The Book Eaters(55)
Devon complied, albeit reluctantly. Her gaze kept drifting back to the clipboarded paper in his lap, so casually scrawled with written words. It seemed an awful risk to bring a human to the heart of a Family house. Of all people, surely he would be most likely to notice her inhumanness.
He tapped her shoulder to indicate she should move, and she marveled that it felt no different to her own: skin stretched over bone, flesh in the usual places; tiny hairs and tangible lines. They might almost be the same species. Had she ever touched Mani, the journalist-guest from long ago, during his brief venture to Fairweather Manor? Hard to remember after all these years, but Devon felt sure she hadn’t.
“Your wife is exceptionally healthy,” the doctor said to a hovering Matley. “Even for one of your kind. Very strong, could be stronger if she took a bit more exercise.”
Of your kind. He knew what she was. Devon tensed.
“Don’t get hysterical,” Matley said, observing her expression with a lazy half smile. “John works with the migrants we employ. He is trusted, and discreet.” He was sitting on the dresser chair, fiddling with a chunky black mobile.
“But what about the rules?” No fraternizing with humans. No working with them. Devon had absorbed all of that early on.
“What about them? We cannot earn money without taking risks. There is a reason my manor is wealthy while yours languishes on the edge of debt. Besides, your brothers have jobs, don’t they? Not much of a different choice. Either we work among humans and hide our nature, or employ a few trusted ones and then don’t have to worry about slipping up.”
“I see.” No point arguing. It wasn’t her business, or her manor. “You’re right, I’m sure.”
The doctor found a vein, pricked her skin, and began his blood draw. The electric fireplace flickered behind him, devoid of any woodsmoke scent.
She tried not to hold her breath. “How long will the results take?” No one at Winterfield had tested her pregnancy like this. They’d simply waited for nature, as Gailey had put it.
“A few hours. I’ll let you know the results straightaway, of course. Truthfully, though, the blood test is a formality. Librovarian women—”
“Libro-what women?” She’d never heard the term before.
“Librovarian is my private medical term for book eaters,” John said, removing the needle and fussing with the little vial. Full of her black blood.
“Oh.” Such a human thing to do, she thought. Humans were always driven to naming things, describing them above and beyond their function. It would never have occurred to any of her kind to invent a name other than “book eaters,” in all its functional, unimaginative glory.
“Women of your kind are biologically very regular,” John said. “You are certainly pregnant. It is just a question of how long.”
Pregnant. Devon had been expecting him to say that all morning, had been expecting it to happen since being packed off to the Easterbrooks, but hearing it spoken aloud still made her breath come short. The mantra. Remember the mantra, she urged herself. Don’t care. Don’t think. Shut it all off. Only Salem.
“Is this my last pregnancy?” she said, because she’d heard the rumors, heard that some book eater women could carry three, and that sounded like her idea of hell. “I won’t have any more?”
“Again, almost certainly,” John said, still scribbling. “We’ll confirm after the birth, but your baby-carrying days are at an end.”
“Don’t suppose you can tell the sex? I’ve heard that’s a thing that can be done, with human technology.” Matley crossed and uncrossed his legs. “She’s had a girl before, you see, and we’re hoping for a repeat performance.”
“Mm.” John rubbed his nose, leaving a smudge of ink on the skin. “Possible but difficult. You’d need access to a hospital ultrasound, and a qualified technician. I could help you arrange that, but it’d cost a bit. Never a guarantee, either—scans can be wrong.”
“Hospital full of humans? No, not worth the risk. We’ll take the surprise. It’s tradition, in any case.”
“I must warn you, if she has already had one girl—”
“Yes, yes, I am aware. Excruciatingly unlikely she’ll produce anything other than a boy.” A sound went off in his pocket; Matley’s mobile, ringing. “Excuse me, I’d best take this call.”
He stepped outside, speaking in a low voice.
“I should be gone, too.” John clipped up his briefcase and gave her a cursory nod. “Good-bye, Ms. Fairweather. I’ll attend to you in the coming months should anything go wrong.”
“Thanks.” Devon’s thoughts were elsewhere already. Thinking of another pregnancy, another labor, another birth. How would she feel, holding another soft bundle of scent, tears, and paper-thin flesh in her hands? She broke out in sweat, unable to picture any child’s face but Salem’s.
The mantra. Salem. Remember the reasons for enduring.
She took out the compass Luton had given her. A cold, hard, tangible reminder. She sat by the window and traced the lines of her daughter’s face, preserved in glass and frozen in time.
17
THE PRINCESS LETS DOWN HER HAIR
SIX YEARS AGO