The Book Eaters(40)
Devon snicked the compass shut, fingers curled tightly around it. “You took away my child, and want me to be grateful because you’ve given me a trinket in exchange? Fuck you. You’re not forgiven.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is that so? Well, if you do not want the compass—”
“I didn’t say that.” Devon made a deliberate show of dropping it into her nightshirt pocket. “Someday I’m going to come back, hang it round your neck, and walk off with my daughter.”
“That is pure fantasy, and won’t happen,” he said with a certainty that burned her to the marrow. “Here is what will happen. I am going to tell Salem about you, and keep your memory alive.”
“What are you—”
“I am going to tell Salem about you,” he repeated. “I’ll give her pictures of you, since she misses you very badly right now. And I will tell her that her mother will come back to see her one day, but only if her mother loves her enough. For her tenth birthday, perhaps; you’ll be well out of your next marriage by then.” He waved a finger. “Behave and play your part, Devon, and you will make that rendezvous with Salem. But if you back out of your second marriage and cause trouble, I will be forced to tell your daughter that you do not love her and do not wish to see her.”
“You’re lying!” A desperate kind of terror seized Devon’s joints, eroding her earlier fury and courage. “Just like you were lying before!”
“Believe what you like. I came here to do you a favor, not field your paranoid accusations.” Luton got up and walked out.
She shrieked curse words after him, aware of how feral she sounded.
No one took any notice. Outside her room, someone drew the bolts to lock the door in place. Voices murmured as her guards exchanged places. Everything locked down, closing down. Her pitiful escape attempt had ended. No drawn-out fight or even a last stand; simply hunted, bagged, and dragged back.
She was becoming the wrong kind of princess, the sort that fell in with goblins and got locked away in towers.
Shame crept through her veins and grief hit like a mind eater’s punch. How stupid she had been, to think anyone would listen. How na?ve they must think her, an idiot girl believing whatever lie the patriarchs offered up. Her threat to Luton was an empty thing carrying no weight, which she could not enforce.
Devon the Daft. Devon the Dolt. Devon the Deceived.
The stitches that held her life together were collapsing into dust. The Families were strong, entrenched, practiced; she was nothing, head full of their carefully selected books and empty of practical knowledge.
Dull realization grew around her like choking vines. The only way out was to behave. Every time she defied the Family, someone else paid the price. She still didn’t win by following rules, but at least she lost less badly.
Be passive, be good, bear the next child, get a modicum of freedom. And even if they did not allow her to visit Salem, she would still have more freedom after her marriages were completed and some of the duties settled on her shoulders were lifted.
That meant she would not see Salem this year, or the next, or even the next. Awful, almost beyond enduring.
But the alternative was worse: to act too boldly, inviting more restrictions. To run the risk that Luton would make good with his promise and convince Salem that Devon did not wish to see her. If Devon ever wished to see her daughter at all, she would bear the misery, the heartache, the impatience of her need.
She curled up on the floor, hands locked around the compass, and willed herself to breathe.
13
IN THE COMPANY OF WOLVES
PRESENT DAY
But curing mind eaters of their hunger did nothing to solve the fertility problems that have plagued this species. For that problem, the book eaters did what they have always done best: encourage human technology to advance from the shadows, and then borrow from it.
The basics of IVF they mastered long ago. Easy to do when one can learn human medical science just by having a hearty “lunch” of textbooks. But the great difficulty in using such technology lies in adapting it to tricksy ’eater biology, and putting it into practice safely.
And what kind of world will it be, I wonder, when book eaters can freely have children? A terrible question for the future.
—Amarinder Patel, Paper and Flesh: A Secret History
“Go!” Devon half shoved, half barreled Hester and Cai toward the nearest train exit.
She’d gotten back to the carriage where Cai and Hester were seated and had just enough time to say I think I’ve seen knights on the train when the engine had ground to a halt. The lights had failed almost straightaway. Shortly after, Ramsey had gone to work with his knife, rousing fear and horror in human passengers—who in turn had fled blindly through the now pitch-black carriages, crying murder and seeking help.
With all his antics, Devon had encountered no difficulty in convincing Hester and her son that the knights had gotten aboard their train, or that all three of them should abandon the journey.
They staggered out, along with a spill of other people, into a frosty Northumbrian night amidst the sprawling, empty, wild fields. From behind them on the train, several people were screaming. The sky above hung malignant: clouded over and moonless, perfectly atmospheric.
Hester stumbled, falling against Devon’s shoulder. They steadied each other and kept running through the tall, half-frozen grass. Trying to put distance between themselves and the beleaguered 10:15 train.