Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
An ornithology professoris a master at skulking. Not only can they creep up on the most jittery little bird without its realizing, but they are also skilled at slipping past farmers, police officers, and students wanting to ask for an extension on coursework. Consequently, entering Gladstone’s house unseen presented no difficulty to Beth and Devon.
Avoiding his various household staff proved simple also as they made their way along the narrow service corridors.
Ducking into a broom closet to save themselves from the butler’s notice was a snap.
On the other hand, not utilizing that broom closet for the purposes of grabbing each other, kissing each other, and generally behaving in a wanton manner that would have jeopardized their mission proved considerably less easy. The darkness and intimacy of the setting seemed to override all Beth’s prudence, which had been growing fragile even in broad daylight, and Devon hadn’t possessed much to begin with. They managed to refrain, however, due to being consummateprofessionals—and, more to the point, being interrupted in their reaching for each other by footsteps sounding just outside the closet door.
A feminine voice rang out. “Mrs. Grant, I’ve finished with the chamber pots. I’ll sweep the entrance hall now.”
The door handle began to move. Beth’s breath snagged; Devon hastily grasped the handle. They looked at each other with a mix of alarm, trepidation, and simmering lust.
“It’s stuck,” muttered the woman on the other side. “Darn!”
She began to tug on the handle. Devon tugged back.
“Mrs. Grant!” the woman called out. “I think there’s someone hiding in the closet!”
“Nonsense!” came a distant voice. “What a silly idea! It’ll be the ghost.”
“That makes sense,” the woman said with relief. “All right, I’ll dust the library instead.”
“No, the professor left a bird in there and doesn’t want it disturbed. Come help me with these pans.”
The handle gave a final rattle, then footsteps could be heard moving away. Beth released a long breath. Devon cracked the door open cautiously, peering out.
“She’s gone,” he whispered.
“Thank goodness,” Beth said.
There followed a moment of riveting silence as they contemplated closing the door again and having another go at wanton behavior. Their overstimulated glands campaigned strongly for this (thus revealing to them the existence of adrenaline a few years before its official discovery, had they but known it); their professionalism, however, sent a belated reminder that the caladrius was within reach and urgently needed their help.
“To the library?” Beth whispered.
“Yes,” Devon said. He opened the door—
Then closed it and spun back to her, reaching out to cup her face with a barely restrained desperation. He bent until his lips hovered inches above hers, and Beth went so still she did not even breathe.
“Just be aware,” he whispered, “that as soon as I can, I’m going to kiss you until your corset falls off.”
“Understood,” she said shakily.
A smile flicked across his mouth. A thread of desire knotted around Beth’s heart. Her attraction to this man was so deep, it was practically geological. But there was a bird to rescue, a wicked plot to foil, and hopefully still the possibility of tenure to be awarded. So she stepped back just as Devon pulled himself away, and they both sighed.
Reopening the door, Devon double-checked that the corridor was still empty, then they crept out with what was objectively silence, despite the thundering of their hearts. Having visited the house more than once as Gladstone’s student, assisting with his annual study of Little John, Beth directed their way. She managed to do so without grabbing Devon’s wrist or otherwise womanhandling him, but there was no opportunity to point this out to him in a gently educational manner. And she actually would have rather liked to hold on to him, for she was nervous. Should Gladstone catch her, not only would she bid farewell to her hope of becoming Birder of the Year, but she’d probably end up demoted to the role of remedial tutor for first-year students, teaching the difference between a sanderling and sandpiper, and cleaning blackboard dusters at the end of each day.
Ascending a flight of stairs, they came to a hall lined withmarble busts of famed scientists. Along the ceiling, taxidermied birds hung in a gruesomely motionless parody of flight toward the library at the far end. Beth paused at one diverging corridor, peering into its dusty shadows, but this part of the house seemed entirely unoccupied. The quiet only worsened her nerves, however, for if there was one thing an experienced birder knew, it was that danger didn’t advertise its presence while lurking in wait to pounce on you. But they reached the end of the hall unchallenged and paused outside the library’s half-open door. A sound of disconsolate peeping came from within.
“Well, that’s certainly a bird,” Devon said. “How much do you want to bet it’s the caladrius?”
“Gambling is an illogical pursuit; I never do it,” Beth replied. “But extrapolating probabilities from the available evidence, I’d say that is indeed ourCaladria albo sacrorum.”
They shared an excited glance. Never mind the competition; they were about to meet an exceedingly rare bird that hadn’t been seen in the wild for decades. Beth’s pulse began to speed up, and it was all she could do not to run at the same pace.
Her instincts, however, were trying to stop her altogether. She’d always disliked Gladstone’s library, a vast collection of mostly unread books filled with outdated information and archaic science. She would like it even less if Gladstone occupied it at that moment. But instinct must bow before courage. Opening the door wider, she peered inside. Seeing no one, she slipped in, and Devon followed, closing the door behind him.
Whereas Gladstone’s university office had been a chaotic jumble, this chamber was so clean as to appear entirely unvisited. Its leather sofas gleamed. The air lay torpid, scented withfurniture wax and slowly decaying books. Summer’s warmth seemed to have drained away through the old lead-lighted windows.
