The Book Eaters(69)
Someone had set up a small nativity scene on the entry table, a faded Mary kneeling over her wooden infant in his tiny manger. Carved animals clustered around. Wise men loomed awkwardly in a corner, and Joseph stood with blank-faced reserve to one side, his face so worn the features were flat.
A tightness formed in Devon’s throat. The story had a resonance that drew her in, that of an outcast mother taking shelter in unlikely places. Devon was no virgin, Hester was no Joseph, and Cai was hardly the next Messiah. Still, the spirit of it spoke to her all the same.
“Hes! Thought I heard you returning.” A man emerged from the furthest room, shuffling out to meet them. He was in his sixties and of Asian-Indian descent, thick glasses perched on his nose, and a solid walking cane in one hand. “We were starting to worry when you still hadn’t come in. Saw you all over the news this morning.”
“Always wanted to be famous,” Hester said with a wry smile. “Is Lock around?”
Devon’s attention was wholly captured by the man with glasses. Something about him was overwhelmingly familiar, memories clawing at her urgently.
“Killock is up in the drawing room with the others.” The newcomer glanced at Devon and she saw the same recognition in his expression, without any of her confusion. “Is this her? The Fairweather woman?”
“It is, but she can’t stay to chat,” Hester said. “I’m sorry, Mani, but I really need to see Killock first.”
Mani. Short for—
“Amarinder Patel, who wrote stories for the telly,” Devon blurted out. “You’re the journalist who came to Fairweather Manor!”
“Who?” Cai said, confused, while Hester started in shock.
“So I am.” Mani seemed unruffled by her outburst, a far cry from the nervy journalist Devon had met as a child. “When there was talk of bringing in Devon Fairweather to this house, I did wonder if it would be the same girl I’d met all those years ago, and here you are. Fate is a funny old mistress.”
Devon’s mouth was open. She shut it. More than twenty years had passed and yet she could see, in the aging lines of his features, a glimpse of the younger reporter he’d once been.
“How do you know each other?” Hester said, bewildered.
“Her Family are the reason why I came to your Family,” Mani said, gaze not leaving Devon’s face. “I stumbled onto Fairweather property many years ago while investigating a news story. Got myself caught by a rather younger Devon, then sent up to Ravenscar Manor. And here I am, still.” He offered a bleak smile.
“I’m so sorry,” Devon said, awash with mortification. “I had no idea what my uncle was truly like back then, or what he’d do to you.”
“You were only a child. I don’t carry a grudge. If not you, someone else would have found me.” Mani’s face was impassive and she could not tell if he truly meant what he said. “At any rate, I am here now, among these…” He trailed off, adjusted his glasses, and peered at them both. “Does she know, Hester? Have you told her what you are?”
“Told me what?” Devon said, while Hester answered simultaneously, “No, not yet. Killock’s request, to hold back the details.”
“What is everyone talking about?” Cai complained.
“Hm.” Mani took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, and put them back on. “Best we all go up to the drawing room, I think.”
“I agree that would be best,” Hester said, sounding strained. “My brother will explain everything clearly.”
“Do follow me, if you like.” Mani turned and began making his way up the stairs.
Devon bit back a frustrated retort, and followed after.
Mani led them up a curving stone staircase, the hewn steps slick from centuries of use, then along another hall and toward a set of ornate doors from which laughter and conversation leaked out. From this angle, it was impossible to see into the room.
“This way.” Mani shuffled through the door, without waiting to see if they followed.
Hester put her hand on Devon’s arm. “Be careful of Killock. Watch your step around him.” She withdrew her hand and strode after Mani, into the room.
“Wait,” Devon said, darting after her, “why do I need—” She stumbled to a halt, just inside. Cai crashed into her from behind.
A kaleidoscope of luxury greeted them. Red carpets, painted crossbeams, and lavish furniture; tables scattered with books. Paintings on every wall, of long-dead human nobility. Marble mantels above a roaring fire. A harpsichord nestled demurely in its own nook, inked all over with flourishes and Latin phrases along its wooden body, while a man whose face she couldn’t see played an elegant classical piece across its keys. In the far corner, a granddaughter clock marked the loss of time.
A dozen or so people were gathered in here. All of them were chatting and joking, attention taken up with conversation and board games. Presents, drinks, and party favors littered one of the tables, along with paper Christmas crowns and playing cards. Scented candles burned out the smell of berries and frosted evergreens.
Everyone was eating. They browsed tables of books, peeling away tough covers to eat the softer paper within like diners shelling out lobster; a meal for those who could consume paper, but also had no bookteeth. And the tongues: she could hear them in the soft lisping of their conversation, so reminiscent of Cai. Could see them, glimpsing the coils of flesh in their mouths as they chewed and spoke.