The Book Eaters(45)
“After you,” Ramsey said, and even smiled. Sort of.
Devon shuddered, and got into the vehicle.
She ended up squashed between Ramsey and another knight named Paulton. Aike sat across from them. A single dragon loomed in the next seat, soft hands tucked between large knees and unknowable face hidden by a motorcycle helmet.
“Told you I’d make it for your second wedding,” Ramsey said, and laughed like he’d delivered a joke. “How’ve you been?”
Devon pressed her lips together and stared at the floor. She could not bear to make friendly conversation.
The drive from Yorkshire to the Norfolk Coast took considerably longer than the drive from Yorkshire to Birmingham. Lulled by the motion of the vehicle, and disinterested in the landscape outside, she dozed off for real—only to be shaken awake what seemed like moments later by Ramsey saying, “We’re almost there.”
Devon nodded, remembered that she hated him now, and looked out of the window to avoid his gaze. Her brother stifled a yawn.
Easterbrook Manor was like no other house that Devon would ever again visit. She sat in subdued silence as they drove over a well-paved road through the Family grounds, stunned by the gardens, working orchard, small organic farm, and a bizarre series of moving structures that Ramsey informed her were windmills.
“Windmills?” she said, curiosity briefly overpowering her hatred. “For electricity?”
“Yep. Electricity is sellable. The Easterbrooks have successfully leased much of their land to human businesses.”
Seasonal fruit pickers moved through the fields, working and caring for them. Tractors pottered in methodical rows. The workers were poorly dressed, and many seemed tired.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to interact with humans,” Devon said. “And why are most of them women? I would have thought women wouldn’t want such jobs.”
“Better field labor than brothel labor,” said Paulton. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
“Brothel?” Unease coiled in Devon’s belly. She understood the idea of brothels from her scattered reading, but what that had to do with Family, she didn’t grasp.
“Aye, it’s a roulette of bad choices,” Paulton said. “Farmhand if you’re lucky. Brothel if you’re not. Organ harvesters if you’re too old for either. It’s a grim business.”
“Interaction is fine, integration isn’t,” Ramsey said, ignoring his colleague’s interjection. “The Easterbrooks don’t integrate with humans. No humans are employed inside the actual house. In fact, most of these people aren’t employed at all, strictly speaking, because they’re in this country illegally and are just grateful for whatever pay they can get.” He rolled down the window, hanging an elbow out. “It’s a good racket. Aside from a couple techies, most of the Easterbrook boys are stewards and landlords—”
Paulton snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
“—who take enough of a cut from the farms and energy mills to keep the house going,” Ramsey went on, giving him a hard glare. “And in turn, that means they spend less time among the local population than lads in other houses. Your last husband, in comparison, had to be very careful to stay out of close human contact in his job.”
“It’s dirty money. Made with suffering. I can’t believe the patriarchs allow it, honestly.” Paulton looked aggrieved. “My house, the Gladstones, don’t do anything of that sort.”
The air inside the limousine seemed to be growing thicker and warmer.
“Eh, come on, it’s only humans,” Ramsey said, sounding annoyed. “Not like they’re trafficking in other book eaters.”
Trafficking: transitive or intransitive verb. The word had a number of definitions but none of them made sense in the context her brothers were using. What was so bad about transporting people? Wasn’t that what trains and cars did?
“Don’t be obtuse,” Paulton said. “Sure, they’re only humans, but have you seen those hellholes they keep the girls in? I wouldn’t put a dragon in one of those!”
Ramsey started laughing. “Since when were you such a fucking softie?”
“Enough, Paulton,” Aike said. “And Ramsey, act your age and station, for heaven’s sake.”
“Act my age?” Ramsey still sounded amused. “How about you mind your own business and keep your mouth shut, you decrepit old fuck? Knights don’t take orders from you.” His easy contempt startled Devon. It startled Aike, too; his hands fluttered, and he blinked owlishly. “Besides, Paul and I are only joking around. Aren’t we, lad?” Ramsey jostled the other man’s shoulder.
Paulton pulled a face, muttered something unintelligible. Aike, to Devon’s astonishment, said nothing at all.
Gravel crunched as the car ground to a stop.
Aike opened the door, still silent, and ducked elegantly from the car.
Devon dragged herself out and stood to stiff attention. Princesses behaved politely, always, and this was her role. She didn’t have Ramsey’s freedom to be rude to their uncle/father.
Easterbrook Manor was old-fashioned, kept in its original Tudor design, but the interior was painfully modern and bright. Lights flooded the entry hall and everything from the internal doors to the chandeliers seemed to be set with glass. Quartz chips refracted in sparkles from the red-marble floor.