The Book Eaters(44)
These days, she didn’t like to think of it at all. She wasn’t ready for the experience of encountering her mother in the flesh; she would never be ready. Just as well it was unlikely to ever happen.
When the silence grew too strong, Devon broke it down by saying, “Are you close to Killock—do you know him well?”
“Sort of?” Hester yawned into her palm. “I suppose I know him as well as anyone. He was a gentle boy and a good brother, when we were growing up.”
“Would you not describe him that way now?” Devon said, feeling her way cautiously.
“Not really, no. I wish he listened more.” Hester looked tired, or perhaps it was just the wine. Either way, her eyes were drifting closed, small form slumping. “Sometimes he frightens me.”
“What do you mean?”
No answer.
She looked down. Hester had passed out, her head still on Devon’s shoulder.
“Never mind,” she said. Feeling oddly protective, she eased the Ravenscar woman to the nearby bed and plucked the wine-stained cup from her lethargic fingers, stashing it on the side table.
“I think,” Devon said, “that I’m not going to like your brother very much.”
Hester slept on, breathing deep.
Time to complete her yearly vigil for Salem.
She went to stand by the window, head pressed against the window frame, and flicked the compass open. The faded picture of a three-year-old girl peeked out.
The vigil was never anything except painful, and this year was particularly excruciating. Somewhere to the south, her daughter would be rising in a few hours, with a birthday party and pretty celebrations to mark turning ten years of age.
Ten years old. The birthday Devon was supposed to be turning up for, according to Luton’s agreement. And she would be absent, having abandoned one child to save another.
No doubt Salem’s father would relish the moment, she thought with bitterness. But none of Devon’s choices had included the possibility of an ideal solution, and the conditions required for her to keep that promise would have meant giving up Cai for dead, or worse.
This was the best she could do. Her daughter would have to wait.
“I’m so sorry, but I can’t see you after all,” she whispered to the darkness, breath frosting on the unglazed windows. “I’ll come back for you when I can.” She squeezed the disc until the ridges dug red lines into her fingers. “Happy birthday, Salem.”
Stillness entwined with her weariness, a particular kind of exhaustion that seemed years and years deep. Unwilling to disturb Cai or to invade Hester’s personal space, Devon left her companions to their beds. She crammed her tall frame onto the faux-rustic sofa and fell asleep.
14
THE PRINCESS AND THE OGRE
SIX YEARS AGO
The princess was all alone again. To make matters worse, her father promised her hand in marriage to an ogre, who had agreed to give the king fifty wagons of silver in return.
The princess was horrified when she heard what her father had done, and begged him to change his mind. But her father was determined to carry out his bargain.
—Charlotte Huck, Princess Furball
There was a kind of peace in surrender.
Though it shamed her, a part of Devon embraced the relief of simply giving up. The only path back to her daughter was also the path of least resistance and so, seven months after her failed escape, Devon did not fight when the Fairweather aunts came to prepare her for a second wedding.
“Breathe in, love,” Aunt Beulah said, fingers against her rib cage. “The marrying doesn’t last forever. Stay strong, and stand tall.”
Devon sucked in and stood straighter. It was the same heavily embroidered Romanian dress that she’d first been gifted more than four years ago, only now it was tight across the bosom and hips, and they had to fight with the fabric a little. These things were to be expected. She was older and had birthed a child. Her daughter. No, don’t think of Salem.
Strong hands pulled the laces taut and Devon imagined that she was allowing her heart to be laced into her body. Keep it together. Another marriage, another child, then she’d be able to petition to see them.
Inwardly, she was already making arguments. She could ask Faerdre for advice, if she ever saw the other bride again. Did Faerdre want to see her children? Did she care? She’d seemed bleak at Devon’s wedding, on reflection.
They were princesses, of a kind, and this was how princesses lived: safe in towers, married to men who competed for them, one way or another. Even in the happiest fairy tales, princesses did not usually have much choice. They were prizes to be won or given away and there was no other context in which she could understand her life.
On a too-hot July afternoon, Devon left her childhood home for the second time. Her departure went unheralded on this occasion, the aunts hiding in their rooms, the uncles steadfastly ignoring her. Maybe there was no longer any need for the pretense, or else they were just genuinely embarrassed. Either way, Devon was grateful. A Family sendoff for her second unwanted marriage would have felt cruel beyond bearing.
Instead, she was bundled into a much smaller limousine with a pair of knights for her entourage—one of whom was Ramsey himself.
The last time she’d seen her brother, he’d been standing over her in a wintry forest, weapon pointed at her head.