Page 2 of Hawk & Sparrow

Fifteen minutes. Vesper schooled her expression as she nodded in polite thanks and skirted past. Her hand was on the museum’s door handle when one of the guards muttered under his breath.

“Odd girl, that one.”

Vesper flinched. What two security guards thought of her shouldn’t have mattered, but this wasn’t the first time she’d been reminded that she was … well, different. It wasn’t from a lack of effort; in nineteen years, she’d tried to be what society expected of her: demure, poised, charming. In the end though, she always seemed to fall short of those expectations, pulled between the desire to be herself and the desire to be acceptable. She felt it then: a familiar anxiety that fluttered in her rib cage like a trapped bird. What if she always felt like this? What if she was always the odd girl? She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

Focus. You’ve got a job to do.

Vesper straightened, calmer. She took another deep breath and put her anxiety back into its cage before pulling open one of the museum’s doors, and stepping into warm, gleaming light.

The Basalton Museum of Art was more lavishly decorated tonight than Vesper had ever seen it.

Festive garlands of crimson, gold, and burnt-orange leaves bedecked the pillars in its main atrium. She counted at least six ice-sculpture installments depicting woodland creatures, and several tables piled high with hors d’oeuvres on polished silver trays for the guests milling about the room. In contrast to the chill outside, the air here was pleasantly temperate, and scented by a saccharine fragrance that reminded her of freshly baked apples. A harp’s dulcet tones reached her over the din of conversation, but no harpist sat beside the instrument, even as its strings plucked merrily along. Vesper shook her head. Sorcerers loved few things more than showing off their power with these sorts of parlor tricks, especially when many of them were gathered in one place. Her gaze lifted to the atrium’s ceiling and she noted that it had been enchanted to depict a starry night sky. Another reminder of the might of sorcerers.

Her eyes sifted through the guests until she spotted the first of her two assigned interview subjects. She wove through the well-dressed attendees until she was standing behind a man in a black suit, then tapped his shoulder.

“Mr. Gladwell?”

The man faced her. He was of average height and build with wavy blond hair, a cleft chin, and light unwrinkled skin that placed him in his early forties. Vesper had seen Mr. Gladwell’s photograph plenty of times in the social sections of various local newspapers, but in person he was even more handsome. She caught a whiff of burnt cedar on his person, and privately wondered if he smoked cigars often. Confusion crossed his face as his pea-green eyes settled on her.

“Sorry to bother you.” She extended a hand. “My name’s Vesper Evans, and I work for The Basalton Globe. I’m covering the exhibition, and wondered if I could ask you some questions about the invention you’re planning to showcase tonight.”

Francis Gladwell flashed a dazzling smile and shook her hand. “The Globe, you say?” His voice was deep and resonant. “It would be my pleasure.”

Vesper pulled out her pen and notebook, opening it to a fresh page. “This will be the first time you’re sharing one of your inventions with the public,” she began. “What can you tell me about it?”

Mr. Gladwell gestured to the stage on his right. On it was something bulky draped in black. “Tonight’s guests will be getting an exclusive look at a revolutionary new apparatus,” he said. “There’s nothing else like it on the market, and I believe it’s going to change the world.”

Vesper scrawled something into her notebook. “How long have you been developing it?”

“Oh, it’s been years in the making.” Francis waved a careless hand. “I can’t even remember when I began anymore.”

Vesper jotted that down too. “And what exactly does your invention—”

“Pardon me.”

Vesper and Francis looked up as another man joined them. Like Francis Gladwell, he wore a suit, but unlike the inventor, no smile touched his face. His skin was the color of dull ivory, and streaks of gray shot through his dark hair at the temples. Vesper guessed he might be in his sixties.

“Ah, Charlie!” If Francis was put off by the man’s cool disposition, he didn’t show it as he clapped him on the back. “Good to see you. Miss Evans, this is Charles Belver, founder of Basalton Steel.” He winked. “He’s modest, but don’t let that fool you. This here is one of the richest men in the city!”

Vesper didn’t doubt it. Moderately well-off people tended to flaunt their affluence, but the truly wealthy wore their status effortlessly, like a second, self-assured skin. Mr. Belver’s charcoal suit was understated, but she’d bet tomorrow’s breakfast that it cost a small fortune. The gentleman pointedly ignored her as he addressed the inventor a second time.

“Francis, I’d like a word.”

“Oh, come now, Charlie!” Mr. Gladwell grinned. “Surely, it can wait. I’m in the middle of an interview!”

“It cannot.” Mr. Belver gave Francis a more pointed look. “The matter is … urgent.”

Francis pressed his lips together, visibly conflicted, before giving Vesper a rueful look. “Miss Evans, I do apologize, but I’m afraid that’s all the time I seem to have. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” said Vesper. “Thanks for your—”

The inventor had already turned back to Mr. Belver, who immediately began speaking to him in a low, stern tone. When he noticed Vesper was still there, he took Mr. Gladwell by the elbow and guided him away. Vesper sighed. She’d expected her time with Francis Gladwell to be brief—he was, after all, this evening’s guest of honor—but she’d barely gotten to ask him any of the questions she’d prepared. She would endeavor to try him again later, perhaps after the exhibition. She stowed her notebook and pen, then withdrew her event invitation. Its text was written in swooping black calligraphy, and printed on thick cream-colored paper.

The Basalton Coal Foundation invites you to an exhibition featuring inventor Francis Gladwell in the Basalton Museum of Art’s Main Atrium on Friday, the Fourth of November, at eight o’clock in the evening.

Vesper looked up. Her interview with Francis Gladwell may have been cut short, but perhaps she’d have better luck with her second one. She stopped a passing server carrying a tray of finger sandwiches.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know if anyone representing the Basalton Coal Foundation is here tonight?”