Capering Rogues and Feathered Foes

Previously

…But Bartholomew? Bartholomew was a walking, talking embodiment of finer things. He shimmered. He sparkled. He invited me to his party, and I felt as if I’d won the lottery, a lottery I hadn’t even known I’d entered. His invitation, embossed on paper that felt like spun moonlight, had arrived via a liveried courier, which frankly, was enough to make my heart do a little jig against my ribs. The party was everything I’d imagined and more. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto a sea of impeccably dressed guests. The air hummed with polite laughter and the clinking of champagne flutes. Bartholomew, a vision in a velvet smoking jacket the color of a bruised plum, greeted me with a smile so