“Perhaps it has naturally evolved since last observed,” Devon suggested. “Or perhaps Gladstone’s attempts to manipulate it have triggered a change to its thaumaturgic energy profile.”
Beth frowned. “If it can regenerate things in this way on a consistent basis, and not just as an expression of stress, theneveryonewill want a piece of it.”
“Well, we have it now,” Devon said, “and we will ensure its safety.” He rose and held out his hand; Beth took it, and he helped her up. They gazed out at the scruffy landscape.
“Not a building anywhere in sight,” Beth said with a weary sigh.
“I could have sworn there was an inn nearby,” Devon murmured. “Mind you, it’s been a while since I was last here.”
“Oh?” Beth asked, sounding as if she wanted to hear more. He gave her a slightly uncertain look but, seeing her smile, realized the interest was genuine. The woman appeared hell-bent on melting every rough, jaded shard within him and replacing it with a warm haze of delight. He answered her; of course he did—he would give her anything at this point.
“These moors contain a wellspring of thaumaturgic energy. When I was twelve, my cousin Gabriel convinced his parents to camp here at the start of summer so that he could study the effects of magic on the land. He always wanted to be a geographer, don’t ask me why, no one really understands him. I may be clever, but Gabriel is something else altogether. Anyway, in those days, wherever he went, I followed—we’re around the same age, and we used to be more like brothers than cousins—so they invited me along. He spent the whole time walking hither and yon with a compass and a notebook, muttering to himself, while his sister Amelia and I chased flying pebblesand tried to locate hidden singing rivers. But my favorite part was witnessing a certain nocturnal bird that nests here.”
Instantly, Beth’s eyes lit up. “Do you meanSetophaga lapis, the warbler that turns itself to stone by moonlight?”
He shrugged his mouth. “Maybe.”
“Or was itLagopus lagopus aoidos, the grouse that sings epic poetry to the stars?”
“Perhaps.”
“My legs hurt,” she said at once.
“Oh?”
She nodded. “Yes. And my shoes are full of road dust. I can barely walk.”
“Poor darling,” he said. “Perhaps we should just camp out for the night.”
Her expression could have taken flight into a dream of moonlit wings, but she bit her lip with the most unbelievable pretense of disconcertment Devon had ever seen. Thankfully, she didn’t bite her thumbnail—that glove was so filthy now it would have made her ill.
“If you think that’s wise,” she murmured. Then without even looking, she flung out an arm in the same manner Hippolyta had, pointing to a scattering of trees a hundred yards northeast of where they stood. “That seems like a good spot.”
“Can you walk that far?” Devon asked, just to tease her. But she was already striding away, plowing through bracken and wildflowers, weariness forgotten at the thought of an interesting bird.
Devon smiled at her back. In all honesty, he had no idea if stone warblers or poetic grouse lived on this moor. But he remembered vividly what did, and he loved the idea of surprising Beth with it.
After all, he thought as he followed her into the wild, it wasonly logicalthat they spend a little time away from observers, outside the chase, to experience some private magic for themselves.
—
The problem withwanting to see wild avian magic is that it doesn’t just appear on command. (There’s also the problem of it often proving deadly, but that’s beside the point.) Beth and Devon had set up camp beside a few oak trees, building a fire circle and making a bed from ferns, grass, and sphagnum moss. (Only one bed, becausethe night would be cold…the greenery was limited…some good reason that they eventually gave up trying to invent.) They had eaten a small supper comprised of leftover pork pie, cheese, and pears they’d bought in the village, as well as nuts from an emergency supply Beth carried in her satchel. They’d even tried discussing their plan for getting the caladrius to the sanctuary in Bergerac, where the little bird would be safe from schemers, at least until it was old enough to be released into the wild. But the specter of farewelling each other afterward drew them into a melancholic silence. Night had begun to rise gracefully from the old, dry land. And still they waited.
“I’m sorry about tenure,” Devon said. “And Birder of the Year. But I admire the way you said no to Gladstone.”
Beth gave a quiet, droll laugh. A week ago, she’d never have refused Professor Gladstone anything. Who knew that racing across the country, being attacked by deadly magical birds and kissed by a handsome rogue, would be so transformative to one’s character?
“It’s really fine,” she said, and meant it. “Of course, you yourself could still win Birder of the Year. You’d just have to take the caladrius and…”Leave me, she almost said, but her throat closed, set up a barricade, and threatened to shoot her if she dared approach it with such painful words.
“I’m taking the bird to sanctuary,” Devon answered quite simply. “With you.”
The barricade in her throat began to preclude breathing. She hastily changed the subject. “I hope the others reached Sheffield without any problem.”
Devon cast her a wry smile. “You’re such a sweetheart. Personally, I hope they ended up in a ditch.”
“I don’t. The farther they are away from us, the better. Let them arrive safe in Sheffield—then have someone steal their vehicles and luggage.”
He laughed. “I can’t believe you said that.”
