A Perilous Undertaking (Veronica Speedwell, #2)

by Deanna Raybourn

ALIS VOLAT PROPRIIS. “‘She flies with her own wings,’”

It is the greatest advantage of getting old, you know. I can say precisely what I like and everyone excuses it because I knew Moses from his bulrush days.”

“Do you really think a woman could elude me?” I looked him over from tumbled black hair to work-roughened hands to shoulders and thighs heavy with muscle. “I cannot imagine the woman who would want to,” I said, batting my lashes furiously.

I had changed into my butterfly-hunting clothes, a peculiar and eminently suitable ensemble of my own design. I donned a clean shirtwaist and a pair of slim trousers, tucking them securely into flat, sturdy boots laced neatly up the front. Over it all I buttoned a fitted jacket and a long skirt with concealed slits and a clever arrangement of buttons that permitted me to drape the garment according to my activities. I had not designed a configuration for pursuing murderers, but I suspected the one I used for stalking butterflies would prove adequate.

That was the true measure of his character; even at the height of his irritation he would never let me fall.

There was no sign of the promised watchman; nothing broke the solemn silence of the night save a soft, sighing breeze that stirred the leaves and bent the tops of the weeds, scattering patches of fog in its wake.

Bodies are quite insignificant. The soul is a thing apart. When you decide to share that with someone, then you will know what it is to live.”

There, beneath a plum leaf, I spied him. This fellow was fresh from his chrysalis, for his wings were damp and heavy, dragged down with his dewy liquors. He spread them slowly, flapping them open and closed to dry them in the warm air. He was a new creation, I reflected, exploring the possibility of his wings for the first time. But he had not yet felt their power. He did not realize what they could do, how they could bear him aloft on the wind, carrying him far and wide over moor and meadow, hedgerow and heath. The whole of England lay within the span of those slender wings, and he had no knowledge of it. It was not my custom to capture the newly emerged, but the convenience was tempting. A quick flick of the wrist and my net was upon him. He was too startled to resist, I think, for he gave only a token flutter then fell still. I reached into the net and cupped him in my hand. His wings whispered against my palm—in protest? In acquiescence? I could not say. I opened my left hand to find him sheltered there in the curve of it. My right thumb and index finger formed a pincer as I eyed the spot, just below his head, where the coup de grâce would be administered. Just then, he stirred, spreading his wings in one last flamboyant gesture of defiance. The sun touched them properly for the first time, sending warmth and life through veins no bigger than a spider’s silk. He was magnificent, a perfect being, innocent and yet full of possibility. My fingertip touched the edge of his...

“All right then. Yes,” he admitted. “I didn’t much like having to dispatch that jaguar, even if it was bent upon destroying me. It is one thing to slay an animal at a distance. One doesn’t feel a part of it. This was entirely too personal for me. I haven’t killed anything since. And I doubt I could, not something healthy and vital with a life yet to live.” I thought of the tremble of those damp wings against my palm and I understood him perfectly.

“I have a gift for debauchery. It is why I have largely given it up. There is no real thrill in sinning when one has a talent for it.”