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But when a rustling sounded to the side of her, followed by a swift clacking, she paused, whirling around to face the direction from which the sound had come.

Nothing was there. Her heart raced, her breathing stinted as she strained to hear the noise again.

A minute passed by. Then two. She was beginning to believe she’d imagined the noise. But after another moment, the clacking came again, as if someone hit two pieces of wood against each other.

Lark tiptoed forward, straining to see through the thick bushes and grass.

More rustling. More clacking. Whatever it was, it sounded large. But then, what on earth could it be? A deer? A badger?

A warning voice from within told her to keep her distance, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she crept closer and closer to the unpredictable noises until finally, she caught sight of something large and grey in a small clearing of trees, rain pouring down upon the mound.

As she finally recognized what she saw, her breath was snatched away. There, in the center of the clearing, caught in a bird snare, was a large, tawny owl. Her brown and white feathers resembled the trunks of the trees around them, and her black eyes—perfect, still orbs—continuously looked around her.

Lark was absolutely certain the owl had already seen her. But still, she remained silent, hoping the creature knew she was safe with Lark.

And yet, the owl continued to click its beak—a sign of its feeling threatened. Lark remained where she was, dropping her bonnet to the ground and lowering herself between the branches, straining to see where the owl was caught or if she was injured.

One of her white legs was stuck in between the wires, her black talons large and on full display as she attempted to rid herself of the snare, but her effort was to no avail.

Anger surged through Lark. The snare had no doubt been laid to capture a pheasant or other game, but this was precisely the danger of setting them. To capture and possibly injure a creature as beautiful as this owl? It was unthinkable. Was the bird a young mother? Had she been hunting at night and been stuck since then? Were her babies starving and frightened?

Lark shook her head. She had to do something. She needed to do something.

Her mind raced, but with each solution, another problem arose. She could not safely release the owl on her own, that much was clear. None of the women back at the house were strong enough to help, and the men were long gone. A servant, perhaps? Maybe the very one who set the trap?

Leaving her bonnet behind, she backed away slowly, then sprinted toward the servant’s entrance the moment she reached the open grass.

However, as she neared the home, a gentleman rounded the side of the house, striding toward the back entrance, and she gasped.

He would help her.

“Mr. Branok?” she cried out. “Mr. Branok!”

Chapter 27

Finally, Mr. Branok turned, facing Lark with a look of confusion, which swiftly shifted to concern.

“Miss Fernside?” He moved toward her directly, removing his hat. Rain poured down around his features. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, breathlessly speaking. “No, there’s—there’s an owl—she’s caught—a snare—in the woods.”

“Take me to her.”

She nodded, running back the way she came with Mr. Branok in tow.

Together, they made their way through the trees, slowing down as they approached the owl and attempting to level their breathing.

“She’s just there,” she whispered, pointing through the clearing.

Mr. Branok hunched down beside her, their shoulders grazing as he looked through the bushes.

“Do you know how long she’s been there?” he whispered through the owl’s clacking beak.

Lark shook her head. “I can only imagine through the night.”

He nodded, dropping his hat on the ground next to her long-forgotten bonnet and removing his greatcoat from around his shoulders. “We must try to release her from the snare.”

We? He wanted her help?