The Book Eaters(32)
She thanked him and left. Shells for Salem, lovely little dark-haired Salem who found butterflies funny and hadn’t met a tree she couldn’t climb and loved to go riding with Devon, tiny though she was.
Taking the steps two at a time, Devon ran down the stairs and out into the garden populated by acacia trees and Spanish rosebushes, where her daughter was tossing pebbles into an ancient fountain.
“Mum!” Salem held her arms out and Devon scooped her up with a smile. Her daughter was a mirror of herself: same wide-shouldered build and aquiline features and dark hair. Luton had contributed nothing more than a technicality.
Strangely, she had never missed having a mother till becoming one herself. With both arms around her daughter’s back Devon could, if she closed her eyes, imagine a young Amberly Blackwood from long ago, picking her up in the same way. But even then, the only face she could picture on such a figure was her own, albeit older. It was so hard to imagine a thing you had never seen.
From the other end of the garden, Gailey and the rest of the aunts watched with a scowl. They’d welcomed Devon among them when she had been pregnant, but after Luton’s change of heart, they no longer spoke to her. If she so much as glanced their way, they drew back.
Not that Devon really cared. She had woods and streams and frost-laden gardens to explore with her child, sometimes on foot and sometimes on horseback, with Salem carefully bundled on the saddle with her. Let the old bats enjoy their self-inflicted isolation, stuck in their fusty quarters for most of the day. Devon set off into the cultivated orchards of Winterfield Manor, holding Salem’s small hand.
Luton was true to his word, arranging for a box of shells to be bought and delivered to Winterfield Manor. Devon inspected them carefully the evening before the party, then packaged the lot in pastel gift paper.
Salem turned three on Christmas Day, the ground dry and crisp with a sprinkling of frost. Devon spent the morning hanging bunting in the main dining room, and even took the time to put on a forest-green chiffon dress. She had never cared much for dresses but Salem loved pretty fabric, both wearing it and seeing it. The things you did for a child’s happiness.
Birthday parties had never really been “big” at Fairweather Manor, but the Winterfields liked celebrations. The garden was filled with people, sitting and talking or wandering about. Luton even took time from his work schedule to come outside, smartly dressed but looking ill at ease.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, slouching down because he hated looking short next to her. “Lemmie will be glad to see you.”
Luton swirled a cup of inktea and didn’t answer. He’d never used her nickname for their daughter.
Salem zigzagged through chairs before circling back around, eyes bright with joy.
“There you are, Lemmie. I have a present for you.” Devon held out the paper-wrapped bundle.
“From both of us,” Luton said quickly. As if it had been his idea and not hers, but she let it slide. He had bought them, after all.
Salem snatched the package and poked a hole in the thin, crinkling paper, crowing with delight. “Shells!”
“Lots of shells.” Devon drew the girl into her lap and helped to unwrap the rest. “We can make a necklace with some of them, if you want.”
Salem picked up the biggest shell and put it to her ear, smiling. “Sea!”
Other adults came forward, along with the handful of older Winterfield children. Salem did well out of her birthday. She was plied with small gifts, mostly the usual children’s picture boards that she’d recently started eating as her bookteeth came in.
A package of toy teacups had also arrived, courtesy of Fairweather House. Devon twinged with embarrassment on seeing the address label; she’d hardly had contact with home in her three years here. But Salem took so much of her time and energy, not to mention the constant tiny tug-of-wars with Luton. She couldn’t call them, since Uncle Aike did not keep a connected landline.
“Ms. Fairweather.”
Devon jumped, startled to find Gailey standing in proximity. “What is it?”
“Mr. Winterfield would like to see you. Come with me, please.” Gailey’s expression was flat and dour.
“Luton? But he was just here.” Devon swiveled her head, surprised to find her husband had apparently left. “Can’t this wait? It’s the middle of her party.”
“Won’t take a moment,” Gailey said stiffly. “You’ll be returning very soon.”
“Fine, if I must.” Devon kissed the girl’s hair. “Go play, Lemmie. I’ll be right back.”
Salem didn’t look up as they left. She was too busy arranging shells in a neat row by size, squinting in the winter sunlight.
“This way,” Gailey said, as if Devon didn’t know the layout of Winterfield Manor by heart after all this time. Perhaps, as with so many things about Gailey, she simply operated on autopilot, speaking words and making gestures that had become as reflexive as breathing.
Devon, following dutifully, resolved to never become such a robotic old woman. She took the stairs two at a time, impatient to get the visit over with, and turned on the landing toward Luton’s study.
“No—your quarters,” Gailey said. Her hands were twitching. “He wants to see you in there.”
“What’s this about?” Devon was struck with a sudden urge to flee back to the winter garden, where her daughter waited.