The Book Eaters(21)
The Winterfields liked their meals styled into faux-human food: roast “meat” made of sculpted paper; pages dyed in a multitude of colors and shaped into delicate fake fruit. A new way of eating, at least to her. She thought about plucking an apple off the tree but didn’t quite have the courage.
Alcohol was everywhere. Devon had never tried alcohol before; in her Family, they only drank inktea or water. She almost choked on the wine, with her first mouthful. It wasn’t good, exactly, and didn’t have the heaviness of inktea, but it was very drinkable. She sipped again. And a third time. It tasted, she thought, like a well-crafted romance novel. Complex, sweet, and a little stinging.
“My god, I’d forgotten how fun a good wedding can be!”
Devon swiveled to her left to see Faerdre’s beaming face. At some point, between people coming and going and a heady mix of books, wine, and music, the other woman had taken the next seat along. Faerdre had left Fairweather Manor only a couple years ago, and yet it seemed a lifetime since they’d seen each other.
“Hi,” Devon said, then kicked herself mentally for sounding like a little girl. She tried to summon something intelligent to say, brain traitorously going blank. “So, um, I’m—”
“You’re very tipsy, I should think!” Faerdre fluttered eyelashes that were lumpy with too-thick mascara. “It’s good to be tipsy at your own wedding. I was for both of mine!” She put a hand on Devon’s skirt-draped thigh. The long, chipped nails were over-painted, color smeared on the cuticles.
“Right.” Devon blushed. “I mean, thanks.” She drank more wine, conscious of the other woman’s warm palm pressed to her leg through the thin fabric.
“Relax. Have fun!” Faerdre brushed a friendly kiss across Devon’s cheek. “Look at you, going all red!” She leaned away to grab a plate of “salad”: shredded pages of Midsummer Night’s Dream that were dyed different shades of green, the words barely readable.
Despite the other woman having lived in Fairweather Estate, Devon barely knew her. The aunts had kept Faerdre secluded in the north wing of the manor, and the baby seemed to take up such an inordinate amount of Faerdre’s time.
Besides, Devon didn’t have the faintest idea how to make conversation with another woman. She still didn’t know, even now. Faerdre’s appearance left her awkward and stammering. So much for that tongue of hers.
“The Winterfields always throw the best parties, so don’t feel too bad about your house. I’ve seen worse.” Faerdre picked up strips of her book-salad, dipping it in her wine with delightful scandalousness. “You can go to these, too, once you’ve finished with the babies. No more babies for me! I get to drift around, having fun.” Her expression turned wistful, and her lower lip quivered briefly. “How’s my son doing? He was such awful trouble, terrible sleeper, much worse than my first. But I do think of him fondly.”
“Chester’s very happy,” Devon said, hoping it was true. She didn’t see the lad much. He’d cried for weeks after Faerdre had first departed, but he’d got over it. Surely that meant he was all right now.
“Oh, good,” Faerdre muttered into her wine. “Lovely. I’m very glad to hear it.” She tipped back her glass in a long swallow.
“Can I ask a question?” Devon scooted a little closer, until their shoulders were touching. “Did you mind it?”
“Mind?” Faerdre licked a splatter of green dye off her palm. “What do you mean?” Wine flecks dotted her cheek.
“Everything. Getting married, having the babies.”
The former mother-bride sat silent for a long moment, running the tip of her forefinger over her thumbnail. “Well, there’s not anything else, is there? Can’t live with humans, so it’s this or nothing.” She took a long drink, then another. “It’s only a few years and a couple of babies and then you go on with your life. Live like a queen once you’ve paid your dues.” She brightened. “I don’t think I mind. Why do you ask? Do you mind?”
Someone made an inane toast in the background and several people cheered before returning to their quieter revelry.
“No, of course not,” Devon said reflexively. Faerdre was right, it was this life or nothing. They could not be knights or human; could only be book eater women, and all that entailed.
And then, feeling awkwardly self-conscious about her answer, she added, “We’re very lucky.” It seemed important to say that.
“Oh, sure, yes! We have the luckiest of lives!” Faerdre topped up both their glasses with a giggle. “To luck! Cheers, darling.”
They both collapsed into laughter. Devon tried to remember what was so funny and decided it was the wine itself.
“God. I’m going to miss these parties,” Faerdre said, in between bouts of giggling. “Won’t be many more, you know. They say there’s only six brides left, in the whole of Britain.”
“Huh?” The drink must have been clouding their conversation; Devon felt she was missing a piece of something important.
“Huh yourself,” Faerdre said, swirling her glass. “We’re rare and getting rarer. Don’t you know that?”
“Sure. Everyone knows that.” Devon didn’t know that. Women were rare among the book eaters, yes, but nobody had ever told her they were getting even more rare.