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Welcome to stories from among the stars. You're listening to the book eaters by sun yi dean. Narrated by katie eric.
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Chapter 5 the Hazel Eyes of Hester Present Day Regardless of their origins, I believe the Eaters have been with us for centuries. At a minimum, I am reminded of the myth of Vithalas in India. Described as evil spirits, they are classed as a kind of early vampire myth. Yet unlike the Pisaja, another creature from Sanskrit legend, the Vithalas are not bloodsuckers. Instead, they are more like causes of mayhem lurking in darkness. Are known for their vast knowledge and deep insight. Sound familiar? For me, this myth overlaps heavily with what we know of Book Eaters. Amarinda Patel Paper and a Secret History A sense of unease settled across Devon's shoulders as she ducked into the Crow's Nest pub. She paused in the entryway, trying to suss out the source of her anxiety. Hot air blasted her cheeks and neck, negating the pleasant outside chill. As the glass door closed softly behind a tattered wall. Poster suggested 10 helpful ways to spot cancer. It seemed out of place for a pub. Could Eaters even get cancer? One of the many things Devon didn't know about her own kind. Girls weren't told things unless they needed to know. She craned her head, peering into the main area. High ceilings, plastic chandeliers, wooden floors shot through with cracks and street lights blinking through leaded windows. Flaking tinsel draped the walls and a plastic tree lurched in the corner hung with Poundland baubles. Most people wore bright colours and cringeworthy Christmas tops, in stark contrast to Devon's own all black uniform of jacket, boots, trousers, and shirt. Aside from the tawdry atmosphere, nothing seemed wrong or out of the ordinary. Yet she couldn't shake that sense of tense watchfulness, an itch between the shoulder blades that wouldn't quite go away. Ridiculous. No time for paranoia. She had a job to get on with. Devon stepped through and pushed her way to the bar. People bustled around each other, noisy and cheerful. Tomorrow the pub would be closed for Christmas Day. Tonight it was open with extended hours to accommodate every alcohol related need. She stepped up to the bar, flagged down a barman pint o Guinness, please. Go easy on the head. As you like. He pulled the lever. Filling a glass. On your own tonight, then? No. She forced a polite smile and tried not to resent his wholly unnecessary small talk. I'm waiting on a friend. Thought you might be. He handed her the brimming glass and a napkin. Got any special plans for Christmas? The idle question stung. Yes, she said. A little sharp. Later tonight I'll be holding a vigil for someone I lost 10 years ago. The compass weighed like a lodestone. The barman left her alone after that. Devon paid with a good tip and avoided any further eye contact. She took a long sip from her drink while she waited for Chris, or whatever his real name was, and waited and waited. Some more people brushed past. Laughter rose and fell around her. By 8:20, she was most of the way through her drink. Devon checked her phone. Nothing. No cancellation. No excuses. They'd simply ghosted. Either Chris, the illicit chemical supplier, had gotten cold feet or he was running late. Neither was the scenario she had time for. Frustration washed through her frame, amplifying the tiredness, and she leaned against the bar top. If this was a bust, her sanity and patience were a thin veneer these days. 16 months of dragging Kyle across England had felt like 16 years. Exhausting. Repetitive bleak. So many dead ends. She was finding people. Sure, the Ravens cars had sourced equipment and chemical components from a variety of shady human organisations. There were plenty of people to chase up, but such folk were skittish. Many had refused to meet with her or deal with her. Others claim they no longer supplied that family. Chris was the third person to admit he had actually dealt with the Ravenscars, citing one Killick Ravenscar by name. He was also the first to agree to tell her more information for a price if he showed up anyway. Pardon, but do you have the time? Devon looked over her shoulder and then looked down. It's a much smaller woman. Bright hazel eyes peered up through a pair of rectangular glasses. Barely over 5ft, with rounded shoulders and stocky build, she was somewhere between 25 and 35. Her wool coat smelled of expensive cigarettes and her leather handbag was exquisitely made. Devin didn't know a lot about fashion, but she did know a fair amount about leather, having eaten it all through her childhood. 8:25, assuming my watch is accurate. Oh. Hazel eyes deflated. That's even later than I thought. Her accent was erratic, a mix of Scottish and Geordie border counties, likely enough. Not uncommon in these parts. Were you waiting on someone? Devon twisted toward her. A Christmas Eve date? Sort of. I think she stood me up. We were supposed to meet at half past seven. Hazel eyes had what Devon thought of as hair coloured hair, a muddy salad of dusty brown and dirty blond beneath the expensive coat. The rest of her was that same kind of mishmash, from the brown green irises and patchwork skirt to the asymmetrical blouse. Mine stood Me up too, devon said. Unless they're just late. Hazel Eye squinted at her skeptically. Do you really think that? No, I guess not. Devon drained the last of her Guinness. I don't have much luck with people. True on so many levels. I think you just haven't met the right person. Hazel Eyes climbed onto the bar stool. Her feet didn't touch the floor when she sat, unlike Devon's. Or else you don't give anyone a chance. A little of column A and a little of column B. Devon crumpled a napkin in her palm. She was thinking about how Kai flicked his tongue when he was hungry. So, erm, what's your name if we're both stuck here waiting? Hester. Like that poor woman in Hawthorne's book the Scarlet Letter. Terribly pretentious, I know. Her grin was self deprecating. Oh, that's not so bad. It's a pretty enough name. Try being a woman called Devon. Hester snorted. All right, you win. Let me guess. That's where you were conceived. Nah, family tradition, devon said. A lot of us have location names. Then she added with rare recklessness, it's also my grandmother's name. I'm told she had it worse. Her surname was Davenport. She was a. Oh, I see. Devon Davenport. Ouch. A light, easy laugh. Belonging to someone with a light, easy conscience, no doubt. Where are you from, anyway? You don't sound like a Geordie. The question hit hard, bringing Devon back to reality. Her past was problematic and her goal was to meet Chris and keep Kai fed. How was this nonsense chat furthering either go? She needed to end the encounter. I'm guessing Darby, hester said, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her shoes were either brand new or meticulously polished. Devon from Derby. Am I close? But Devon was hungry too. In her own way. She craved company from someone her own age who was pleasant and affable and not just another hapless old man. What was another hour of time? In the end, it would keep the disappointment of our failed meetings at bay at least. Hey, are you alright? Was it something I said? Sorry, it's just this pub. All these Christmas lights give me a headache. Devon pushed away her empty glass. Would you mind if we got out of here and went somewhere quieter? It's so noisy I can hardly hear you. And Hester hopped off the stool and straightened her odd blouse. I know just the place and it's only a short walk. Devon forced a grin, trying to enjoy the moment. What else was there, after all? Chris wasn't coming. They squeezed out of the crowd half tumbling to the street. Darkness softens civilization's hardening on edges, and the sudden lack of bodies created a vacuum of calm. Do you do this a lot? Devon wished she could take off her stuffy jacket, get stood up on a date and pick someone else. I mean, is this a date? Doesn't have to be careful, she told herself. Not too eager, not too desperate. Where are we going? Hester steered them down a couple of blocks and brought a fresh set of drinks from a quayside pub. They must have looked an odd pair, Devon in her heeled boots and severe dark clothes, Hester short and pastel and fluttering. But Newcastle had its share of odd folk and no one commented. Drinks bought. They sat outside in the beer garden despite the chill, people watching and talking about nothing in particular. Hester chatted easily about books, films, the weather, and various other things. Like they'd been friends for years, a trait that Devon, who had gone without friends for most of her life, found very odd. And having little she wanted to say about herself, she simply listened as much as she could. Maybe this is what it felt like to be human and normal. If such a thing as normal existed even among humans, was this a life she would have wanted? So impossible to judge? The world was a series of fenced off fields, each patch of grass categorically greener than its neighbours. When Devon had been young, she'd wanted to sometimes read books and sometimes eat books rather than always eating them, but the main thing was choosing her own books, deciding how to shape and immerse herself. That basic desire hadn't changed with age. She craved still a sense that she had options, that her life wasn't an inevitable series of events. Everything in her childhood had been prearranged, her personality and outlook sculpted to fit into the Fair Weather narrative, the family's narrative. Either you're the best listener I've ever met, or you're very mysterious and trying to stay silent, hester said after her own chatter had drifted to a standstill. I think you've confused mysterious for boring. There's nothing to know, honestly. Nothing that would interest a human woman anyway. Oh yeah, I bet I can guess. Hester sat up, leaning forward. Let's see, I bet. I bet your parents are divorced and that's why you're so aloof. She grinned, sipping her bourbon and Coke. More separated than divorced, Devon wondered if her mother still cared about a small girl abandoned to Fairweather Manor. She added defensively, I'm not that aloof. We're talking, aren't we? Separated is basically Divorced, hester said. But that wasn't right or true. Divorce was a choice. Forcible separation wasn't. Amberly Blackwood hadn't been given any choices. You are the dictionary definition of aloof. Well, wait, I'm still guessing. A bright laugh. I think your family is fusty and rules bound. Very old fashioned. And you've been married before but didn't like it. Am I right? Something uneasy stirred in Devon's chest. Was it her imagination, or did Hester's gaze suddenly sharpen? She feigned amusement. Uh huh. Sounds like you're projecting there. Maybe I am. Hester blushed, washing away Devon's brief flare of suspicion. Fine. Last guess. I'm going to get something right. I think. I think you are a secret bookworm. You've got that pensive look to you. Do you read much? Er, across 30 years of life, Devon had eaten close to 30,000 books and read at least 3,000. Fair bit of reading, I guess. It was more information than she could access simultaneously, and her mental sifting grew slower each year in steady little increments, just like Ramsay had warned when they were younger. I thought so, hester said, tipping her glass back. I bet you read everything. Nah. Not a literary kind of person. I like thrillers and crime. She shrugged. Trashier the better. Fun books, moreish books. Leave that posh lip fit to the old fuddy duddy types like her uncle. Want another drink? I'll pick up this round. Just Coke this time, hester said. When you're my size, you hit your limits faster. Devon dipped inside to queue up. Her phone buzzed while she was ordering, and she flipped it open to check her texts. Change me mind. Keep your money. Sorry. She snapped the clamshell shut and folded it away, too tired and disappointed to even be angry. There was still leads she could chase, a handful of names left on her mental list to check up on in the meantime. Best if she could find someone safe ish for Kai to feed on before they left town. Someone happy, innocent, sweet. Someone like Hester. The thought sank through her like a brick in water. In truth, Devon didn't like the idea of feeding women to Kai and had so far managed to avoid felt worse somehow, which she knew was irrational. A life was a life and all that. Except it wasn't all equal. Not to Devon. Drag out Hardin's lifeboat ethics scenario and suddenly you found that there were all sorts of criteria for who to save and who to drown. Perhaps it was Buck Eater upbringing whispering to her that women were valuable and less disposable or Possibly it was just a shade too easy to sympathise with someone of the same gender. Whatever the reason, Devon wanted to spare women from her son. But here and now, strapped for time and options, she found herself considering the choice without recoiling. Kai was hungry. She needed out of Newcastle, and this stranger had landed in her lap like a gift wrapped present. On Christmas Eve, no less. It made sense if she could manage to woman up and do it. Suddenly Devon felt very sober. Despite the rounds of Guinness, her son was patiently waiting at home. Guilt swarmed her for having forgotten about him, even for a couple of hours. And elsewhere in the city, nights were circling. No time for weakness. She collected her drinks and walked back to the table, smiling but laser focused. When they were halfway through their pints, Devon leaned across the table and said above the din of chatter, wanna come back to mine? That depends, hester said into her ear. Is this going to be one of those bi curious hookups where you wake up tomorrow and decide you like men better after all? Devon considered her answers and settled on honesty. I don't have a good answer for that. I just like you. And she did, though not the way Hester would have wanted. You'll do, hester said in her dry way. Devon laughed and hoped it didn't sound hysterical. You'll do was a phrase she had sometimes said to herself when eyeing up potential victims. Mentally, she echoed the phrase back. You'll do for Kai one last meal to lift him out of hunger before hitting the road again. They finished their drinks and left the bar together, though not before Devon stopped to pick up a bottle of vodka for the road. She would need a drink after tonight's debacle for certain. Is your house far? Just a flat, not a house, and no above the tire shop down that way. She gestured vaguely. You'll like it. Such a lie. Hester touched her arm. Aren't you cold? Do you want to go back for your coat? And Devon realized she'd forgotten in her haze of alcohol to keep her jacket on. I'm from the north, she said. Like that was a sensible answer in this sub freezing weather. I grew up on the moors. It gets very cold out there. Really? The moors? How romantic. Hester shivered into her fur lined coat. Next you'll be telling me you grew up in a manor like something out of Wuthering Heights. A twang of alarm rang through Devon's head, a sense that the comment was yet again too close to home. But she was tipsy and couldn't not laugh. Besides, what was she afraid of Hester was human. Ten minutes later she veered down the alley towards the entrance of the little flat. They walked up the steps in odd silence, Hester waiting while Devon unlocked the door. Both women entered the tiny dingy flat with its cracked paint and shabby last legs furniture. The door to Kai's room was flung wide and he was visible from the living room, sitting on his bed with a magazine open on his lap. He lifted his head and said, I thought you didn't like bringing women back. Hester stopped in her tracks. You have a child. Devon took advantage of the distraction to lock her front door with quiet movements. Sorry, this is my son, Kai. He's very direct. She found herself oddly grateful that the other woman didn't comment on her son's lisp. Kai was sensitive about it. Has he been on his own this whole time? Hester said. Where's your babysitter? He doesn't need a babysitter, Devon said, because it was true. A boy with the accumulated minds of 25 adults was perfectly capable of looking after himself for a few hours. I'm fine on my own. Kai put his magazine down on the mattress and slipped off the bed. He crossed the threshold into the living room, drifting soundlessly on the thin carpet, his arms besmeared with the skin cream that she'd bought him that morning. Hester tensed, seemed to hold her breath. She twisted the strap of her purse. Feel free to have a seat. Devon brushed past her son, heading for the bathroom. There were few places to hide away in the cramped flat. Every room was visible from the living space, but the bathroom had a door. At least Devon could shut it behind her and not have to face what Kai was doing. Not have to watch someone die. Just make yourself at home. Oh, there's no need. That purse strap wound tighter and tighter. Listen, I like you, but I don't think I'll stay very she trailed off, looking again at the boy who approached her. They were a strange and haunting pair, a pale waif of a lad, hunger burning beneath his skin like fever, and petite, hazel eyed. Hester, lips pinched with alarm. Devon turned around, one hand on the bathroom door. Can I ask you something? Are you a good person? Are you kind? Hester blinked, dragging her gaze from boy to woman. Come again? It doesn't matter. Kai spoke unexpectedly. None of us are good. Only God can forgive that fucking vicar. Tangled anger knotted her chest. I seriously doubt God can do anything, devon said, tight lipped. But if you're satisfied, then fine. She shut the door hard. A muffled shout from the other room, followed by a growling noise and Hester yelping. Then that hideous silence that congealed like stagnant blood. Devon didn't feel anything and never did in the moment when they were being consumed. Afterward would be bad. She slouched over to the sink and ran the tap to splash her face. Cold water to help sober her up. Christ, what was she thinking, bringing back a young, attractive woman? How was she going to get rid of the body? It would be far too suspicious to dump someone like Hester at the homeless shelter, especially given she'd left the vicar there yesterday. The towel scraped her face dry. It was old and tattered, like Devon felt. Soft laughter came from the living room. Devon froze, hands and face still damp. Someone spoke, Hester's voice, and Kai said something in reply with his soft lisp. A curious thrill ran across the back of her neck. A thousand possibilities blossomed and she didn't know what to hope for, what to reject. With dreamy slowness, Devon turned off the tap, hung up the towel and pushed the door open. Kai perched on the couch, the magazine he'd been reading earlier open in his lap. He was tearing strips from it and putting them into his mouth with eyes wide. Hester sat next to him, watching critically with an approving smile as he scarfed pieces of paper. Both of them looked up at Devin's entrance. Shock rolled over Devon, shot through with a pain of irrational jealousy. She'd never sat and eaten anything with Kai because he couldn't eat books. And how was he eating a book with this woman? This girl she'd met on a night out in Newcastle? Devon Fairweather, I presume. The infamous princess who murdered her husband. Hazel eyes glinted. Such an honour to finally meet you. Devon stared. Who the bloody hell are you? I represent Killick Ravenscar. Hester touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. Why don't you have a seat? I think it's time we had a frank conversation. You know, woman to woman. Chapter 6 the Princess Bride Eleven years ago, everyone had told her since she became a princess in training that she was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now she was going to be the richest and the most powerful as well. Don't expect too much from life, Buttercup told herself as she rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have. William Goldman the Princess Bride Some years after Phaedra's wedding and the botch library venture, an 18 year old Devon was again awaiting the arrival of a chalk coloured limo. Only this time the limousine was here for her, and the wedding was going to be her own. The adults of Fairweather Manor came to see her off. Even the aunts, ever reclusive, always so withdrawn from her as she grew, made an appearance. A girl leaving home for her first wedding was a big event and worth marking. Little Chester, the son whom Phaedra had left behind, gave a happy wave. He was nearly five now. Devon squeezed each member of her family in tight hugs, too overwhelmed to be tearful. She would not be coming home for four years if the wedding went well and her child was conceived. Everyone shook hands and hugged. Some kissed her and wished her luck. Aunt Beulah was the oldest of the aunts, pushing into her 70s and the last to say goodbye. She tugged Devon down to her own, stooped level, and whispered in a heavy Yorkshire accent, be strong, love, and don't let em see you cry. He'll be reet in the end. Y yes, I'm sure, devon said, a little startled, and gave her an awkward hug before turning to go. An odd comment. She had no plans to cry, let alone allow others to watch her shed tears. The limo waited in the driveway, flanked by knights and their dragons on idle motorbikes. Knights not only arranged the marriages as a neutral non family faction, but enforced the agreements and provided a secure escort. She didn't even have to pack. Her bags were already in the trunk and Uncle Ike was already sitting inside, waiting with a patient smile. Devon glanced back, unnerved to find the old aunt still staring at her. Don't worry about a thing, princess, he said as she scooted inside. Your dear Aunt Beulah is rather a killjoy these days. Eats a bit too much woman's fiction, you know how it is. I'm not worried, she told him, rallying a smile and giving him a peck on the cheek. I'm very lucky. She was indeed lucky. Other people, like her brother Ramsay, had to labour and strive to stand out among his peers, had to endure training and hardship among the knights still others. Most humans, in fact, lived lives without purpose or direction. Many were crushed by poverty and circumstance. Their women were volatile, disorderly, disadvantaged. But bookeater women were rare and special, having a secure place in society that they were comfortable in. Therefore, she too was rare and special without having to do anything other than exist. And the role she took was one that suited her station. In short, she had lived a charmed life in a beautiful home, kept safe and happy from a twisted world beyond the manor boundaries. That much she could verify not only from her uncles and the things her brothers said, but from the books she'd stolen to read. Full of drama, heartbreak, hideous crime, darkness, stress. All of that. She had been spared Jane Eyre, living in poverty, embroiled in her tempestuous affairs. That would never be Devon. And here now, wearing a net of sapphires in her hair and a green debut dress that laced right across the bodice, Devon clicked on the expensive seatbelt in her expensive limousine. She was clothed in wealth and radiant would look. Though not royalty in a strictly technical sense, she was certainly a princess in all the ways that counted. Live quietly, obey the rules, please the family. Do all that and life would be good. Life was good. Have you heard from Ramsay? She said, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her seatbelt strap. During his last call. He said he hoped he could come and see me off. Poor Ramsay, who's borne the brunt of Devon's last foolish mistake. As far as I know, your brother is well but too busy with his studies for a visit, uncle Ike said with his usual absent mindedness. Perhaps for your next wedding, my dear. Don't be disappointed. Devon told herself her brother was a knight and had responsibilities now. She was lucky he still called her at all after the trouble she'd gotten him into. It had taken four years, in fact, before Ramsay had been willing to answer her calls. Four hard years of him being miserable under the nights while she sat at home cooking in a soup of her own shame. The worst of Ramsay's training had tapered off and he had settled into a role of his own. Now things would never be the same, but at least something existed between them. She was grateful for the communication, however guarded and irregular it might be. They drove mostly on the motorway or through small country roads. As was custom, the driver took a path that involved as few towns as possible. She found herself wishing vainly that she could go through a city. Obviously human society was inferior to what the Bookeaters conducted among themselves, but she was a little tiny bit curious about it nonetheless. It was hard not to be. At one small village, a young couple walked side by side. The lady wore jeans, she noted. Many of the women out here wore men's clothing. Very few wore the kind of long dresses that Devon had grown accustomed to throughout her life. As they paused on a street corner, the woman said something that made the man laugh. He took her hand. Devon remembered holding hands with her brothers when she was a child, but that was entirely different to the couple outside. What's he like? She hadn't voiced that question in the six months since being told of the engagement. Your Husband, you mean. Uncle Ike was discreetly eating a volume of Shelley's poetry. Competent, wealthy, intelligent. You'll be quite happy in that house, I'm sure. Was my mother happy living with you in Fairweather Manor? Devon folded her hands into a small knot and imagined saying those words aloud. And Uncle Ike, who was not really her uncle at all and should have been called her father, would say, absolutely, my dear, with complete earnestness. Devon turned her face back to the window, drinking in the scenery. If she knew what her uncle was going to say, then really, what was the point of asking? It would just be an exercise in validation. She wasn't the kind of girl who demanded pointless validation. Onward they drove, hills rolling back into fields, until at last they came to Winterfield Manor, somewhere on the outskirts of Birmingham. Devon wasn't sure of the exact location. What mattered was the house itself coming into view as the driveway gates peeled back. Elegant and Tudor in design, black timber striping the white walls like an urban zebra. No tumbling parapets or haphazard extensions. The Winterfields had the house in order. Immaculate lawns fanned around the driveway, the grass and hedges cut with diamond precision. Devon laughed as their limo circled around a four tiered fountain big enough for their procession of occupying nights to swim in, and caught her breath when she saw the Winterfield brothers waiting on a row of proud horses. Fairweather Manor didn't have any horses, Uncle Ike Lindover. Such creatures are extraordinarily expensive to keep, and our manor has been in financial decline for a few decades. But that will change, Princess, and it will change because of you. The Winterfields have paid a handsome dowry and Devon smiled, proud of what she was worth. Lewton Winterfield rode out to meet them, disembarking from his horse as Devon stepped out of her limousine. Her new husband had the face of a man who wasn't quite as handsome as he wished to be and resented everyone else for that failing. His age was hard to determine, older than 30, less than 40. Either his nose was too small or his chin was too big, depending on your point of view. The greying of his once fairish hair did nothing to soften a hard, lined jaw or define those too soft features. Lucky, Devon reminded herself. She was lucky to be wedded with someone from a wealthy house who would be honest in his contractual terms and look after their child well. So what if she didn't care for how he looked? He would grow on her. Really, it didn't matter at all. Looks were arbitrary. Shallow skin, deep things. Lewton tilted his head back with an appraising frown. You're absurdly tall. Incredible. How much three simple words could diminish you. Devon shrank into herself. Confidence rocked. Toll was good, wasn't it, Uncle Ike? Snorted Lewton, me lad, what a character you are. The other men laughed and Devon did too, if a trifle uncertainly. She was a grown woman now and could take a joke. A slender grey haired aunt came forward and offered Devon a handshake. So wonderful to meet you, my lovely. I'm Luton's sister, Gaily, and I'm here at your disposal. Thank you, that's very kind. Devon grasped her hand, trying not to let her shock show. She was so used to older women avoiding her in Fairweather Manor. Were the Winterfields just friendlier? Or was it that she was a woman now, grown up and getting married that made her welcome in the world? Both possibilities filled her with warmth. The hours that followed were a whirlwind of activity. The knights disappeared, leaving their dragons loitering forlornly in a cellar somewhere. Uncle Ike and Luton went upstairs with some other men to discuss that damned IVF business. The men were always talking about fertility treatments these days, mostly whether it would work for Buck Eater biology, how to test it, who to test it on, how to acquire equipment. Devon, meanwhile, descended into a writhing party of which she was the beating heart. Gayly stayed at her side, steering her through handshake after kiss after curtsy. They met so many people she'd lost count by the time they reached the first set of stairs. Phaedra's wedding at Fairweather Manor had been much smaller, but then the Fairweathers had a smaller house with fewer people. The manor was as beautiful inside as it was without. Arrayed in marble and mahogany with an army of cream carpets and thickly upholstered furniture, the Winterfield libraries favoured modern hardbacks, mostly literary and contemporary fiction in a variety of languages. They passed shelf after shelf of intriguing novels wafting the scent of glossy coating in crisp white pages. No dark nooks filled with old leather codices, no voluminous gloomy tomes, no lingering smell of bibliocore. When Devon paused in front of a shelf, gaily murmured that there would be time for eating in a moment and pushed her still in her tightly laced dress and pinned up hair, toward the Winterfield banqueting hall. The room took her breath away. Four vast mahogany tables were arranged in a square, each one piled high with books. Old tomes, crisp new novels, and thick codices were arranged artfully on stands and stacked into little towers A quartet of young men played music of an orchestral variety Devon had never heard before. Her ears rang with delightful noise and she inhaled the instrumental scent of archaic wood and slightly worn brass. In the centre of the room, so big it leaned over every table, stood an artistic representation of the Tree of Knowledge. Metal and glass fused into a semblance of bark to form a glossy, solid trunk. Branches spread high above the tables, far taller than her and touching the ceiling. Instead of leaves, it sported clusters of printed pages shaped carefully into origami apples. The sheer amount of effort gone into its construction was stunning. Come have a seat, gaily said above the chatter and laughter. Eat well. You have a long night ahead. Devon barely heard. She was too busy breathing in the glittering lights and spice laden scents, her head full of music and her body thrumming with adrenaline. But she let the older woman steer her to a seat, fumbling for a chair with eyes still wide. The Winterfields liked their meals styled into faux human food. Roast meat made of sculpted paper, pages dyed in a multitude of colours and shaped into delicate fake fruit. A new way of eating, at least to her. She thought about plucking an apple off the tree, but didn't quite have the courage. Alcohol was everywhere. Devon had never tried alcohol before. In her family they only drank ink tea or water. She almost choked on the wine with her first mouthful. It wasn't good, exactly, and didn't have the heaviness of ink tea, but it was very drinkable. She sipped again, and a third time. It tasted, she thought, like a well crafted romance novel. Complex, sweet, and a little stinging. My God, I've forgotten how fun a good wedding can be. Devon swivelled to her left to see Phaedra's beaming face at some point between people coming and going in a heady mix of books, wine, and music. The other women had taken the next seat along. Phaedra had left Fairweather Manor only a couple years ago, and yet it seemed a lifetime since they'd seen each other. Hi, devon said, then kicked herself mentally for sounding like a little girl. She tried to summon something intelligent to say, brain traitorously going blank. So I'm. You're very tipsy, I should think. Phaedra fluttered eyelashes that were lumpy with too thick mascara. It's good to be tipsy at your own wedding. I was. For both of mine. She put a hand on Devon's skirt draped thigh. The long chipped nails were overpainted colour smeared on the cuticles. Right. Devon blushed. I mean, thanks. She drank more wine, conscious of the other woman's warm palm pressed to her leg through the thin fabric. Relax. Have fun. Phaedra brushed a friendly kiss across Devon's cheek. Look at you, going all red. She leaned away to grab a plate of salad, shredded pages of Midsummer Night's Dream that were dyed different shades of green, the words barely readable. Despite the other woman having lived at Fairweather Estate, Devon barely knew her. The ants had kept Phaedra secluded in the north wing of the manor, and the baby seemed to take up such an inordinate amount of Phaedra's time. Besides, Devin didn't have the faintest idea how to make conversation with another woman. She still didn't know. Even now, Phaedra's appearance left her awkward and stammering. So much for that tongue of hers. The Winterfields always throw the best parties, so don't feel too bad about your house. I've seen worse. Phaedra picked up strips of her book salad, dipping it in her wine with delightful scandalousness. You can go to these, too, once you're finished with the babies. No more babies for me. I get to drift around having fun. Her expression turned wistful and her lower lip quivered briefly. How's my son doing? He was such awful trouble. Terrible sleeper. Much worse than my first. But I do think of him fondly. Chester's very happy, devon said, hoping it was true. She didn't see the lad much. He'd cried for weeks after Phaedra had first departed, but he got over it. Surely that meant he was all right now. Oh, good, phaedra muttered into her whine. Lovely. I'm very glad to hear it. She tipped back her glass in a long swallow. Can I ask you a question? Devon scooted a little closer until their shoulders were touching. Did you mind it? Mind? Phaedra licked a splatter of green dye off her palm. What do you mean? Wine flecks dotted her cheek. Everything. Getting married, having the babies. The former mother bride sat silent for a long moment, running the tip of her forefinger over her thumbnail. Well, there's not anything else, is there? Can't live with humans, so it's this or nothing. She took a long drink, then another. It's only a few years and a couple of babies, and then you go on with your life. Live like a queen once you've paid your dues. She brightened. I don't think I mind. Why do you ask? Do you mind? Someone made an inane toast in the background, and several people cheered before returning to their quieter revelry. No, of course not, devon said reflexively. Phaedra was right. It was this life or nothing. They could not be knights or human, could only be booky to women and all that entailed. And then, feeling awkwardly self conscious about her answer, she added, were very lucky. It seemed important to say that. Oh, sure, yes. We have the luckiest of lives. Phaedra topped up both their glasses with a giggle. To luck. Cheers, darling. They both collapsed into laughter. Devon tried to remember what was so funny and decided it was the wine itself. God, I'm going to miss these parties, phaedra said in between bouts of giggling. Won't be many more. You know. They say there's only six brides left in the whole of Britain. Her the drink must have been clouding their conversation. Devon felt she was missing a piece of something important. Hurt yourself, phaedra said, swirling her glass. We're rare and getting rarer, don't you know that? Sure, everyone knows that. Devon didn't know that women were rare among the book eaters. Yes, but nobody had ever told her they were getting even more rare. Only six left, Phaedra repeated. Won't be many more weddings to go to unless we can make that science stuff work. That's what my last husband said anyway. Science stuff? Devon echoed, blinking through a haze of alcohol. Is that the test tube baby thing? Uh huh. Children born from science. We'll have them soon. Ten years from now. Phaedra started laughing a little too loudly. And what will the knights do then, when we can choose our own husbands? What will the dragons do when no knights take them in and teach them to control their urges? Poor little knights. Poor little dragons. Several people were glancing their way, and a few of the knights were staring at Phaedra very hard. With perfect timing, Galie appeared at her elbow and said softly, time for you to come with me, my lovely. Bye now. I'll see you another time. Phaedra winked, blew a kiss, then slumped over the table with head in hands. Isn't the party still going? Devon said. But allow Gaily to help her up from the table and start leaving the dining hall. Won't there be a ceremony? She remembered that in Fairweather Manor, Phager had undergone an exchange of contractual marriage vows while the door stood in respectful silence. That's not the Winterfield custom, my lovely, gaily said. They slipped unheralded from the dining hall and set foot on a flight of stairs. We enjoy a good party, but do not stand on ceremony. Then where are we going? Devon leaned hard on the handrail head spinning with drink. Only a little farther, just down this hall. Mind your step on that threshold. My, you've had a bit to drink, haven't you? I suppose you're not used to it. Well, here we are. Gaily drew them to a pair of doors, the wood elegantly painted. You have a good evening, my lovely. I'll come and see you in the morning. A small suite of rooms spread out before Devin, comprised of soft blue walls with delicate floral paper. A bedroom with adjoining four piece bathroom stood to her left and a large L shaped living area curved away to her right. Lewton Winterfield sat on the couch with a bottle of brandy and two glasses on the table in front of him. A tray filled with folded origami pieces sat next to it. He looked her up and down as she stood in the doorway. A man at least twice her age and old enough to be her father. Heels at your height, really? He shook his head, pouring brandy into two glasses. Sit down and don't flinch, darling. I was only teasing. Devon debated taking off her heels, couldn't think of a way to do so gracefully. She wobbled over next to him and sat with stiff formality. The origami pieces, on closer inspection, were actually pages from books, each one folded into an intricate little swan. Relax, he said, handing her a drink. It'll be fun. He was smiling, so she must have been doing all right. Devon took the drink and picked up a paper swan. Her tongue tingled from the first bite, starbursts cascading across her vision. Behold, you are beautiful, my love. Behold, you are beautiful. Your eyes are doves. What was she would have slumped back if not for Luton, offering a steadying hand. It's that song of Solomon, the Bible. But never has she eaten it before. Words have an effect on us, and so do certain chemical substances. His smile turned slow and ferocious. Lace. A printed page with a little bit of the right stuff and you'll get quite the combination of experiences. The room was rushing past her. I feel like I'm flying. No, swimming. That's why we call them swans. He put another to her lips. How beautiful you are, my darling. Oh, how beautiful. Your eyes are doves. Her head was a hurricane of doves. Looking Lewton made pleasant if inane conversation and she did her best to keep up, answering his biting jokes with her own banter despite the whirlwind inside her mind. That tongue of yours, he said at one point, though she couldn't recall what she'd said. Your uncle warned me rude. She stuck her tongue out like she had as a child, and he nipped it with his teeth. Devon flushed. A few clumsy kisses later and he started undoing the laces of her old fashioned bodice before pulling back to reach for the brandy, saying, I think you need a top up. By her third drink, she'd also had several cups of wine. At supper, most of her clothes were piled on the floor in a heap, including the problematic heels. He draped an arm across her shoulders. He looked cold. I'm lucky, she announced. Also a princess. Somehow they ended up in the bedroom. Alcohol induced exhaustion clouded her skull. She must have fallen back on the bed because suddenly she was looking at the ceiling. Ornate wooden crossbeams, reddish protruding, the ribs of a giant creature viewed internally. Perhaps she'd been swallowed by a whale. Like Jonah the Prophet, Devon thought, trying to remember where she'd heard that story. And then Luton was rolling her over. She tried to lift her head, voice muffled by embroidered pillowcases and sheets of Egyptian cotton. Just relax. He pushed her head back down. Good girl. His voice was a river drifting away and carried her along with it.
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That's all for now. Thank you for listening. Make sure to follow Stories from Among the Stars on your preferred podcast app to get the next episode. Or if you just can't wait, you can buy the Book Eaters wherever books or audiobooks are sold.