The Book Eaters(18)
Ten minutes later she veered down the alley toward the entrance of the little flat. They walked up the steps in odd silence, Hester waiting while Devon unlocked the door. Both women entered the tiny, dingy flat with its cracked paint and shabby, last-legs furniture.
The door to Cai’s room was flung wide and he was visible from the living room, sitting on his bed with a magazine open on his lap. He lifted his head and said, “I thought you didn’t like bringing women back.”
Hester stopped in her tracks. “You have a child?”
Devon took advantage of the distraction to lock her front door with quiet movements. “Sorry. This is my son, Cai. He’s very direct.” She found herself oddly grateful that the other woman didn’t comment on her son’s lisp. Cai was sensitive about it.
“Has he been on his own this whole time?” Hester said. “Where’s your babysitter?”
“He doesn’t need a babysitter,” Devon said, because it was true. A boy with the accumulated minds of twenty-five adults was perfectly capable of looking after himself for a few hours.
“I’m fine on my own.” Cai put his magazine down on the mattress and slipped off the bed. He crossed the threshold into the living room, drifting soundlessly on the thin carpet. His arms were smeared with the skin cream that she’d bought him that morning.
Hester tensed, seeming to hold her breath. She twisted the strap of her purse.
“Feel free to have a seat.” Devon brushed past her son, heading for the bathroom.
There were few places to hide away in the cramped flat; every room was visible from the living space. But the bathroom had a door, at least. Devon could shut it behind her and not have to face what Cai was doing, not have to watch someone die. “Just … make yourself at home.”
“Oh, there’s no need.” That purse strap wound tighter and tighter. “Listen, I like you, but I don’t think I’ll stay very…”
She trailed off, looking again at the boy who approached her. They were a strange and haunting pair: a pale waif of a lad, hunger burning beneath his skin like fever; and petite, hazel-eyed Hester, lips pinched with alarm.
Devon turned around, one hand on the bathroom door. “Can I ask you something? Are you a good person? Are you kind?”
Hester blinked, dragging her gaze from boy to woman. “Come again?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Cai spoke unexpectedly. “None of us are good. Only God can forgive.”
That fucking vicar. Tangled anger knotted her chest.
“I seriously doubt God can do anything,” Devon said, tight-lipped. “But if you’re satisfied, then fine.” She shut the door hard.
A muffled shout from the other room. Followed by a growling noise, and Hester yelping. Then that hideous silence that congealed like stagnant blood.
Devon didn’t feel anything, and never did in the moment when they were being consumed. Afterward would be bad. She slouched over to the sink and ran the tap to splash her face. Cold water to help sober her up.
Christ, what was she thinking, bringing back a young, attractive woman? How was she going to get rid of the body? It’d be far too suspicious to dump someone like Hester at the homeless shelter, especially given she’d left the vicar there yesterday. The towel scraped her face dry. It was old and tattered, like Devon felt.
Soft laughter came from the living room.
Devon froze, hands and face still damp. Someone spoke; Hester’s voice. And Cai said something in reply with his soft lisp.
A curious thrill ran across the back of her neck. A thousand possibilities blossomed and she didn’t know what to hope for, what to reject. With dreamy slowness, Devon turned off the tap, hung up the towel, and pushed the door open.
Cai perched on the couch, the magazine he had been reading earlier open in his lap. He was tearing strips from it and putting them into his mouth with eyes wide. Hester sat next to him, watching critically with an approving smile as he scarfed pieces of paper.
Both of them looked up at Devon’s entrance.
Shock rolled over Devon, shot through with a pain of irrational jealousy. She’d never sat and eaten anything with Cai because he couldn’t eat books and how was he eating a book with this woman, this girl she’d met on a night out in Newcastle—
“Devon Fairweather, I presume? The infamous princess who murdered her husband.” Hazel eyes glinted. “Such an honor to finally meet you.”
Devon stared. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“I represent Killock Ravenscar.” Hester touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. “Why don’t you have a seat? I think it’s time we had a frank conversation. You know—woman to woman.”
6
THE PRINCESS BRIDE
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
Everyone had told her, since she became a princess-in-training, that she was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now she was going to be the richest and the most powerful as well.
Don’t expect too much from life, Buttercup told herself as she rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.
—William Goldman, The Princess Bride
Some years after Faerdre’s wedding and the botched library venture, an eighteen-year-old Devon was again awaiting the arrival of a chalk-colored limo. Only this time, the limousine was here for her, and the wedding was going to be her own.