The Book Eaters(28)
“Naturally, dear.” Gailey folded her hands one atop the other. “As I was saying, we all struggle with the leaving. Your mother probably struggled. But in the blink of an eye your baby will be grown up and getting wedded. Soon enough, she’ll have children of her own. When she does, think of how happy you’ll be to have scions in another house, a lineage of your flesh. Is that not a beautiful thing?”
Devon had no fucking idea what to say to that.
“Trust the process,” Gailey went on with a tired expression. “After three years, you’ll be dying to get away from the babe. I certainly was.” She quavered a little; the other aunts looked at each other, saying nothing.
“What? No, I won’t!” Did they think she was stupid? Easily distracted, easily put off? “I want to stay with her!”
The older woman frowned, face pulled into severe lines. “Why don’t we put a plan in place? Scheduled time away from your daughter. Some mother-brides do that. Helps to not bond so much.”
“Time away?” Devon struggled to keep the panic out of her voice. “We don’t need any time apart!”
“We’ll talk about that another time. Get some rest for now, my lovely.” Gailey was already retreating from the room with slumped shoulders, toward her own quarters.
In fairness to the woman, she was probably exhausted, too. It’d been a long labor for everyone. Devon was willing to forgive that, and tired enough to take the advice about sleeping. She drifted off, Salem curled in the crook of her arm.
But Devon was rather less forgiving when Gailey came back some ten hours later, a calculating look in her eye.
“You’re showing all the warning signs of an over-bonded mother,” Gailey told her. “This may seem harsh, but I think you should agree to an early intervention.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m agreeing to no such thing!”
Gailey waved the other aunts over. Three women held her down while another pried Salem out of her fingers. Devon was two days post birth, still bleeding, unable to stop them or put up any resistance beyond shrieking.
“Enjoy yourself,” said one of the older women. “Relax and get some rest.”
“Fuck you!” Her words bounced limply off their retreating backs, landing no true blows.
Devon lay in bed for the next few hours, too angry to cry, consumed with shame and failure. Follow the rules, toe the line, live the good life; that’s what she had been taught all her life. But Devon didn’t want a good life. She wanted her daughter, no more and no less. The knight commander’s promise all those years ago that bad things only happened to those who broke rules felt like a hollow echo. She’d been good, she’d obeyed, yet Salem was still being taken away.
It was unfair. And something in her, a rebelliousness long dormant and buried by the shock of Ramsey’s punishment, stirred in her chest.
When she felt stronger, she got out of bed and flung the books and cups of inktea that they brought. Salem, lovely Salem, was every bit as fierce. Those piercing wails could be heard across the house. Devon paused in her destruction to kneel by her locked door, listening with anguished satisfaction until at last her daughter was grudgingly brought back.
“I didn’t agree,” she said, voice cracked, but Gailey only shook her head.
They came back the next day, to do it again. As before, two women tried to hold down a swearing, spitting Devon.
She was stronger today. Fought like a badger and shrieked like a banshee until her throat was raw.
They had almost finished disentangling Salem from Devon’s grasp when Luton strode into the room, face red and tie crooked.
“The hell are you doing?” He scowled at a hyperventilating Devon, who took advantage of the distraction to snatch her child back. Salem nuzzled frantically and Devon almost tore her dress trying to pull her top down to nurse the child.
Gailey puffed up. “This is women’s business.”
“On the contrary. This is my house, and therefore, this is also my business.” Luton stared her down; his sister cringed back, instantly deflated. “I ask again, what are you doing?”
“Luton, she was showing classic signs of being overly bonded, so I proposed short periods of trial separation. It’s a technique that has worked for other brides, in other houses—”
“Well, it clearly isn’t working here! My God, I can’t take a piss without having to listen to an infant wailing or a girl crying!”
Devon wanted to snarl that she hadn’t cried a tear, not since the birth. Shrieking with rage was entirely different. Instead, she locked her jaw shut. However selfish his motives, Luton was at least de facto on her side.
“If we remain firm, it will prevent a host of problems for everyone in the long run.”
“Problems?” Luton looked at Devon, who cradled a nursing Salem close. “Right now, the girl is happy, the baby is happy. Which means I do not have a headache. Where is the problem? Why distress them?”
“My concern is when they need to be separated—”
“When we need to separate them, we will do so,” he said, a wrinkle of irritation between his brows. “I see no value in preemptively causing upset. If Devon is uncooperative, we can hardly apply for a wet nurse, and then the baby will starve! Do what is needed to make mother and child happy for now. You can manage that much, can’t you?”