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by
India Holton
Read between
July 8 - July 11, 2025
currently scowling at him as if she’d like to stab him with her furled parasol. He wished she would. Pretty was nice; naughty was ever so much better.
ornithologists liked to keep a close eye on each other, in case of fowl play.
she lacked the ruthlessness of other ornithologists, most of whom would have recognized Ivan the Terrible as a kindred spirit.
“It seems inappropriate for a young lady to be robbing a museum unchaperoned. The world is a dangerous place these days, you know.”
Her plain brown coat, accompanied by a small hat, gloves, and air of cultivated intelligence, triggered fear in any man who glanced her way: one catcall, and she might educate them.
The bare, olive-toned skin visible where he’d unfastened his shirt collar took “trouble” and dunked it in a glass of hot, rum-infused devilry.
She also suspected him of possessing masculine wiles. He probably kept them up his sleeve or in a trouser pocket—upon
He gave her a frown that was clearly wearing nothing more than a wicked grin beneath its coat. But
“Don’t try that charm on me, if you please. I will not succumb like some—some—liberal arts undergraduate.”
“I thought you were a nice girl,” he said. She looked him in the eye steadily. “That doesn’t mean I’m weak.”
“While it’s been a pleasure escaping death with you, and I wish you all the best despite your general villainy, I should like to be alone now.”
“He’s a complete rascal. Copious brainpower but all he wants to do is enjoy life instead of spending his days in the noble pursuit of writing scientific papers for his peers to argue over. It’s disgraceful.
With her chestnut brown hair gathered tidily beneath a straw boater and delicate spectacles settled on her nose, she looked so much like a schoolteacher, every man in the elevator stood up straighter.
he read in the two seconds before she tipped the book back. He met her fierce gaze, and the air between them grew so charged, Nikola Tesla could have invented three things just by looking at it.
“I heard you plagiarized your book!” Oberhufter shouted. “I heard you plagiarized your personality!” Hippolyta shouted in return.
He handed her the book and she took it with a nod of thanks, inspecting it for damage before securing it in her traveling satchel. The spectacles followed, and Devon looked around for some reading material so he could induce her to put them back on again.
He wanted to undress her brain, stroke her perspective, make her gasp out the most fascinating theory she hid from all other men. (He also wanted to kiss the hell out of her, but that went without saying.)
Ask me and I’ll tell you. Say my name and I’ll give you all you want.
“I wasn’t lurking,” Beth retorted. “I was pausing with a sensible discretion.” Devon’s mouth quirked. “One day I’d like to read whatever dictionary it is that you use.”
“Or,” he said, “we can hijack a boat and sail across the channel tonight.” Beth gasped. “What a terrible suggestion!” “I forgot, you are a proper lady. Of course you disapprove of hijacking.” “I disapprove of sailing. A steamboat would be faster.”
“Really, just dreadfully sorry,” she reiterated to the captain. And so on, until the fishermen ended up assuring her it was perfectly fine she had pirated their boat.
Not a mile out to sea, they began bringing her tea, and jam sandwiches, and a coat that she declined on the basis of being quite warm, thank you
At last they handed her up onto the pier, saying things in rapid, impassioned French, which Devon suspected were instructions on how to kill him and steal all his money.
all I could think to say was that you were my beloved husband—my épine dans mon coeur, giving me a vacation in England—an angoissant vexation.” Devon laughed. “I’m pretty sure you told them I’m a thorn in your heart who distresses you with his anger.” “Oh.” Her expression blanked. “I must go back at once and explain!” “No, you must not,” he said, increasing his stride. She stumbled to keep up with him. “But what will they think of us?”
“Only one horse.”
Men had always been vague shapes at the edge of her awareness, rambling on about sports or telling her how to do something she’d mastered in adolescence.
Devon Lockley, on the other hand, had literally dive-bombed it, then set up camp right in the middle of her brain. And worse—after just two days in his company she’d begun using loose language, arguing, even veering dangerously close to banter. Much more of this and she might become sassy.
“Perhaps you ought to sit down,” she said. “No, no. It’s only a muscle spasm.” “Oh. In that case, you should massage it.” He laughed.
“As the brains of this operation, Fettick and I will be doing the most important work of all.” “Oh?” “Yes. Consulting with each other over coffee.
“I am planning to steal a dictionary for Miss Pickering, but other than that, no, we’re not criminals. Just ornithologists.”
The piano strains of what might have been Vivaldi’s “Summer,” had the pianist enjoyed any talent, arose from below.
I am forever haunted by the Four Seasons, especially right now. 7/9/2025
she tried to think of another bantering comment, but her brain was too busy contemplating a career change from science to romantic poetry reading.
Devon approached risks the way other people approached a warm, cozy bed at night.
Setting down his coffee cup with a clank, Mr. Flogg stood in a manner that would have been dramatic were he not a pasty-faced fellow with a prissy little mustache.
Beth found herself driven to the verge of frowning. Why people—?! (That was the full extent of the sentence. Extroverts need not trouble themselves asking for an explanation.)
Beth had no qualms about eavesdropping, since it was how a lot of biological science got done,
He lifted his gaze, and as their eyes met again, it felt like coming home. Which was ridiculous, Beth told herself. She’d only known the man a short while. He was the opposite of home.
He was an unmapped horizon, or a bar chart without category names along the x-axis.
Gabriel’s expression turned so icily lethal, it could have been employed by Her Majesty’s armed forces as a weapon of mass destruction.
Devon knew his face displayed more skepticism than an entire consortium of scientists,
I’m all for allowing women to advance in society, but must they do it on wheels?”
“I’ll always say yes to you, Miss Pickering.”
and they were kissing even before the narrative could summon a metaphor in preparation.
Ancient Greek script was tattooed across his left pectoral major: the wind is blowing, adore the wind,
“Conjecture on the potential connubial eventualities of our currently emergent relational situation in all its frangibility would be inadvisably precipitate and, to any perspicacious individual, contraindicated by prudence. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’ll bring you a supper tray, shall I?” the landlady suggested. “It’s bangers and mash tonight.” Devon muttered something that sounded suspiciously like not anymore, it’s not,
“Professors,” Mr. Flogg murmured in a tone recognizable to anyone who has had an essay returned to them covered in red ink.
Her attraction to this man was so deep, it was practically geological.
