Again, literally as well as metaphorically—which seemed to be the usual state of affairs when one was involved in chasing magical birds.
“The great bustard can be taken as a good sign,” Hippolyta was saying, and Beth pulled herself out of the Egyptian frying pan back into the Spanish fire. “No doubt it was attracted to our deathwhistler’s thaumaturgic vibrations. We’re getting close, mark my words. Oberhufter tried to convince me to search farther south, but I knew he was talking nonsense. He always does. I am a far superior ornithologist to him.”
“Absolutely,” Beth murmured loyally.
“I still cannot believe that man was voted High Flier of the Year. What rot! He is an idiot, and I know for a fact he bribed the awards committee with spotted nightspinner feathers.”
“Mm-hm,” Beth said, in lieu of pointing out that Hippolyta had bribed them with strix claws, despite having no hope of succeeding since, in addition to the spotted nightspinner,Herr Oberhufter had bagged a scarlet thrush, a fire tit, and even a breeding pair of horned frogeaters that he donated to the London Zoological Gardens (and then had to come take away again, as they made such a noise they drove several nearby residents to the brink of madness)—all in the second half of 1889.
Granted, in the course of getting these birds, he had also broken the leg of one rival ornithologist and tricked another into catching a train to Siberia, from whence they sent an excited telegram reporting they’d found the mythical yeti owl, and thereafter were never seen again. The awards committee, however, cast a blind eye to such nefarious behavior. A bird in the hand was worth more than two birders in the bush, any day.
“Oberhufter will go down in history as a knave and cheat,” Hippolyta persisted. “And once we return to London with the pileated deathwhistler, I shall campaign to have his International Ornithological Society membership revoked.”
“Good idea,” Beth said, blowing at the wayward strand of hair again.
“A little blackmail should do the trick. But if that fails, you can always seduce the membership committee chairman.”
