The Book Eaters(22)

“Only six left,” Faerdre repeated. “Won’t be many more weddings to go to, unless we can make that science stuff work. That’s what my last husband said anyway.”

“Science stuff?” Devon echoed, blinking through a haze of alcohol. “Is that the … test tube baby thing?”

“Uh-huh. Children born from science. We’ll have them soon. Ten years from now.” Faerdre started laughing, a little too loudly. “And what will the knights do then, when we can choose our own husbands? What will the dragons do when no knights take them in, and teach them to control their urges? Poor little knights! Poor little dragons!”

Several people were glancing their way, and a few of the knights were staring at Faerdre very hard.

With perfect timing, Gailey appeared at her elbow and said softly, “Time for you to come with me, my lovely.”

“Bye now! I’ll see you another time.” Faerdre winked, blew a kiss, then slumped over the table with head in hands.

“Isn’t the party still going?” Devon said, but allowed Gailey to help her up from the table and start leaving the dining hall. “Won’t there be a ceremony?” She remembered that in Fairweather Manor, Faerdre had undergone an exchange of contractual marriage vows, while they’d all stood in respectful silence.

“That’s not the Winterfield custom, my lovely,” Gailey said. They slipped unheralded from the dining hall and set foot on a flight of stairs. “We enjoy a good party, but do not stand on ceremony.”

“Then where are we going?” Devon leaned hard on the handrail, head spinning with drink.

“Only a little farther, just down this hall. Mind your step on that threshold. My, you’ve had a bit to drink, haven’t you? I suppose you’re not used to it.”

“Well—”

“Here we are.” Gailey drew them to a pair of doors, the wood elegantly painted. “You have a good evening, my lovely. I’ll come and see you in the morning.”

A small suite of rooms spread out before Devon, comprised of soft blue walls with delicate floral paper. A bedroom with adjoining four-piece bathroom stood to her left, and a large L-shaped living area curved away to her right.

Luton Winterfield sat on the couch, with a bottle of brandy and two glasses on the table in front of him. A tray filled with folded origami pieces sat next to it. He looked her up and down as she stood in the doorway, a man at least twice her age and old enough to be her father.

“Heels, at your height? Really?” He shook his head, pouring brandy into two glasses. “Sit down and don’t flinch, darling. I was only teasing.”

Devon debated taking off her heels, couldn’t think of a way to do so gracefully. She wobbled over next to him and sat with stiff formality. The origami pieces, on closer inspection, were actually pages from books, each one folded into an intricate little swan.

“Relax,” he said, handing her a drink. “It’ll be fun.” He was smiling, so she must have been doing all right.

Devon took the drink and picked up a paper swan. Her tongue tingled from the first bite, starbursts cascading across her vision.

Behold, you are

beautiful, my love;

behold, you are

Beautiful;

your

eyes are doves.

“What was…?” She would have slumped back if not for Luton offering a steadying hand. “Is that Song of Solomon?” The Bible, but never as she’d eaten it before.

“Words have an effect on us, and so do certain chemical substances.” His smile turned slow and ferocious. “Lace a printed page with a little bit of the right stuff and you’ll get quite the combination of experiences.”

The room was rushing past her. “I feel like I’m flying … No, swimming.”

“That’s why we call them swans.” He put another to her lips.

How beautiful

you are, my darling!

Oh, how beautiful! Your

eyes are

doves.

Her head was a hurricane of doves. Luton made pleasant if inane conversation, and she did her best to keep up, answering his biting jokes with her own banter despite the whirlwind inside her mind.

“That tongue of yours,” he said at one point, though she couldn’t recall what she’d said. “Your uncle warned me.”

“Rude!” She stuck her tongue out, like she had as a child, and he nipped it with his teeth. Devon flushed.

A few clumsy kisses later and he started undoing the laces of her old-fashioned bodice, before pulling back to reach for the brandy, saying, “I think you need a top-up.”

By her third drink—she’d also had several cups of wine at supper—most of her clothes were piled on the floor in a heap, including the problematic heels.

He draped an arm across her shoulders. “You look cold.”

“I’m lucky,” she announced. “Also, a princess.”

Somehow, they ended up in the bedroom. Alcohol-induced exhaustion clouded her skull. She must have fallen backward on the bed because suddenly she was looking at the ceiling: ornate wooden crossbeams, reddish, protruding; the ribs of a giant creature, viewed internally.

Perhaps she had been swallowed by a whale like Jonah the prophet, Devon thought, trying to remember where she’d heard that story, and then Luton was rolling her over.