The Book Eaters(66)
The pamphlet had a sparky flavor, the way she imagined static would taste. Not bitter, simply neutral, slightly metallic though there was no metal in the ink or paper. She ate slowly, pushing through the agony swallowing caused her.
“Trying to write out the dots and dashes doesn’t work, by the way; our brains still register that as writing, because they’re just standins for the letters,” he said. “But tapping works. A kind of cheat.”
Devon rolled her eyes. <Fucking Collector and their rules for us> She squinted at her fingertips. <Also tapping hurts finger>
“Oh! That reminds me, nearly forgot.” Jarrow reached into a pocket and fished out a thimble, slipping it onto her finger. “Now you can do it more easily, eh?”
The gesture startled her; it was oddly intimate, reminiscent of a groom slipping a ring onto his bride, except she’d never done that. The Families eschewed wedding rings, since their marriages were not intended to last. But it was very fairy-tale-esque all the same. Princesses in books were forever doing things with thimbles.
She caught his palm and tapped, <Thank you>
“Isn’t it great? How easy was that? Almost as good as writing!” His grin was the brightest thing she’d seen in years. “You’re very welcome, by the way. But slow down a little, I’m rusty with translating Morse in my head.”
<Slower. OK> Her next message she regretted, because it stole the smile right off his face. <Where Matley>
“… ah. Gone on a holiday, or something.” He wouldn’t meet her eye now. “He’ll keep clear of you, if you keep clear of him.”
So there was a hard line that even the Easterbrooks wouldn’t allow one of their sons to cross. Devon wasn’t sure whether to be relieved they placed any limits, or furious that the limit wasn’t more reasonable. Both, probably.
<But are you okay>
“I’m fine. We just scuffled a bit.”
Devon didn’t believe him. Their fight had looked a lot more serious than a plain scuffle. She started to tap that out when he held up a hand to forestall her.
“Hey, listen. I’m glad you woke, because I actually came here to give you this.” Jarrow put his Game Boy in her lap. “I hear it gets proper boring, looking after babies. This can keep you occupied while you’re doing all that nursing, eh? Doubt you’ll get down to the games room much, until your throat heals.”
The console rested in her grip, lighter and denser than it looked. <But Game Boy is yours>
“I wanted you to have mine. Because I think of us as real family, not the Family. And siblings, you know, give each other stuff.”
<Vic was your family too> she tapped, after a moment. <Birth sister and real sister>
He shot her a guarded look, but nodded. “I miss her. She’d have liked you.”
<Jarrow. Where is Vic>
“She struggled with the marriages, the children. Like you did. She couldn’t accept things, made a fuss.” He sighed. “She got on Matley’s nerves and he sent her away, in the end. The Families like to do that, when folks cause problems: send them somewhere else to live, where they don’t have friends or support networks.” His eyes were red, but still dry. “I call her sometimes. It’s not the same, though.”
<So sorry> Her apology sounded stupid and trite in Morse code. It would have sounded stupid however she conveyed it.
“Vic bought the same lie about keeping her head down and getting to see her kids again. The truth devastated her, when she realized.” The electric firelight illuminated his curls like a halo. “When I told you ages ago that they’re not going to let you see your children again, I wasn’t trying to frighten you. I was trying to warn you. Women can travel a bit and go to the parties, but no one is going to let former brides anywhere near the manors where they have a scion.”
<That was why you wanted me to run away with you> she said, filled with bitter resignation.
“Yeah.”
The infant startled awake with a wail. Devon gathered him close to murmur timeless reassurances that she’d learned from books in lieu of a real parent. He fussed a little before settling against her shoulder and she held him close, palm to the back of that small, fuzzy head.
Perhaps she should have been grateful to the knights, because if they did not exist to keep dragons alive, then none would be saved. But she couldn’t summon up any gratitude for such grudging care. Did anyone hold the dragon children when they were afraid? Seemed unlikely. Dragons were raised in barracks; that was common knowledge. Beyond that, the specifics eluded her.
She buried her face in the dark curls, seeking comfort in the familiar scent. This boy—taken away. Not even to a life of relative ease and privilege as hers had been, or as Salem’s would be, but to an existence that was categorically and unequivocally bad.
In fairy tales, the princesses got everything: true love, happy ending, their children to keep and the monsters or witches or ogres defeated. Life didn’t work out like that. No one would write Devon a happy ending, and the universe did not owe her a daughter. The best she could hope for was to keep her son, or else lose both children entirely.
An image filled her head of a ten-year-old Salem, waiting forlornly in the Winterfield courtyard for a mother who would not be arriving. Growing sullener with the years at that betrayal, and the abandonment. A worse alternative: Luton had fed Devon nothing but lies and Salem had already forgotten her mother existed, as Devon had forgotten her own.