“Fair enough.” Leaning over, he grabbed it for himself. “I like you,Fräulein,” he said, straightening, and jabbed the piece of toast toward her. “You’re interesting. But Birder of the Year is even more interesting, and the fact that I was willing to shoot you to get the award is why I deserve to win it.”
“Whether you deserve it or not makes no difference,” Devon said. “The Birder of the Year competition is a sham.”
The crowd gasped at this, but Oberhufter guffawed, crumbs spitting from his mouth. “You think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”
Devon leaned back, slipping the gun into his coat pocket. “Actually, I think you’re stupid in a broad range of ways. And this conversation has become boring.” He nodded—whereupon the innkeeper stepped up behind Oberhufter and tossed a tablecloth over the man’s head.
“Mein Gott!”
“Let’s go,” Devon said to Beth as Oberhufter floundered wildly beneath the cloth. They rose, still holding hands, and a breathless“aww”went through the room.
“Is that the caladrius?” someone asked Beth as she lifted the birdcage out from beneath the table.
“Oh, no,” she answered easily. “This is a handbag. It’s the latest fashion.”
“Aah,” said the crowd. Beth squeezed Devon’s hand before he could laugh.
“I apologize for the disturbance,” she told the innkeeper. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“It’s a pleasure…ugh, stay still…to help,” he replied, wrestling with the enshrouded Oberhufter. “We here at Fox House are always…ow! don’t bite me!…willing to support a noble cause. You’re getting the full-quality experience when you stay in our—”
“Right,” Devon said, nudging Beth, who was listening politely, albeit a little impatiently, to this speech. “We ought to run.”
“This way, Professors!” called the innkeeper’s son, waving from the dining room door.
“Wait!” Oberhufter shouted from beneath the tablecloth. “Let’s discuss this,ja? If we joined forces, we could be undefeatable.”
Devon laughed.
“But listen! Quirm is planning to set a booby trap for you at the Sheffield train station!”
“Why would you tell us that?” Beth asked warily. “You’re her…special friend.”
“To say nothing of the fact that you were pointing a gun at us two minutes ago,” Devon added.
“That’s just sex and death,” Oberhufter scoffed. “This is ornithology. None of us want Quirm winning Birder of the Year. Come on, Lockley, let’s get back together. We had fun,ja? Remember when we stole the pileated deathwhistler from…er…”
Beth and Devon exchanged a grin, then headed for the door.
“Good luck!” the innkeeper called after them. The crowd whooped, brandishing spoons, coffee cups, and at least one rasher of bacon.
“I can’t believe I did that,” Beth gasped as they hurried toward the stable yard, carefully avoiding Oberhufter’s servants, who waited near the inn’s front door. She broke into laughter—then promptly began hyperventilating.
Devon jiggled her hand in his. “You were really quite impressive. Makes me want to attend one of your lectures, just to watch you teach.”
She laughed again, although it was as trembly as her heart felt. “I guess that’s not the last we’ll see of Herr Oberhufter.”
“Don’t worry,” Devon assured her. “We’ll catch a train in Sheffield, reach the Dover docks this afternoon, and be eating boeuf bourguignon in a French hotel for dinner. It’s going to be plain sailing from here.”
—
“I think Ijust saw Hippolyta,” Beth warned Devon as they walked through the Sheffield train station toward its first-class booking hall. Althoughwalkedwas perhaps an exaggeration; after spending two hours in the back of a juddering wagon, every muscle in her body hurt, andupright creepingwould have served as a more accurate description of her progress. Beside her, Devon did not seem much better.
“Where?” he asked, and she surreptitiously flicked a finger toward a space farther along the platform. But then a small crowd of passengers milling near the train parted, revealing that what she’d actually seen was a brightly canopied stall selling lollies.
“Sorry, my eyes must be tired.”
“All of me is tired,” Devon said.
