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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 ehrich.
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Chapter 16 Prince Charming plays Tomb Raider six years ago, knowing nothing of darkness or stars or moon, Photogen spent his days in hunting on a great white horse. He swept over the grassy plains, glorying in the sun, fighting the wind and killing the buffaloes. George MacDonald, the history of Photogen and Night Terrace Memory was an anchor. It could ground you in a storm, keep you from drifting. But anchors could also weigh you down and keep you from sailing free. Devon's memories of Salem were both keeping her sane, yet also weighing her spirit with heaviness. She would wake alone each morning and lie in bed for several moments, just breathing, just thinking about her daughter. Some days, breathing was all you could do. Matley Easterbrook never stayed the entire night, and Devon was grateful for that because she could not rest with that man in her room. Prey did not relax when predators lurked. Easterbrook Manor was large and lush and modern, many roomed and fashionable. It had gardens and fields and a cultivated forest. It had stables with six horses and hired humans, carefully vetted to look after them. Somewhere there was even an indoor swimming pool and a gym. Devon had no interest in any of it. She hadn't left her quarter since the marriage night two weeks ago, and today would be no different. There was nothing to leave it for. She was only here to endure pregnancy, childbirth. The loss of her second child today felt particularly lethargic and pointless for no particular reason she could name. After a while she crawled out of bed, taking a long shower to scrub the stink of matley off her skin. She came out of the bathroom inconst in a heavy towel, only to find that one of the staff had brought her breakfast while she was bathing. Yet another stack of fairy tales sat on her end table. The books were the modern kind, with that glossy varnish to the pages that Devon found sickly. She walked over, still draped in a towel, and flipped open a page listlessly. Once upon a time there was a beautiful young princess whose hair was the colour of pure gold. She was frequently lonely and unhappy, for her mother had died when she was a baby and her father paid little attention to her. Devon flung the picture book hard. It fluttered rather than flew, landing limply at her feet. She picked it up and ripped the pages out one by one. Scraps of paper floated down. Think only of Salem and seeing her again. Don't care about this marriage. Don't think. Be like Phaedra. Switch it off. Live for Better days live for that 10th birthday. She repeated that mantra to herself under her breath until it was a background hum of determination. Only it was so difficult to do or stick to when she had nothing but these four walls to occupy her time. A rap sounded at the door. Devon jolted, clutching the towel reflexively. Who is it? Jarrow Easterbrook, said a muffled, somewhat familiar voice. We met on your first day here, if you remember. D' you have a minute? I. There was no sense antagonizing the people of this manor. Not if she could manage to pull herself together and be polite for a few moments. Just a second, please. She threw on a plain linen dress, toweled off her hair, and went to let him in. Can I help you with something? Sort of. He shifted, lean weight jittery as a race dog. I came to ask if you felt like playing Tomb Raider. You know, that game you tried here on your first day? Her brain actually could not grasp what he'd said. Pardon? I don't mean to offend. He tugged on his hoodie strings. Only you seem to like video games, and the Fairweathers don't have them. Could be a fun thing to do, right? I thought I'd extend the offer if you wanted to come along and play again. Some princesses climbed out of towers to escape, or were rescued by princes with swords and ropes. Video games were hardly roped to a better life, but Tomb Raider still offered a kind of escape, if only in her mind. All right, she said. As long as I'm back by evening. Princesses always had to return from their dances by nightfall, something that had seemed magical as a child but rang ominous as an adult. Jarrow's grin lit his face. Seize the day, eh? Devon followed him down a level and most of the way across the sprawling, many roomed manor. She hadn't left her room in so many days that just stepping outside made her feel exposed, as if she walked the halls naked, a sensation not helped by the prying eyes and whispering voices of the Easterbrook siblings and staff who they passed in hallways. Jarrow was either indifferent or inured to it. Her discomfort eased once they reached the games room. The sofa was criminally comfortable. Jarrow had access to an unending supply of beer to drink and graphic novels to eat, and Tomb Raider took her far away from her own twisted story. For the first time since being torn from Salem, her spirits lifted a little. We could try something two player, he said after she died as Lara on yet another difficult level. You ever played Crash Bandicoot? It's brand new. Just out. Devon shook her head, annoyed he even had to ask. Of course she hadn't tried Crash. Whatever. Bandit. Cute. She hadn't tried anything, having lived in a prison of edible fairy tales her whole life. Can we finish this one first? I don't mind if it is difficult. You're the guest. He offered her another beer, which she politely declined because Mattley would fume if she showed up drunk. All of Jaro's awkwardness from earlier has subsided. Are you sure it's all right for me to be here? She said. Using your game room, I mean. It's not mine. Not really. He was eating something called Watchmen ink, heavy and rich tasting like all graphic novels. The consoles, games. All that belongs to Vic. Who is Vic? Jarrow took another bite from his graphic novel. Victoria Easterbrook. My older sister. He hesitated, chewing slowly. That bedroom you're staying in used to be hers, too. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Used to be she doesn't live here anymore. A muscle in his shoulder twitched. He said, almost as an afterthought, vic liked games a lot. We used to play together. Currents flowed beneath the calm surface of his words, and Devon, seeing a thing she could drown in, said nothing. She had her own currents to deal with and didn't have enough head space to even feel bad about ignoring his anyway. He finished the graphic novel and picked up the controller, polishing the plastic on his sleeve. You can come here all you like. Nobody else ever used this place except me and her. Despite herself, Devon was aware of the room taking on a different texture based on the context he'd given. The wallpaper, for example, elegantly patterned in swooping dragonflies. Vic's choice. Surely Devon couldn't envisage Jarrow having picked it out. The games themselves stood out, too. Tomb Raider was definitely one that Devon would also have chosen, had she ever had the option. An adventuring princess would have been catnipped for any Book Eater woman. Victoria might be gone, but her voice still echoed. The opening music started up, drawing her back into that shared virtual experience and away from the real world. She hardly noticed the passing hours as they spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening in the games room. By some kind of unspoken agreement, neither of them mentioned the family again, nor Matley. She was therefore taken by surprise when, at quarter to seven, Jarrow hit pause and said, it's getting late. I think you might need to go pretty soon. I know. She stood too fast and knocked the coffee table empty beer cans wobbled. Thanks for the invitation. No problem, he said warmly. Come back tomorrow if you want. You don't have to invite me here because you feel sorry for me, she said, suddenly and uneasily defensive. I'm a bride and I'm lucky. This might not be the life I expected when I was little, but it's better than a lot of people get. I didn't say anything about feeling sorry for anyone, he said, and she couldn't read his expression. I just get bored playing on my own, that's all. So you're welcome to come break up my boredom. Bored? She said, floored into forgetting her peak of playing games. Anything is boring if it's all you've got. His sweeping gesture took in the small room with its stacks of comics and video games and wire, tangled technology, but she knew he was encompassing more his family, hers, all of the family. Bucky to life. I eat more novels in a year than most humans will read in a lifetime. And yes, I'm bloody bored. There's worse things than boredom, she said. His face fell. I know, I know there are my sister, she used to say. Jarrow blew a sigh and said, never mind. I don't know what I'm talking about. Come back tomorrow if you want. He waved a hand vaguely. Only if you want to. She curled and uncurled her fists. Why are you being kind to me? Im not, he said uncomfortably. You're a guest, I'm a host, and I have games. This is just basic courtesy. Basic courtesy. Somewhere along the way she'd stopped being deserving of that, or other people had stopped bothering to give it. I'll think about it. Devon slunk out in a rush, feeling confused and tired. The corridors drifted by in a blur, her thoughts whirling and keeping her distracted. She didn't understand their intentions either what Jarrow wanted from her or she from him. In a world dominated by family ties and nothing else, the concept of friendship baffled her. Jarrow himself baffled her, full stop. He oozed discontent, and she couldn't understand what he had to be discontented about. He was open and easygoing but also impenetrable and oddly inflexible. He was too much work, and the whole thing was more stress she didn't need. And yet that evening Devon found herself turning over video game levels in her head. She was still thinking about puzzles and strategies when Mattley came to see her for their nightly duty, as he referred to their attempts to conceive Tomb Raider puzzles continued to occupy her brain as she reluctantly peeled off clothes and climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling over Matley's shoulder. By the time he'd left, she'd thought of several solutions to try. Somewhere along the way she'd come to a decision and cemented into the idea of returning to the games room. Sleep came swiftly after. In the morning, more fairy tales arrived for breakfast. She disdained the offering and instead took her time showering and got dressed with unhurried slowness before picking her way toward the games room. Jarrow said nothing about her presence when she arrived. He seemed to have expected her, beers and books waiting, controller primed, hoodie already on, as if he'd not moved or changed from the day before. She sat down, picked the controller up, and rested it delicately in her lap. I've been thinking about that level. We're going about it wrong. Cool. Let's have a go then. He flung himself back on the couch. The next three weeks were a strange kind of duality between the unpleasant physicality of her nights followed by the disconnected gaming of her days. Neither of them spoke about Matley, her marriage, Vic, anything. Theirs was an alliance in distraction, a unified commitment to head in the sand escapism, and within that space she could be safe and happy, buried in the worlds of Lara Croft until Tomb Raider wrapped up, after which they moved on to Final Fantasy, another vast digital world in which to get lost. After the second month of marriage, her cycle did not appear. Devon wasn't sure whether to be relieved for what had stopped or afraid for what came next. The misery of pregnancy, certainly, and all that reality entailed. She opted, in the end, for resilience. Salem had her heart, and no other child would take that place, feel nothing, care for nothing, and you could not lose anything or be robbed. The doctor who came to Eastbrook Manor was a human man. Devon knew this not from the way he looked or walked or anything else he did, but because he could write in front of her very eyes. He produced a clipboard with various forms and began filling them out. She craned her neck to see the letters he scrawled. Devon Fairweather, female, age 23. The pen wobbled and scratched its way across the paper while she stared. Devon had attempted to write like all book eaters did when they were young, and like all book eaters, her attempts had devolved into illegible scrawls. Carry on too long and the muscles would cramp from wrist to forearm, black spots appearing in your vision. If the doctor was aware he performed a miracle, he did not show it. When the writing of forms was completed, he asked her to come closer while they worked their way through a basic physical exam, checking blood pressure, measuring height and weight, listening to her heart. Devin 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 the family house. Of all people, surely he would be the most likely to notice her inhumanness. He tapped her shoulder to indicate she should move, and she marvelled 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 Manny? The journalist guessed. 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, mattley 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 manner. 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 wood smoke scent. She tried not to hold her breath. How long will the results take? No one at Winterfield had tested a pregnancy like this. They'd simply waited for nature, as Gayly had put it, a few hours. I'll let you know the results straight away, of course. Truthfully, though, the blood test is a formality. Librevarian women libro. What women? She'd never heard the term before. Librevarian 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 Bookeaters 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 rumours, 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. Hmm. 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. Goodbye, 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 labour, 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. Chapter 17 the Princess lets down her hair six years ago and now she grew thoughtful. She must hoard this splendour. What a little ignorance her gaolers have made of her life was a mighty bliss, and they had scraped hers to the bare bone. They must not know that she knew George MacDonald the history of Photogen In Nike Terrace, Devon found her second pregnancy was strangely restful, perhaps because she'd given up entirely. Hope was the thing you lost when simply trying to imagine better days became so exhausting, overwhelming and depressing a task that one opted for despair out of sheer weariness. Giving up brought peace at Winterfield Manor. Devon had spent much of her pregnancy wandering the grounds, aimlessly but happily, always by foot, since she'd been barred from riding due to her condition. But Easterbrook lands were riddled with farms and human labour, things that distressed her rather than soothed her. She stayed indoors, having little enough to do and few other places to go. She spent a week or so pottering miserably in her room, watching rain clouds pelt the workers and fields alike, before finally venturing down to find Jarrow again. She entered the games room without knocking and simply said, I'm here to play, in answer to his puzzled expression. Erm, hello, Jarrow said, hitting paws in astonishment. I mean, sure, but isn't it kind of late? I'm pregnant, if you haven't heard, she said. I don't have to see Mattley in the evening anymore. Congratulations, I think, he said after a minute. You, erm. He scratched his head. No. Bear. Right. I'm guessing with the baby. And can I get you some tea? And you want to keep playing Final Fantasy? Devon nodded. The happiest six months of her life were spent in Jarrow's game room, staying up all hours of the night and drinking ink tea and being mostly ignored by the rest of the Easterbrook trope. She'd never been more trapped, yet so free. It's strange, she told him on one of their many afternoons lost to the worlds of PlayStation and Nintendo. When I thought about my future as a little girl, I could never have imagined any of what I'm living right now, and definitely not this. Her gesture took in the games room, encompassing not just consoles but the unconventional friendship they'd struck up. None of our kind imagines the future, jarrow said, stretching out his legs. We make plans and we predict things, but really, it's too difficult to think about life outside the bounds of what we've already experienced. Which is exactly what the future is. Life beyond what we've already experienced. Jesus, Jarrow. What just she hit the pause button. You actually listen when I talk to you and think about responses and say things that are pointful and it's weird, that's all. Jesus, Dev. What? You've a low bar for friendship, that's all. If it's such a low bar, then how come most people can't meet it? She sounded bitter, even to herself. I guess most people are kind of shite, then. Shite enough to make bare minimum basic courtesy layabouts like me look good, eh? I suppose, she added, without thinking, I wish it had been you. I could have done all this so much easier if I had a husband I liked. But instead I have. Matley. No offence to your brother. A very awkward pause, and then he laughed an unfunny laugh, a vein pulsing in his temple, almost a sob. Did I say something wrong? It would never have been me, that's all. Sorry. Why not? I mean, you're a little young, but it doesn't always have to be older brothers, does it? No, it doesn't. But they'd never pick me all the same. Not when there's so many others vying for the role. Game music looped endlessly in the background. Press play, the video screen urged. Neither of them did. I don't understand. Even as she said it, an unexpected memory surfaced. Matley, on her first night here, leering from the games room doorway. Any other man and I'd be questioning your fidelity. No one's told you, have they? Jarrow said. Suppose I should tell you before you hear it from someone else. It's common enough as a joke in this house. He set down the console controller and picked up the television one pressing mute to silence the volume. I don't like women. What do you mean? She said, affronted. You do like me, don't you? We get on. He groaned, dragging a hand through curled hair. No, you're not understanding. I don't like any women in the way men are supposed to. Oh, do you like men? That's no big concern. Lots of knights and brothers? No, not that either. He plucked invisible dust off the sofa arm. I'm asexual, I think. Erm. That was not a word Devon had encountered in her forays into fiction, so she sifted rapidly through her dictionary knowledge. Which one? Her. His turn to be confused. The word has four definitions. Jarrow snorted, throwing his head back against the couch. Go on, give me your four definitions. Lacking sex or functional sex organs. She reddened a little. That's definitely not the problem. He was laughing, not at all embarrassed. Involving or reproducing by reproductive processes, devon said with all the dignity she could muster. That isn't what you mean either, is it? You're not an amoeba or a mushroom. Jarrow shook his head, still smiling. Not involving, involved with or relating to sex. Devoid of sexuality, she said, and this time he was silent. Devon added, merriam Webster also specifies not having sexual feelings toward others, not experiencing sexual desire or attraction. That's the one. That's what I am uninterested in procreation or people in. In that way men are supposed to be. He finished off his beer, rolling the empty can between his hands. I've never felt that way for a single person, you know. Never tried to pick up human girls or wanted to get married or. Matley used to say I was a deviant. Do you know he has a pawn stache? Jarrow shook his head. Most of my brothers do. Just not me. Deviant. Noun. Someone or something that deviates from a norm. She surprised herself by saying, I'm a deviant too, for what it's worth. He looked up, still rolling the beer can. What do you mean? I like girls? Devon had never said that to anyone before, not even herself. I mean, I think I do, but how do you even know when there aren't any around? To be sure, it's just a feeling from reading about them in books and the few that I've met in real life. Jarrow was quiet for a long moment. Oh, damn. That must make these marriages very hard on you. I don't know any different, do I? It's just my life. Just your life? He crushed the empty can to flatness. Doesn't it bother you, the babies getting married, all that? The question unsettled her, an echo of what she'd asked Phaedra years ago at the first wedding. Long lashed Phaedra, pretty and bright and sparkling with her hand on Devon's thigh as she leaned in for a social kiss. Long suffering Phaedra, bored and lonely and drinking far too much wine at someone else's wedding. She gave him Phaedra's answer because it seemed fitting. Well, there's not anything else, is there? Can't live with humans, so it's this or nothing. That's not what I asked, he said quietly. Forget about duty, obligation, whether there's better or worse options. Do you, Devon Fairweather, mind being a bride who gives up her children? He pointed at her belly. You're pregnant for the second time. Are you going to mind giving up that child? It isn't so bad. She hated him for asking, for caring. She hated everyone else even more for not asking and not caring. I'm lucky I have a privileged life. What? What? He turned toward her in a rare moment of expressiveness, eyes wide and nostrils flared. Dev, you have a daughter. Would you be happy for her to get married like you've done? How are you going to feel when she goes through that in a dozen years time? Will you still be saying it wasn't so bad and telling her she's lucky? I For a brief moment, Devon was struck by a vision of a three year old Salem giggling and rolling around in bed while someone pushed her face first into a pillow and hiked up her skirt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Because Salem would be so much older when she got married. But that still might be her fate, her experience. And why not? It had been Devons. She had been willing, more or less. But if her daughter was not, what then? The experience would be nightmarish, as Matley was for her. It might be nightmarish even if Salem was willing. I don't have your choices, she said, resentment leaking into her words. We don't all get to say no. I haven't got sisters to shoulder the burden. You're asking me this like I have a say. And it's cruel, Jarrow. Really cruel. Because for you these things are a choice. He flinched. I'm sorry. I didn't. Of course I mind. Christ, I miss my daughter all the time. I can't talk about her, but I can't stop thinking about her either. I hate not having options. I hate how we live. Privileged and oppressed, exotic and dull. I try not to think of a getting married. She glared at him. Does that answer your question? Jarrow leaned forward, gripping her hand. What if I could help? You have choices. Such as? I've tried running away before. I don't think I even got five miles. You didn't have a plan or resources. He counted. Look, come with me to the back room. I want to show you something. This was a bad idea, but she only had time to kill. All right. She followed after belly filled with tingling. The games room held a small storage area that he'd outfitted as a kitchenette, a specialist kettle for boiling ink, tea cupboards of graphic novels to snack on. It also held maps. The one Jarrow rested down to spread open covered the kitchenette table completely and flowed over the edges in an ocean of excess paper. Devon had never seen a map before in her life and couldn't stop staring. Is this England? Where are we on it? It's the United Kingdom, which includes England. And we are here. He pointed. Norfolk coast she touched the spot he pointed to. I had no idea our country was so large. Jarrow burst out laughing. What's so bloody funny? Oh, not your fault. Look. He took down another map from the cupboards and spread it atop the first. That's our country, Dev, compared to the rest of the world. Green tinted continents shouldered up from matte blue seas, swathes of land and vaster swathes of ocean, landmass after landmass populated with people. And there at the very top sat an impossibly small island that she barely recognised the shape of from the first map. Her dinky little country. She'd eaten a fantasy novel once, a lush and alien book full of words that made her dizzy, containing a sketchy map of invented places. At the time it had seemed vast, but it hasn't been nearly as large or detailed as the real world variety in front of her. The world is so big, she said, dumbfounded. How did I never know? Because they don't teach girls things that matter. Jaro pushed the maps toward her across the table. Get eating. It's the fastest way to learn information. And I've got loads of copies. He grinned. Pardon? She must have misheard. Surely eating maps doesn't work. Yes and no. Paper is paper, up to a point. I've eaten copies already and it's worthwhile. I know a lot of place names have a sense of where they are. It helps. He gestured at the graphic novels. Similar to eating those. Yeah. And picture books you had as a child. Mostly the words remain, but you still get a feeling for the images. Sort of a chance to expand her knowledge into something useful and forbidden. Devon unsheathed her book teeth and bit through the folded world map. It tasted of air conditioned factories and slick, slightly bitter ink. The petrochemical coating sat heavy on her tongue, sticking to the insides of her cheeks. She grimaced. I bought you some ketchup, he said, taking a squeezy bottle from one of the shelves. It's a human condiment, but the acidic content works like a charm on glossy coated paper. No plates in the games room, so Jarrow squeezed ketchup all over the map and rolled it up like a printed tortilla wrap. Devon bit into her map roll. Words formed in her mind. A long list of places. If she concentrated, she could almost picture them laid out as if someone had scrubbed away the drawings of the land masses and left the city and country names unchanged, roughly marking out relative locations. Only there were so many countries and their capitals stacked up inside her head, and the glossy paper made her Nauseous. The ketchup tasted like an absurdist comedy, but Jarrow was right. It took the edge right off that plastic coating. Let me show you something, he said when she'd finished. If you're not too tired of seeing things, that is. No. Devon licked ketchup off her thumb. I don't mind at all. She'd have to remember his trick. There were a lot of glossy books in this house. I'll show you the different families. Jarrow unrolled the first map again and stabbed a finger. On the map. This is the Davenports in Powys, Wales. His finger moved upward, sweeping across dotted networks of cities. Easterbrooks on the Norfolk coast, that's us Moor upward. Your friendly fair weather's up in the Yorkshire moors. Back down to the south. The Gladstones in London. Somewhere in the forested middle regions. The Blackwoods were here, though they've collapsed and dispersed to other houses. Huh. My mother was a Blackwood. I wonder where she's living now. In the south somewhere. Probably a lot of them folded into the Gladstones. His finger moved back out toward the west middle areas. This is Winterfield in Birmingham, where your daughter is. Devon clenched her fists until her nails cut lines into her palms. And the Ravens cars are up here on the north coast. Even more north than your Fairweather Manor. He tapped the map with a nail. Do you know about them? The ones who make redemption? That's the ticket. Until the Ravens cars developed that drug, Dragons were just killed or managed by their own families. These days they're allowed to live because they've been useful, but no one trusts them to run their own household in case they go rogue and draw human attention. That's where the knights come in. Babysitters for the family's unwanted dragons and matchmakers for our weddings. What's that have to do with escape? Nothing directly. Since you ask. I actually opened this map to show you Ireland. Both islands. He dragged a line across the map to the other side of Britain, pointing at a small cluster of islands. See this? Northern Ireland is in the United Kingdom, but the Republic of Ireland is a whole separate country with an unguarded border between them. I don't understand. Unguarded border, he said impatiently. Think, Devin. What's the main thing that makes escaping the families difficult? She goggled at him at a total loss. They're powerful. Nah, not really. They just pretend they are, he said. Its the fact that we cannot easily leave this bloody island because none of us have any proper documentation. Oh, of course. But we can do it if we chain our journey through Northern Ireland, he pressed. We could take a ferry there without needing passports since it's part of the United Kingdom. Then drive quietly across the border into the Republic because they don't have border checkpoints between the two. Boom. Out of Britain. He grinned. If you want to escape the families, all you have to do is take a ferry to Northern Ireland, she said. Doubtful. Aren't there book eaters there? Not any more. The last of the Irish eaters dispersed in the 1940s. Some went abroad to America. Never heard from them again. The rest merged their lineages with the Ravens Cars and the Winterfields. Both islands are free of the families. He leaned forward, face aglow with excitement. What do you think? Good idea. I she put her head in her hands, overwhelmed by all he was suggesting. Overwhelmed they were even discussing this at all. Stop. Please stop. I'm glad you care. It means a lot. But I can't up and go to this island place. Northern Ireland. Whatever. I have a daughter, Jarrow. There is no plan we can concoct that will let me bring her because she's trapped in Birmingham. His face fell. She'll be trapped whether you go or stay. But if I stay, I'll get to see her when I'm done having children. I have a meeting. It's all set up on a 10th birthday. If I behave, it's if I do as I'm told. And listen to yourself, he said, almost a growl. The family. Have you fooled into thinking life is a fairy tale? There is no happy ending to this story. It is just a con. Don't talk to me like I'm bloody stupid. She kept her voice low, her jaw tight in contrast to his wild gesturing. If I go with you, I will definitely never see Salem again. That's a certainty. She'll be lost to me forever. Staying is my only chance, however slim. Oh, for God's sake, Stev. There is no chance at all, right? They are never going to let you see your daughter again. When have you ever heard of mothers visiting their biological children? Why the hell would they make an exception for you? Did your mother ever come to visit? His fists battered the table in sudden fury. Fucking think about it. Do any mothers ever visit? She stared at him with eyes wide and lips parted, a child struck dumb. A memory of Uncle Ike lounging in her bedroom, ankles elegantly crossed as he said so casually. 500 years of eter traditions do not get overturned on the whims of one pampered girl. It's bait, he stormed. They're saying this bullshit to keep you quiet until you're old and tired like the aunts and don't have the heart to fight anymore. Can't you see that? Just shut up. She clapped her hands over her ears. I came here to play video games. That's the only escape I'm interested in. The only escape that is possible for me. If you want to leave, you can do that. Go off and don't come back. No children, no responsibilities anchoring you down. But you don't want that, do you? Because this isn't about me or my life. It's about you and your need to. To rescue someone. Jarrow folded into a chair as if she'd sliced his tendons. Silence cowered between them. Im sorry, she said, and when that didn't seem enough, she added, if you no longer want me to come here, I'll understand. Don't be daft, he said after a moment. You're always welcome to play games. Or anything else. Always. He reached out and scraped the map off the table, stashing it into a drawer. If you ever change your mind, let me know. I'm serious. What that offer cost him, she couldn't begin to guess. Even in her distress, she was grateful. I'll think about it, she lied, and turned away from the maps that were too real of an escape, back toward the safe prison of the games room and its promise of digital abandonment.
- [45:32]
A
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.