“Miss Wolfe!” Beth recognized the woman from her refined American accent. “Are you safe?”
“Yes. If you want to try catching the bird, I have a red scarf I’ll donate to the effort in exchange for a share of the reward.”
“Another person with a faulty dictionary,” Devon muttered.
“Thank you!” Beth called. “That will do perfectly for a lure! If we—”
Screeee, the frostbird interrupted as it glided the length of the station. The crackle of magical energy echoed eerily through the silence. Tiny icicles formed on Beth’s hair. She watched with trepidation and more than a little wonderment as the bird flew out of the roofed area, glowing alabaster when it met the morning sunlight. It’s long, ribbonlike tail feathers spread, the rime of ice along them flashing, and for a moment Beth thought it was going to leave. But it soared up to perch on the roof of the signalman’s box.
“Now!” Devon urged. “While it’s—”
“Excuse me,” came a polite masculine voice from directly behind them. Beth and Devon turned their heads to see a young man in an ill-fitting suit crouch down, smiling eagerly. He held a notepad and pencil in his hands. “The two of you are orthogolists, right?”
“What are you doing here?” Devon demanded. “You’re in danger. Find shelter!”
The young man just nodded, smile widening. “The name’s Spencer, from theCanterbury Times. By sheer chance I happened to be on the scene and would love to ask you a few questions.”
They stared at him incredulously, but he went on grinninglikea lunatican entertainment journalist. “Are you competing for Birder of the Year? Have you any special plans to catch the caladrius? What about this bird? I heard someone say it’s leafy, but it looks more like snow to me.”
“Lethal,” Devon corrected him. “As in, it will kill you when I toss you to it, if you don’t get into that waiting room and close the door behind you. Right. Now.”
The smile shriveled into a pout. “I say, jolly poor sport!”
Devon’s expression grew darker, and Mr. Spencer hurried away. Beth and Devon looked at each other, stunned. Then they rose from their crouches.
“I’ll get the scarf from Miss Wolfe,” Devon said.
“I’ll be ready with the net,” Beth told him.
He nodded, then jogged away down the platform toward where Miss Wolfe hid behind a bench seat. The thud of his boots matched Beth’s heartbeat. She turned to watch the frostbird in case it reacted to his movement.
Such a magnificent creature! (The bird, that is, not Mr. Lockley.) Beth had never seen one outside of a field guide, for the species lived in the most remote areas of the northern polar zone, avoiding humans. It certainly would never have migrated of its own volition to England in midsummer, but she also couldn’t fathom anyone releasing such a rare and perilous creature to help eliminate their rivals for Birder of the Year, even with tenure at stake.
Something in the back of her mind cleared its throat officiously and tapped a memory Beth could not quite see. But there was no time to think about it. Removing her jacket, she draped it over the net, tying the sleeves around the handle to keep it in place. Goosebumps from the bird’s magic rose beneath her cotton shirtwaist, uncanny but not unpleasant, andshe tingled with more than cold. Really, only one thing was better than engaging with a wild magical bird (belatedly remembering your cup of tea but discovering it still warm).
“Ready, Miss Pickering?”
She glanced up to see Devon striding back along the platform, scarf in hand. Ice shards cracked beneath his bootheels and glinted on the sweep of his long dark coat. He was unsmiling, focused on the frostbird, and he looked so strong, so expert, that Beth’s stomach flipped at the thought of such a man having kissed her.
Then again, she was strong and expert too. She might be uncomfortable around people, but when it came to birds she knew exactly what she was doing. Tugging on the jacket’s knotted sleeves once more to ensure they would hold firm, she stepped out from behind the luggage trolley. Devon halted, raising the scarf and waving it slowly above his head. The frostbird stirred on its rooftop perch, letting out a haunting, lucent cry.
“Once it takes flight, drop the scarf and run,” Beth instructed.
Devon did not even glance in her direction. Beth frowned, wondering if he’d heard her. But it was too late to inquire: the frostbird’s lush wings spread, and with another cry it sprang aloft, shedding ice crystals as it aimed straight for Devon.
He tilted his head, watching it. The air began to crackle and splinter into ice, but Devon remained motionless, even while the frostbird sped closer…closer…
Beth began to run. The bird blew a deadly gust of polar magic toward Devon, who did not even flinch in response. Using a fallen suitcase as a springboard, Beth leaped, lifting her net as high as she could in a double-handed grip. Itintercepted the stream of magic less than two feet in front of Devon and instantly turned to solid ice. Beth braced herself.
Thud!
The bird flew into the frozen net and dropped, stunned. Ice skittered across the ground.
Immediately, Beth tossed the net aside and crouched beside the frostbird. With gloved fingers, she stroked its long neck, checking for signs of life. A steady pulse reassured her. Further hurried observations suggested the bird was unharmed beyond its stupor, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Devon squatted beside her. “That really was very clever,” he said.
Beth, however, was in no mood for compliments. “Why did you just stand there?” she demanded in her most severe, teacherly voice. “You could have been killed!”
