The Ornithologist's Field Guide to Love

Chapter One

For the master ornithologist, trouble is like water off a duck's back.

Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm

Spain, 1890

It was a fine day for birding. Almost too fine. Sunlight glazed the sky of northern Spain, unrelieved by cloud or breeze. Heat pressed down on the forest path.

Mrs. Quirm and Miss Pickering strolled beneath the shade of hats and lace parasols, employing their white-gloved hands in the manner of fans to cool themselves. Every now and again they lifted delicate silver binoculars to search the surrounding trees. Several birds flitted between branches, singing, courting, and generally participating in occupations typical to the avian species. But the ladies' quarry was one bird in particular, far shyer than the common breeds. They had seen glimpses of it throughout the morning and were intent on pursuit, despite the overbearing weather.

"By Jove, I could use a glass of lemonade right now!" Mrs. Quirm declared.

"Indeed, it is atrociously warm," Miss Pickering agreed.

"Rupert!" Mrs. Quirm snapped her gloved fingers. "Lemonade, if you please."

Rupert, walking behind her, turned to the contingent of porters, guides, and servants walking behind him. He gestured, and a man hurried forth with bottle and glass. Lemonade was poured, the glass was set on a silver tray, and Rupert presented it.

Mrs. Quirm took the drink, but before she could bring it to her robust lips, she sighted something that caused her to gasp.

"A bastard, here in the forest!"

Miss Pickering stared at her with astonishment. One simply did not speak of people born out of wedlock if one was a lady, and in all her twenty-four years, Miss Pickering had met none more ladylike than Hippolyta Quirm, despite the vigorous galumphing of her vocal cords.

"You do well to be surprised, Elizabeth!" the woman said in what would have been termed a shout had it come from a less reputable person. "The great bustard has no business being in a forest! It is a bird of the fields."

"Oh, a bustard," Beth said with relief. No doubt the heat had suffocated her ear canal as it was attempting to do with her lungs.

She blew restively at a chestnut brown strand of hair that had slipped over her damp brow. If only it was decent behavior to remove one's hat in company, or loosen one's collar, or leap naked into a nearby river! Ornithology tended to be a mucky venture-scuffed shoes, snagged stockings, guano-splattered parasols-but the worst of it was the perspiration.

When Hippolyta had announced they were going to Spain in search of the elusive pileated deathwhistler, Beth had considered feigning illness so as to remain behind. She was British right through to her tea-flavored, rain-colored core, and the thought of a summer without fog and storms horrified her. But in the end she had been unable to resist the opportunity such an expedition offered. To capture the deathwhistler would result in universal accolades. And if anyone could pull it off, it was Hippolyta Quirm, field ornithologist, wildly famous authoress of Birds Through a Sherry Glass, and at only thirty-one, a five-time recipient of England's prestigious Best Birder award.

Beth was pleased to be the woman's associate. The moment they met in Epping Forest, accidentally smacking each other over the head with their nets while their mutual quarry, a fine specimen of rain-singing robin, flew away in a teeny-tiny storm, they knew they'd work well together. For one thing, Beth was prepared to take all the blame for the mishap, and Hippolyta was glad to give it.

"You can extend your postdoctoral research into the psychic habitats of thaumaturgic birds," the woman had suggested as they walked back to town together afterward, "and I can get your help in the field."

"Yes," Beth had said without pausing for thought. Then again, even had she taken time to consider it, she'd have answered the same way. Hippolyta might at times be more discombobulating than a whole flock of thunder-winged loons, and certainly traveling with her left much to be desired in terms of quiet reading time, but that was a small price to pay for the literal broadening of one's horizons. Over the past two years, in between teaching classes as an Oxford University professor, Beth had visited places of whose existence she'd never before known, thanks to Hippolyta's resources. Certainly it was more than she'd have been able to afford herself on a professor's salary. Now she was even beginning to think that one day she might reach New Zealand, land of the giant carnivorous moa.

First, however, she had to not drown in her own sweat.

Buck up, she chastised herself. At least it was not as bad as chasing the fire-breathing sand curlew in Cairo. Granted, she'd been dressed in black at the time, to honor the anniversary of her parents' death, but heatstroke almost saw her following them into the grave. More than once, the only thing that saved her from feverishly tumbling off a camel's back had been the ballast of her petticoats. If Hippolyta hadn't discovered that the curlew liked arrowroot biscuits, and was thus able to lure it into a cage for the voyage back to London, Beth's career would have burned out before it properly began. Again, literally as well as metaphorically-which seemed to be the usual state of affairs when one was involved in chasing magical birds.

"The great bustard can be taken as a good sign," Hippolyta was saying, and Beth pulled herself out of the Egyptian frying pan back into the Spanish fire. "No doubt it was attracted to our deathwhistler's thaumaturgic vibrations. We're getting close, mark my words. Oberhufter tried to convince me to search farther south, but I knew he was talking nonsense. He always does. I am a far superior ornithologist to him."

"Absolutely," Beth murmured loyally.

"I still cannot believe that man was voted High Flier of the Year. What rot! He is an idiot, and I know for a fact he bribed the awards committee with spotted nightspinner feathers."

"Mm-hm," Beth said, in lieu of pointing out that Hippolyta had bribed them with strix claws, despite having no hope of succeeding since, in addition to the spotted nightspinner, Herr Oberhufter had bagged a scarlet thrush, a fire tit, and even a breeding pair of horned frogeaters that he donated to the London Zoological Gardens (and then had to come take away again, as they made such a noise they drove several nearby residents to the brink of madness)-all in the second half of 1889.

Granted, in the course of getting these birds, he had also broken the leg of one rival ornithologist and tricked another into catching a train to Siberia, from whence they sent an excited telegram reporting they'd found the mythical yeti owl, and thereafter were never seen again. The awards committee, however, cast a blind eye to such nefarious behavior. A bird in the hand was worth more than two birders in the bush, any day.

"Oberhufter will go down in history as a knave and cheat," Hippolyta persisted. "And once we return to London with the pileated deathwhistler, I shall campaign to have his International Ornithological Society membership revoked."

"Good idea," Beth said, blowing at the wayward strand of hair again.

"A little blackmail should do the trick. But if that fails, you can always seduce the membership committee chairman."

"Um," Beth said.

"He won't be able to escape your feminine wiles, not in those ridiculous sandals he wears over his socks."

Beth, having been unaware until this moment that she possessed feminine wiles, and not entirely sure what they involved, could make no sensible reply. It did not matter however, for Hippolyta's attention had returned to the trees.

"The deathwhistler is near, I can feel it in my water! And my water is never wrong! Keep your eyes peeled, Elizabeth. We're looking in particular for charred leaves or swarms of insects." She turned her head to shout at the servants. "Insects, gentlemen!"

The servants looked back with expressions suggesting they would like to take her advisement and shove it somewhere with significantly less sun than the Spanish forest.

Suddenly, the trees rustled. Hippolyta and Beth paused, their faces lifted and their senses straining for a sight, sound, or magical vibration of the pileated deathwhistler. Behind them, the servants took this opportunity to lay down their burdens (literal: tool bags, birdcage, heavy boxes, picnic hamper, picnic table and chairs; and metaphorical: weariness for the drudgery of their job). They wiped their brows and pushed up their sleeves in a manner Beth would have envied had she not been so intent upon the trees.

"There!" Hippolyta tossed aside her glass of lemonade without looking (braining a red-tufted mousetwitter that happened to be pecking about in the undergrowth, thereby bringing an end to its species on the Continent and losing herself, had she but known it, several thousand pounds). Her attention focused instead on a flutter of gold among the leaves. "Quick, the net!"

But even before Rupert could order a servant to obtain the net from a porter and bring it to him, whereupon he could present it to Hippolyta, the deathwhistler was off. With a swoop of wings, it lifted its coin-colored, peacock-size body from a branch and began to fly away along the forest path.

"After it!" Hippolyta shouted.

Beth lifted the hem of her long white skirt and hastened after the deathwhistler, Hippolyta hot on her heels with a rustle of yellow taffeta. They ran along the path, parasols bobbing, dust billowing as their boots struck the dry earth. The servants watched them blankly.

"Faster!" Hippolyta urged.

But suddenly, Beth staggered to a halt. The bird glided on a short distance, then descended to the path, its wings folding, its bronze crest glinting in the sunlight.

"Why do you stop?" Hippolyta demanded-and, at Beth's urgent reply, staggered to a halt herself before she ran headlong into a chasm. Dropping her binoculars in surprise, she watched them plummet several hundred feet to break against jagged rocks below.

"By Jove!" she shouted.

"The deathwhistler seems aware of our predicament," Beth said wryly as the bird flickered its long-feathered tail at them.

"The chase is not over yet!" Hippolyta averred. "I am determined to protect that bird from unscrupulous hunters [i.e., her rivals] and see it safe in the Duke of Wimbledon's aviary. No deathly chasm shall stop me! Propellers!"

Beth tugged on a cord attached to her parasol handle. Hippolyta did the same with hers. Long metal shafts arose from atop the parasols' caps and, with a whirring buzz, began to spin. The two ladies proceeded to rise from the path.

Behind them, the servants sagged down onto boxes, hamper, and chairs. Before them, the pileated deathwhistler pecked the ground as if entirely undisturbed by the introduction of this boisterous new avian species. A glint in its small dark eyes suggested, however, that it was amused and intended to wait for the most aggravating moment possible before taking off again.

Hippolyta and Beth angled their parasols in such a manner as to traverse the deep but narrow cleft in the earth, then alighted on the other side. As they drew the parasols shut, Hippolyta held out a hand toward Beth, palm up, without removing her steely gaze from the bird.

"Net," she commanded.

"Er . . ." Beth said.

Hippolyta snapped her fingers impatiently, but to no avail. They had forgotten to bring the net with them.

"Bother!" Hippolyta said. "Well, never mind." After all, she had not become the preeminent field ornithologist of the British Empire, and the slightly-less-eminent but still famous field ornithologist of the Continent, without being able to bounce back from such calamities. She began divesting herself of her puff-sleeved jacket. "We shall sneak up on it and toss my jacket over its head."

"Good plan," Beth said. She was about to wish Hippolyta luck for such a risky venture when the older woman handed her the jacket.

"Now, remember, Elizabeth! When frightened, the deathwhistler makes a dreadful, fatal noise, like-"

"Oi! Look out below!"

At this holler, Hippolyta and Beth did exactly the opposite of what it commanded: they looked up, into the canopy of the forest. A man came leaping down from a tree, his long brown coat soaring behind him winglike.

Birds startled and took to the air. For one awful moment, Beth heard the first perilous notes of the deathwhistler's cry. But even as her heart began to shudder, the man snatched the bird and tucked its beak beneath his arm, rendering it silent. Tawny feathers ruffled wildly, briefly, then settled into calm.

The interloper bowed as much as was possible with a sizable bird in his arms. He was slightly unshaven, and a lock of black hair fell over one dark eye roguishly. "Good afternoon, ladies," he said, grinning.

"Mr. Lockley!" Beth's exclamation shook her vocal cords, which were used to only gentle employment. "What do you think you are doing?"

His grin deepened. "I think I'm stealing your bird, Miss Pickering."

"Who is this rogue?" Hippolyta demanded.

"Devon Lockley," Beth explained as the man brushed back his hair. "He's a professor in Cambridge's ornithology department." She had been introduced to him during the annual Berkshire Birders meeting last month. He'd not made much of an impression-shabby coat, nice smile, more interested in the sausage rolls on offer than in talking to her. A typical male professor. He certainly impacted more today, jumping down before them in a style that evoked derring-do, bravado, and no cumbersome petticoats. It was provocative behavior, to say the least, and his unstarched trousers, clinging to strong thighs, only made matters worse. Beth absolutely would not blush, for she was an Englishwoman-but inside, her heart was fanning itself urgently with a handkerchief.

"Cambridge," Hippolyta said in the same manner with which one might open their steak pie and say "maggot." "And what sort of name is Devon Lockley?" she added, never mind that her own name, Hippolyta Albertina Spiffington-Quirm, ought to have disqualified her from asking.

"The sort that unimaginative parents living in Devonshire give their child," the man said. "It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. Quirm, especially as you so kindly shepherded the pileated deathwhistler into my trap. Both myself and my associate, Herr Oberhufter, thank you."

"Oberhufter!" Hippolyta immediately withdrew a dainty silver pistol from a pocket of her dress and aimed it at him. But Devon's smile only quirked.

"I sympathize, madam, but there is no need to do that."

"There certainly is! Hand over my bird at once, you rapscallion, or I will shoot you!"

"Perhaps I misspoke," he replied calmly. "What I meant was there is no point in doing that. We took the liberty earlier of removing your bullets."