The Book Eaters(5)
Devon skipped through the snowdrifts, disappointment giving way to self-consolation. So what if the visitor wanted to see Uncle Aike? She’d found him first. Ramsey would be so jealous. Her other brothers, too, but she didn’t like them as well as Ramsey; most were much older and very boring and didn’t play with her so much. Anyway, she would rub it in Ramsey’s face all week. Maybe two weeks.
The forest thinned rapidly into rocky hills whose hard edges were softened with frost. The house unfolded into view, giving the illusion of a pop-up children’s book, the ancient parapets jutting uncomfortably against failing winter light. A few of Devon’s brothers were kicking a ball in the wild, overgrown gardens out front. None of them paid any attention to her except Ramsey, who looked over in pure astonishment. Devon took smug pleasure in his shock.
“No power source, no crops, no adequate clothing for any of the children. House in a state of disrepair, and the grounds look poorly tended. Yet they have modern cars on the drive.” Mani was muttering into a small black device with a red flashing light. “Can’t help but wonder what they eat. Insular and isolated, either way. Could these folks be the source of those old local legends?” He caught her staring and smiled disarmingly.
“Follow me!” Devon said, and tugged him, strangely reluctant, beneath the yawning archway into the entrance hall beyond.
A once-rich carpet lay tattered and flat over a rough-hewn stone floor. Crystalline light fixtures hung darkly immaculate, barren of candle or bulb. If they’d ever been lit, Devon had never seen it. The rooms they passed contained low couches or polished wooden tables, the chandeliers and lamps also unused. Walls were thickly lined with shelves, unending shelves. The scent of biblichor suffused everything.
She took a sharp left at the end of the hallway and skipped into the drawing room, Mani trailing after. Several of her uncles were gathered around a particularly large oak table, playing a game of bridge and drinking inktea. The moment Devon and her prize visitor walked in, all conversation ceased. Every head swiveled their way.
“Uncle!” Devon said. “I found a guest!”
“So you have.” Uncle Aike set down his fan of cards. “Who are you, sir?”
“Amarinder Patel, freelance journalist,” Mani said, and extended a hand. “I was looking—”
“This is private property.” Uncle Aike rose slowly. When not stooping, he stood over six feet. “You are not allowed to be here. Journalists, in particular, are not welcome.”
Devon looked on, bewildered. She had never seen her favorite uncle so unfunny. So lacking in Basic Courtesy.
Mani lowered his hand. “I’m sorry, I would have called in advance, but I wasn’t even sure you and your family lived here. There’s no listed phone number on the land registry, no names on the electoral register—”
“Quite so.” Uncle Aike leaned forward, knuckles pressed to the table. “Did it occur to you, Mr. Patel, that perhaps we have no wish to be contacted? Least of all by a journalist. Private citizens are entitled to private lives.”
The air seemed to thicken, stifling Devon’s questions. Something was happening that she didn’t understand, though nobody seemed to be mad at her.
Mani adjusted his glasses. “Very well, I’ll see myself out.”
But Uncle Aike pointed to an empty seat and said, “Nonsense. Done is done, and you are already here. Take a seat, please.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “This is what you have come for, yes? To find the members of my Family? Well, come and speak to us, and we shall converse like adults.”
“I…” Mani fidgeted with his small black machine, turning it over and over in his hands. To the perspective of this fully human man, he had entered a dark and somber room lined with crumbling tomes and populated by looming, pale-faced figures in old-fashioned suits. Not a situation for the faint of heart.
But after a moment, his professionalism and rationality won out. Mani edged over and sat down, squashed between Uncle Bury and Uncle Romford.
“Dev, my dear.” Uncle Aike did not take his eyes off the journalist. “Go and play, yes? We will be a little while, having a chat with Mr. Patel.”
“But…” Devon glanced mournfully at the table, where her guest sat rigid. She always had to leave when the grown-ups talked, and it was never fair.
Uncle Aike shifted his gaze toward Devon, shoulders and face softening a little. “Tell you what. Take yourself up to my room, little princess, and find one of the special-edition fairy tales. But off the lowest shelf, mind. Nothing naughty, aye?”
“Oh! I will, I will!” Devon scampered out of the room in excitement. Though fairy tales were all she ever ate, some were better than others, and the special ones in her uncle’s study tasted exquisite: the crisp gold bindings, ribbon bookmarks, bright illustrations with multihued inks. An explosion of color and sparkles, words dangling and lingering on the palate.
The last thing she heard before darting up the stairs was her uncle saying, “Romford, shut that door, if you please.”
She forgot all about them by the time she reached the top of the stairs. Uncle Aike’s study occupied a smallish room on the east wing, and it was here she headed.
Devon slipped in soundlessly. These walls held Renaissance paintings and an eclectic selection of instruments, including a Chinese lute, none of which Devon had ever heard her uncle play. Gifts from ’eaters in other countries, back when traveling abroad had been a little easier. Too much paperwork, nowadays.