Once they were dressed and ready to depart, they checked the caladrius, smiling as it shook its feathers and groomed its claws with a youthful, rather clumsy diligence. The morning light seemed to enliven it, but seed husks on the cage floor were threatening to become an enchanted garden, and thin, shining strands of magic wove up the cage bars, so they lowered the cover again for safety’s sake. Beth took the cage by its handle and was moving toward the road when Devon caught her wrist, stopping her.
She turned back to him with a politely inquiring expression, so lovely that the sun cast golden strands to adorn…
No, he told himself sternly. No more sentimentality! (And if his heart could beat in a steady rhythm, that would be rather helpful too.)
“Good morning,” he said again, wanting to reconnect with the feeling of intimacy they’d shared last night, the togetherness, before they faced the rest of the world. Really, just wantingher, with an intensity he felt might never diminish.
Beth seemed bemused for a moment, then understanding lit her eyes. She smiled—a smile just for him, one he could wrap up, tuck inside his heart, and keep forever. “Good morning, Devon,” she said. And putting down the birdcage, she hugged him.
Oh gosh, he thought dazedly. So this was what true comfortfelt like. He’d never expected to know it in his life, certainly not after his mother died and his father decided the best way to deal with a wayward, brilliant child was send him alone to a far distant country—and yet here was Beth Pickering saying his name, holding him against her heart, and he realized that, regardless of what happened hereafter, he wasn’t ever going to recover from this beautiful moment.
—
Finally, they setoff for Sheffield. Devon ached all over from having spent the night on the ground, and he noticed Beth stretch and twist her back so many times that he reached over to rub it for her as they walked. And yet they plowed on, encouraged by occasional peeps from the caladrius.
Only seven minutes later, they stopped in front of a stone building.
“Fox House Inn,” Devon said, reading the sign hanging above its door.
They stared at it blankly, undecided as to whether to laugh or cry.
“Hello! Good morning!” the innkeeper greeted them as they entered. “Up with the lark, you are!” He looked intently at their faces, then at the cage Beth held, and his eyes lit with excitement. “It’s a true honor to welcome you into my humble inn! You’re wanting a room? We have plenty available!”
He beamed a rather manic smile that suggested “plenty of rooms available” might be good news for them but was bloody terrible for his bank account, and would theypleasenot pretend to be married?
“Excellent facilities, a bird’s-eye view of the moors, and ourbeds are the best you’ll find this side of Hadrian’s Wall! Soft, warm, like sleeping on a cloud.”
Luckily for him, the bird in their cage was not a carnivorous lapwing. Beth contrived a polite smile, and Devon managed not to curse, despite his various aches and pains offering up a few eloquent suggestions.
“Just breakfast, thank you,” he said. “And coffee. Strong coffee. Coffee so strong it could lift this entire building and throw it, say, half a mile back down the road.”
“And tea, please,” Beth added. “Thoroughly steeped. I don’t so much need a reservoir of peace as a deep, deep well of strength. We have a long walk ahead of us to Sheffield.”
“Sheffield? My lad’s taking a wagon there this very morning!” The innkeeper pointed to a young man who was loitering in a doorway behind the registration desk.
“I am?” Apparently this was news to the boy.
“Yes,” his father said firmly. “And you’re going to give these nice ornith—um, nicepeoplea lift, free of charge. We here at Fox House always do our best for travelers! And we have excellent rates too! Just in case anyone—say, a newspaper reporter—happens to ask.”
Devon and Beth exchanged a speaking glance. But they allowed the innkeeper to lead them into the dining room and seat them side by side at his best table, and order them a full English breakfast, his gift, no thanks necessary, hospitality was the name of the game here at Fox House in Longshaw, right before the turnoff to Hathersage.
As he bustled away, they set the birdcage on the floor beneath the round table, concealed by the long drape of its cloth, then Beth straightened the cutlery and Devon picked up the newspaper folded neatly on the tabletop. The front-pageheadline almost made him summon the innkeeper and ask for some rum in the coffee.
THE ROBIN HOOD OF ORNITHOLOGY!
Professor Lockley Rescues Caladrius from Tyrant!
Pretty Miss Pickering Joins Him in Race to Safety!
“RobinHood? Really?” Devon said, grimacing at the pun (which, to be fair, only a bird lover would have noticed).
“Pretty Miss Pickering?”Beth said, more justifiably.
“And how did they even know?”
“The stable hand at the inn yesterday might have told them,” Beth said. “Or one of Professor Gladstone’s servants. Or even that Mr. Feh—uh, something.”
“The PRESS agent?” Devon said doubtfully, and Beth shrugged.
