The Book Eaters(20)



Devon turned her face back to the window, drinking in the scenery. If she knew what her uncle was going to say, then really, what was the point of asking? It would just be an exercise in validation. She wasn’t the kind of girl who demanded pointless validation.

Onward they drove, hills rolling back into fields until at last, they came to Winterfield Manor, somewhere on the outskirts of Birmingham. Devon wasn’t sure of the exact location. What mattered was the house itself, coming into view as the driveway gates peeled back: elegant and Tudor in design, black timber striping the white walls like an urban zebra.

No tumbling parapets or haphazard extensions. The Winterfields had their house in order.

Immaculate lawns fanned around the driveway, the grass and hedges cut with diamond precision. Devon laughed as their limo circled around a four-tiered fountain big enough for her procession of accompanying knights to swim in, and caught her breath when she saw the Winterfield brothers waiting on a row of proud horses. Fairweather Manor didn’t have any horses.

Uncle Aike leaned over. “Such creatures are extraordinarily expensive to keep, and our manor has been in financial decline for a few decades. But that will change, princess, and it will change because of you. The Winterfields have paid a handsome dowry.”

And Devon smiled, proud of what she was worth.

Luton Winterfield rode out to meet them, disembarking from his horse as Devon stepped out of her limousine.

Her new husband had the face of a man who wasn’t quite as handsome as he wished to be and resented everyone else for that failing. His age was hard to determine; older than thirty, less than forty. Either his nose was too small, or his chin was too big, depending on your point of view. The graying of his once-fairish hair did nothing to soften a hard-lined jaw or define those too-soft features.

Lucky, Devon reminded herself. She was lucky to be wedded with someone from a wealthy house, who would be honest in his contractual terms and look after their child well. So what if she didn’t care for how he looked? He would grow on her. Really, it didn’t matter at all; looks were arbitrary, shallow, skin-deep things.

Luton tilted his head back with an appraising frown. “You’re absurdly tall.”

Incredible how much three simple words could diminish you. Devon shrank into herself, confidence rocked. Tall was good—wasn’t it?

Uncle Aike snorted. “Luton, my lad. What a character you are.”

The other men laughed and Devon did, too, if a trifle uncertainly. She was a grown woman now and could take a joke.

A slender, gray-haired aunt came forward and offered Devon a handshake. “So wonderful to meet you, my lovely. I’m Luton’s sister, Gailey, and I am here at your disposal.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Devon grasped her hand, trying not to let her shock show. She was so used to older women avoiding her in Fairweather Manor. Were the Winterfields just friendlier? Or was it that she was a woman now, grown-up and getting married, that made her welcome in their world? Both possibilities filled her with warmth.

The hours that followed were a whirlwind of activity. The knights disappeared, leaving their dragons loitering forlornly in a cellar somewhere. Uncle Aike and Luton went upstairs with some other men to discuss “that damned IVF business.” The men were always talking about fertility treatments these days—mostly whether it would work for book eater biology, how to test it, who to test it on, how to acquire equipment.

Devon, meanwhile, descended into a writhing party, of which she was the beating heart. Gailey stayed at her side, steering her through handshake after kiss after curtsy. They met so many people she’d lost count by the time they reached the first set of stairs. Faerdre’s wedding at Fairweather Manor had been much smaller, but then the Fairweathers had a smaller house with fewer people.

The manor was as beautiful inside as it was without, arrayed in marble and mahogany with an army of cream carpets and thickly upholstered furniture. The Winterfield libraries favored modern hardbacks, mostly literary and contemporary fiction in a variety of languages. They passed shelf after shelf of intriguing novels, wafting the scent of glossy coating and crisp white pages.

No dark nooks filled with old, leather codices; no voluminous, gloomy tomes; no lingering smell of biblichor. When Devon paused in front of a shelf, Gailey murmured that there would be time for eating in a moment and pushed her, still in her tightly laced dress and pinned-up hair, toward the Winterfield banqueting hall.

The room took her breath away. Four vast mahogany tables were arranged in a square, each one piled high with books. Old tomes, crisp new novels, and thick codices were arranged artfully on stands and stacked into little towers. A quartet of young men played music, of an orchestral variety Devon had never heard before. Her ears rang with delightful noise, and she inhaled the instrumental scent of archaic wood and slightly worn brass.

In the center of the room, so big it leaned over every table, stood an artistic representation of the Tree of Knowledge. Metal and glass fused into a semblance of bark to form a glossy, solid trunk. Branches spread high above the tables, far taller than her and touching the ceiling. Instead of leaves, it sported clusters of printed pages shaped carefully into origami apples. The sheer amount of effort gone into its construction was stunning.

“Come have a seat,” Gailey said, above the chatter and laughter. “Eat well! You have a long night ahead.”

Devon barely heard. She was too busy breathing in the glittering lights and spice-laden scents, her head full of music and her body thrumming with adrenaline. But she let the older woman steer her to a seat, fumbling for a chair with eyes still wide.

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