The Book Eaters(65)
“It doesn’t get an Easterbrook name,” he said again, tense strain cording his shoulders and neck. “It’ll get whatever the knights give it.”
The room descended into awkward stillness and Devon lay rigid, conscious of her bare legs smeared with blood. Of her bare chest and sweat-stained face. Matley’s presence had somehow rendered her vulnerability obscene. She felt, absurdly, like a sinful Eve standing before God and realizing her own nakedness for the first time.
Jarrow unzipped his hoodie and draped it over her and the baby, with a muttered “Here, don’t want you both to get cold.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
The oldest aunt was talking. “Mat, this isn’t the time,” she said, palms pressed together like a pretend nun. “The girl hasn’t had a moment of rest—”
“Isn’t the time? For a father to see his son?” Unpleasantness warped his features. “What a waste. Three years I’ll have to spend, feeding and clothing this thing, being extorted by the bloody Ravenscars. Only for the knights to take it away at the end and use it as a prop for their own power. What happened to the days where we could choose what happened to our own dragons? He should have died in birth.”
Devon was speechless with fury.
Matley caught her glare, and narrowed his eyes. “God sakes,” he said, “was it so incredibly difficult to squirt out a girl? You managed it for the Winterfields.”
“Sex is determined by the man’s sperm,” Devon retorted, tongue getting the best of her, but so what because it was bloody fucking true. “Don’t blame me for your failing.”
He slapped her so hard her vision went black for a split second. She fell back against the sofa, arms still clenched around her son. Her ears keened like cutlery had been dropped on a tile floor, not helped by the shrieking aunts in the background.
Matley locked his hands around her throat. Devon should have let go of her son to fight but instead she held the child tighter, alarmed that he might attack the boy instead of her. She was already weak and exhausted from birth and now she couldn’t breathe. Tightness and ache radiated from her throat into her chest, her head, the hollow behind her eyes.
Jarrow barreled in despite his shorter stature and lighter frame, shouting something she couldn’t hear because her ears still rang.
Matley jerked away to fend off his younger brother and Devon gagged, gasping for air as he released her. The last thing she saw before passing out was the Easterbrook aunts descending in a flock on the two men, trying to pull them apart.
* * *
Many hours later, Devon woke in her own bed. Her throat felt like someone had fed it through a paper shredder, and the swollen parts of her neck felt hot to the touch. Swallowing had become an act of bravery.
At least Matley was gone. She hated him, possibly more than she loved her children, and could sense that loathing building in herself the way a gale gathered pace into a storm.
She lay for a minute or two and imagined her husband swinging from his expensive chandeliers by one of his own silk ties, only to become annoyed when the fantasy gave her no satisfaction. Hate was losing its emotional edge, becoming a common thing she lived with instead of a treasure she nursed.
Her arm was going numb. Devon looked down to find the boy nestled next to her, fast asleep in the crook of her elbow. He bore no injury; perfect, pristine, unharmed by his father’s spurt of anger.
She freed her trapped limb and turned over to catch sight of Jarrow slouched in the bay window of her room, fiddling with a handheld console. The words GAME BOY were printed underneath its tiny green screen. He hadn’t yet noticed her small movements, but then she hadn’t noticed his till now; he could be so still, when focused on his games.
She tried to say Hello but all that came out was a cough. The fire in her throat cranked up a notch.
“You’re awake,” Jarrow exclaimed, twisting round. “I’ll get you a drink!” He disappeared into the bathroom. Somehow he found a cup, filled it from the sink, and brought her water. She drank, and thought she knew how sword-eaters must feel.
When she was done, she pointed to the faint bruises on his face. Needing to know if he was hurt, and how badly, from that tussle with his brother.
“Ah, don’t worry about me. I’ll live. But listen, I have a better way for us to talk.” He dug out a slim booklet and presented it tentatively. “Might be a bit of work to eat it, but on the other hand, your throat will take weeks to heal up. I’d shred it for you if I could, but then you wouldn’t learn anything by eating it. Empty calories.”
Devon ran a thumb along the booklet. It had no cover in the traditional sense, just printed pages on stiff paper on which a title was printed:
THE MORSE CODE: Learning and Practice
(Revised Edition)
She raised both eyebrows in polite confusion.
“My sister, Vic.” He tugged an earlobe, frowning with uneasy remembrance. “She had this interest in Morse code. Also spy thrillers, retro British mystery stuff. We used to send messages when we were kids, mess about playing James Bond. Useful for us.”
Understanding dawned. He wanted her to communicate in a way that mimicked writing, without requiring writing. A language of sounds that did not need her voice. Devon smiled, and squeezed his hand.
“Glad you approve.” Jarrow brought her a bowl of water and, page by painstaking page, tore each sheet, soaked it to soften, and passed it to her to eat. Not too wet, nor shredded; the information would be inaccessible to her if too much damaged before she could absorb it.