The Book Eaters(33)
“Devon, please don’t argue with me today.” Gailey sounded tired. “I have things to do and other places to be and … it won’t take long.”
“Fine, suit yourself.” She stalked off down the hallway toward her own room.
Luton Winterfield was waiting when she got there, sitting in the miniature living area that Devon shared with her daughter. He’d taken off his smart jacket and thrown it across the couch arm. A newspaper spread its heavily inked pages across his lap. Oddly, he was reading it, rather than eating it; a rare sight.
“Hello?” She spoke her greeting like a general sending a scout into hostile territory.
“Took your time.” Luton flipped a page of his newspaper. “There’s a cup on the side table, right next to you. Drink it, please.” He wasn’t actually reading, just running his fingers over the pages with agitated energy. Fiddling with it.
She looked to her left, inspecting the mug. “What’s this for?”
“It’s just tea, for God’s sakes.” He hadn’t spoken to her so sharply in over a year. “Drink it and sit, won’t you? I cannot abide argumentative women.”
And Devon couldn’t abide rude men. But she was only twenty-two, felt she owed him for giving her Salem, and didn’t want to cause an argument. Every single day was fraught with tiny conflicts between herself and the members of this sodding Family. Pitching a battle might align him against her.
She picked up the cup and drank. Bitterness made her gag.
“What’s in this?” It wasn’t just tea, like he’d claimed. The taste of ink couldn’t compensate for whatever had been put into the cup.
“Go wait in the bedroom,” he said. “We’ll speak shortly.” When she didn’t budge, he said with visible annoyance, “I will explain everything. I just require a moment to compose myself.”
She didn’t yet know how much of a coward he was, or she’d have been more suspicious. Devon went to the adjoining room and sat on the bed as directed. The minutes stretched by, and Luton didn’t appear. She could hear the newspaper rustling, the shuffle as he occasionally moved around; that was it. He was waiting, as she was.
Drowsiness set in, weighing her bones like liquid mercury. Something was very wrong and she stood up, determined to … what? She couldn’t remember what needed doing. Salem was in the garden and something was wrong.
The ground came up to meet her as she crumpled to the floor. The last thing she remembered before dipping into blackness was the sound of footsteps approaching and the touch of chilly fingers thumbing her eyelids.
A confusion of movement, lights, and voices; people around her. Sleep that wasn’t sleeping, and dreams that weren’t dreams. She was a princess in a cave, a dragon roaring all around, but it was only a car engine. Countryside flickered by like a cheap animated show. More hands, more moving; a scent she recognized.
Then darkness, and softness.
Devon woke sometime late at night with a splitting headache, a roiling stomach, and a terrible feeling of loss. She scrubbed her eyes, battling queasiness.
This wasn’t her bedroom. Or rather, it was her bedroom—but in Fairweather Manor, not Winterfield Manor. And the scent she’d caught was of heather and wet moors, rolling steeply outside her window.
Still dressed in green chiffon, she slowly turned over. Two men were in the room, both of whom she recognized. Uncle Aike sat in a chair with legs crossed, holding a half-eaten book on a plate. The title was something in Japanese, a language she’d never eaten before and so could not read.
At his side stood Ramsey Fairweather. She almost didn’t recognize him; more than ten years had passed since they’d physically met. He looked older, as one would expect, hair cut short from unruly boyish tumble into a military buzz. His features, always a trifle sharp and narrow in boyhood, reminded her now of a hatchet blade.
“It’s you,” she said. Her head throbbed.
“Hello, Dev. Been a few years, eh?” Ramsey toyed with a silver pin on his lapel. “I should call you Devon the Dame, now that you’re grown.”
The old nickname habit filled her with a rush of warmth. “I missed you.”
“Still sentimental,” he said. Deflecting, as always. “How’s married life?”
Married. Marriage. Luton. Salem.
She sat bolt upright. “Where’s my daughter?”
Aike bit a corner off his Japanese book, speaking for the first time. “At Winterfield Manor, where she belongs.” His bookteeth were unsheathed for eating, distorting his words. “And you’ve returned home, at the close of your contract. Where you belong.” Under his breath, he added in Japanese, “Eshajōri. As they say.”
Even then, she didn’t understand. “No, that isn’t right, I get to stay with Salem because Luton and I reached an agreement—”
“Let me be direct,” her uncle said between mouthfuls. “Your husband lied, princess.”
“Lied?” She sounded small and pathetic, even to herself. Devon looked to Ramsey for confirmation, or reassurance.
Her brother stifled a yawn and examined his nails.
“There is no special agreement,” her uncle said. “Five hundred years of ’eater traditions do not get overturned on the whims of one pampered girl.” A long-suffering sigh. “Still, I wish he had not done so, since he has only made things harder in the end, but what happens under another house’s roof is their affair. I suppose he thought it would be the easiest way of pacifying you. For what it’s worth, I am sorry, my dear.”