The Book Eaters(39)
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She woke the next morning and lay in bed, feeling sick. Someone had finally changed her out of the silly party frock and into an aunt’s prim nightdress, the collar itchy around her neck with unnecessary lace.
A part of her wanted to get up, try again, run for the hills a second time. Her body refused to budge; she was weak from not eating, and from too much running. Weak, too, with fear and trauma. Dragons were a terrifying thing.
To her shame, she still hadn’t moved several hours later when Aike came by, carrying a selection of books on a platter.
“I hear you have not eaten since returning to us from the Winterfields’ yesterday,” he said. “Can I persuade you to take some sustenance?” He wasn’t calling her princess, at least. And she would never again call him uncle, either.
Devon remained curled in her bed and staring straight ahead, ignoring the proffered food. She did not want to eat anything he had handled.
Aike set the platter down untouched. “I am sorry about the hunt, but you left us little choice.”
Devon found it hard to care about his apology. “What happens now? Will you put a tag round my ankle? Track me like a wild animal?”
He blinked. “A tag round … oh good Lord, no one has done that in years! In any case, it was only ever knights who resorted to such barbaric practices. You are still a daughter of this house—”
“Your daughter. Just bloody say it, I’m your daughter!”
“—and will be treated as such.” He wouldn’t say it, only looked at her tight-lipped and brow furled: the great fortress she could not crack.
“Bastard,” she whispered.
“As for what happens, we leave you to consider your actions, and your options,” said Aike with skin-crawling gentleness. “You have one more marriage contract to fulfill, and one more child to offer up.”
“I don’t want to get married again.” The idea of a second wedding made her bile rise. Once, it had given her goose bumps of excitement.
“Devon.” He interlaced his fingers, looked vexed. “You do not have a choice, none of us do. The survival of our species depends on every ’eater playing their part. Do you understand how few fertile women remain of our kind? How difficult it is to negotiate marriages that not only benefit the Six Families, but prevent too much inbreeding?”
A spark of fire flared in her chest. “Easy for you to say! It’s not your body and your child who gets taken away!”
“You would do no different in my place.” His calm assurance was steeped in an arrogance so thick she could only be dumbfounded at the assertion. “If it’s any consolation, it will not be like this forever. When we start rolling out the IVF treatments, we will no longer need the knights to arrange and enforce marriages. The next generation of girls, your daughter included, will find things a little easier.”
Someone knocked before she could attempt to formulate an answer.
Aike twisted in his seat. “Ah, yes. Speaking of your daughter, I have arranged a guest to come and visit.”
Devon had barely enough time to sit up straight before Luton Winterfield walked in, unaccompanied aside from his formidable manners and well-pressed suit.
“You!” Devon struggled to keep her face straight and her reeling emotions under control. She was torn between demanding he return her daughter, begging him for correspondence, and trying to rip out his throat; indecision snarled up the words in her chest.
“I’ll see myself out.” Aike sketched a swift bow and left.
Luton looked at her very carefully, as if they had only met for the first time and he wished to memorize her features. “I suppose you hate me?”
There was nothing to say to that. She gave his question the silent contempt it deserved.
“I am sorry about this business with Salem,” Luton said, as if they were discussing real estate; but then, he was a surveyor, out in the human world. “If it’s any consolation, the first child is the hardest. Or so I’m told. The next will be easier.”
“I don’t want it to be easier,” she said, finding her voice again. “I want to raise my daughter!” They all loved apologizing, she thought bitterly. She’d had three apologies today, still counting. Didn’t stop anyone behaving abominably.
“I am well aware of what you want.” Luton held out a hefty pendant on a steel chain, produced from the depths of a pocket. “I brought you something. Take it if you wish. Or leave it, if you don’t.”
The pendant spun, catching the light. A thick, circular disc with embossed carvings on the outside.
Pride fought against curiosity; curiosity won. Devon snatched it off him. Her nail found a catch. A locket? She flicked it open. Not a pendant or a locket at all, but a compass, and a beautiful one. The needle wavered uncertainly. On the inside of the lid, someone had fitted a picture of Salem. It must have been recent, perhaps a couple months before her third birthday. She was sitting out in the gardens that Devon knew so well, smiling and adorable. Sunlight caught the elfin features.
“The exterior pattern is the Winterfield coat of arms. Though we have some differences in personality, you have performed your duties well and provided my estate with a healthy daughter of whom I am very fond.” He cleared his throat. “I am told you are struggling with the transition home, in part due to my handling, and I thought it might be appropriate to provide you with a memento. To make things easier.”