The Book Eaters(47)

Jarrow said, “Was your first husband in there?”

His guess skewered her. She realized too late she was nodding, tried to shake her head instead. The room spun, the lights searing inside her head. Why was everything so sodding bright?

“Sorry. I just need a moment and then I can go in.” Lying, lying, lying. Her courage was dropping second by second.

He astonished her by saying, “D’you like video games?”

The question dispersed her mounting distress with its sheer unexpectedness.

“Video game: noun,” Devon said, struggling to keep her composure as she confusedly rifled through her internal dictionary. “An electronic game in which players control images on a video screen.” She frowned. “What does that even mean?”

Jarrow broke into a grin. “You had to eat dictionary pages, too? Glad I wasn’t the only rebel child! Which one did they give you?”

“Erm. Merriam-Webster.” She wondered if she should specify the edition, decided it didn’t matter. Her heart rate slowed, the heat inside her chest dying down a little.

“Ah. We eat Oxford in this house. But only those of us who ask too many questions, too young.” He pointed toward the stairs so recently descended. “Come on, I’ll give you a little tour of the house, and introduce you to some games. Might not be your cup of tea, but it’s probably better than gnawing on your own nerves, right?”

“… Right. Sure.” Anything to stave off the misery of her own wedding for a few moments. Anything to avoid being reminded of how far she was from Salem, how long it’d been since she’d seen her daughter.

Jarrow led her up two floors, down hallways lined with postmodern art and chandeliers that sprouted from the ceiling every five feet. The carpet squished like mulch under her ballet flats and the air reeked of faux floral scents. Several more hallways later, they fetched up in what was apparently the gaming room.

It was like she’d stepped into a parallel universe.

She stared, dumbfounded, at the large entertainment center that covered one entire wall. It housed an equally large television screen connected to a small gray box trailing wires, one of which ended in a strange, curved device covered in plastic buttons. Devon had never seen anything like it before. Her own manor eschewed modern nonsense, as Aike would have phrased it.

“This is my PlayStation,” Jarrow said, as if that information were illuminating. He passed her the knobby curved device. “Here, have a controller and take a seat.”

She sat on the large red sofa, holding the thing in her palms. “What does it control?” No lights in here except for that which poured from the screens; blissfully dark.

“The game, silly. Hold it like this.” He arranged her inflexible fingers into a counterintuitive position.

Devon did her best, the controller sitting awkward in her palms. Fingers at strange angles. “Maybe you’d better take it,” she said, handing the thing back to him. “I’m not sure it suits me.”

“Just takes practice.” Jarrow took the controller off her and pressed buttons on the PlayStation. The screen changed. “You want a beer before we start?” He pronounced “beer” like “bear.”

“Um.” Devon had never drunk beer, pronounced “bear” or otherwise. “Yes, I’d love one, ta.”

“Cool.” He disappeared out of her sight, toward a storeroom at the back.

The words TOMB RAIDER appeared on-screen, along with some credits, and an opening sequence. A dark-haired woman in a blue top with a crisp Queen’s English accent started speaking to an American man. She appeared to be some kind of spy.

Devon, who had never seen a film or cartoon or television of any kind, let alone a video game, gaped at the screen in spellbound astonishment. It was the closest thing she’d ever seen to real magic.

Jarrow came back, put down two cans of beer, and dropped next to her on the couch. “You ready?” He’d taken off his smart jacket and already seemed happier, more at ease.

“How come only your house gets this stuff?” Devon tipped back her beer. It hit far less hard than wine and, though sour and yeasty like one of Uncle Romford’s military fiction novels, went down easily enough. “I love games already and we haven’t done anything yet!”

He laughed. “Watch me for a bit, and I’ll show you how to play. Only one person can use the controller at a time, so we’ll have to take turns.”

Devon sipped from her bear. Her beer. She watched him play and listened to his explanations, drinking in the details, fascinated by the technology. This was not how she had expected her day to go. Not that she was complaining.

After the first level, she said, “Can I try again?”

Jarrow ceded her the controller with polite reluctance. Devon “died” in-game almost immediately, laughed out loud, and restarted for another attempt.

The game was simply another medium for stories, much as books were—albeit electronic instead of paper-based. She let herself forget about the wedding, and the Old Country dress that squashed her ribs. Lara Croft’s struggles to run, jump, shoot, and solve puzzles became Devon’s struggles and that suited her fine, because Lara’s problems were far more fun than Devon’s own.

A revelation struck her and she hit Pause, thunderbolted by an idea.

“Summat wrong?” Jarrow said.