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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 18 the many faces of Devon Fairweather Present Day the Book Eater inability to write by longhand in any form, including codes or picture grafts, is truly fascinating. They cannot even type electronically. I am reminded of situational mutism such as that experienced by some autistic individuals or people with anxiety, where someone may have healthy vocal cords and academic knowledge of human language, yet still be unable to communicate verbally. I believe book eaters experience a similar communication processing barrier. Any action the brain categorizes as written communication becomes psychologically impossible for them to perform. The fact that mind eaters can do it easily must surely to them seem a cruel irony. Amarinda Patel Paper and a Secret History Devon dreamed again of hell with that same sense of absurdist comedy. Instead of a pit opening up, she found herself riding a train whose destination was heaven. Although no one wanted to take her ticket, Kai sat next to her Hester in the Cedar Cross. Both were keen to see what heaven looked like, but Devon knew better. Heaven was a lie. They needed to jump off the train into the fields of fiery death outside. She flung herself from a ghostly train, but her companions did not jump with her, only watched from the doorway with sad faces. Devon crashed into a pit of fire and kept going. She fell through, level after level after level of molten heat, deeper and darker and hotter, until finally she landed on a rustic sofa in a self catering B and B cottage. Devon snapped awake, sitting up so fast her head spun. She'd rolled off the sofa in her sleep, hitting the floor with a thump. Her head ached. Light streamed through the cheap lace curtains, making her squint. Kai wasn't anywhere to be seen, but a pile of his clothes sat outside the bathroom door, which was shut, and the sound of running water came from within. Merry Christmas, sleepyhead. You're the last one up. Hester sat on the edge of her bed with legs crossed, dressed alert and looking far less stressed than the night before. What? Devon groaned. A yawn. What time is it? Morning sunlight washed out her black clothes to an unhealthy grey. The carpet beneath her face smelled like mothballs. Almost 8am Hester gestured at the room's little television, which which was turned on with a low volume. Look, we're famous. On the flickering screen a well coiffed news anchor was speaking. We have urgent news of a shooting incident in Newcastle Central Station on Christmas Eve, followed by an aggravated series of assaults on the Edinburgh Line no casualties reported, but the police would urgently like to speak to a man and a woman believed to be travelling together toward Edinburgh. They are also in search of a train conductor who is accused of attacking passengers before disappearing. More information as it comes in. Reports say the man is roughly 6ft in height, dressed in black with fair skin and dark hair. The woman is around 5ft tall, wearing a patterned blouse and long skirt. No casualties, eh? Devon said, swallowing a second. John. Just inexplicable piles of ink stained paper mouldering on the ground. She thought of Ramsey wearing that train conductor uniform. There was only one explanation for how he'd got in it. She wondered if the real train conductor would turn up alive and what he would have to say about the man who attacked him. If so, being on the news is bad. Hester said we might run into trouble if our hosts think that description is awfully familiar. All the more reason to get out of here. I'd feel better if I knew exactly what I'm walking into next, devon said. How is this going to work? Do I just rock up and introduce myself to your siblings? Hester got up and started shaking dried mud from her shoes. I'll bring you to Killock and you'll have a chat with him. He's very charming. Fair enough. Devon thought of Hester's confession from the night before. Sometimes he frightens me. We still need a way of getting there. Two steps ahead of you. I've already been down to reception this morning to ask around. Don't look so anxious. We don't match those daft police descriptions on the television anyway. No dealerships that we knew of. But. But the farm itself has an old hatchback they've been trying to get rid of for several months. I reckon we could take it for a test drive and not come back. Or we could just buy it. Devon rakes her fingers through her hair to unknot the tangles. And we should, if they're not already suspicious of us. They absolutely will be if we steal a vehicle. Attention from Ramsey was one thing. Attention from human police was quite another. Buy it, esther said. Poise rattled. How much money do you have, precisely? The water switched off thumping noises from Kai clambering around in the bath. He would be out soon. Devon snagged a nail in her hair. Tell me where we're going precisely, and I'll tell you how much money I have. Precisely. Hester flared slim nostrils. Even if you take a scenic route to avoid towns, 80 miles isn't exactly journey to the centre of the Earth. We'll be there by this afternoon. What are you afraid of? That I'll betray you before you get me somewhere secure? It's not that simple. Killuk insisted on secrecy. He asked me to keep you in the dark as much as possible. Devon abandoned her hair to its tangles. Let me get this straight. Everyone has to do what he says and live under his rule. You're sometimes afraid of him and he's also paranoid. Remind me again how he's supposedly different from the other patriarchs. That's not Hester picked at a thumbnail, lips pinched. Dev. Kai stuck his head around the door. I don't have a towel. Oh for heaven's sakes. Devon scooped one off the floor and tossed it at him, trying not to show how rattled she felt. Take it in with you next time. He huffed at her and shut the door again. That odd mix of overly competent 5 year old who could manage his own shower but also never remembered to bring in towels or clean clothes. The sight of him, however, was a sharp reminder of her priorities. She needed these folks to trust her or Kai would never be OK again and Devon would never be free of Ramsay. Perhaps she ought to yield just a little, just this once. She turned back to a very amused looking Hester and said, about 20 grand. The other woman's smile faltered. Come again? I took £26,370 from Matley Easterbrook's vault. There was more, but the rest didn't fit in my backpack. Devon picked up her jacket from the couch, shook it out and stuffed her arms into the sleeves. I've got about £20,000 left, I think. Need to sit and count it out. Plenty for a cheap old car. You broke into the Easterbrook's vault? Didn't Killick take his father's accounts? Devon said, sidestepping the question. This is no different. Kill at Kajeer's to plan and all of us helping, hester said, equally evasive. You were one woman alone. What we doing this morning? Kai wandered out of the bathroom looking cleaner than he had in a long while but also moving a little slower, and the bright energy he'd carried yesterday seemed faded. We were about to buy a car, devon informed him. Wanna do your starving orphan act? Should knock a bit off the price. Not an act, he said mournfully. I'm really hungry. A week ago those words would have twisted her gut. Today Devon could smile apologetically and say, hang in there love. Just a few more hours. She counted out 500 pounds and 20 pound notes and handed them across to Hester here, you and he should be the ones to do the purchase. I don't have shoes and I look dodgy as hell. Oh, I mean, sure, if you trust me too. We'll never finish this trip if we don't stop trusting each other. She handed the money over in a thick wad. Right. Hester took the proffered money and cleared her throat. Inner Leven. Pardon? You wanted to know, right? I'm letting you know. Hester folded the money with deliberate care and tucked it into her pocket. We are going to Traquair House on the outskirts of Inner Leven. It's only a couple hours drive from here. Never been there, never heard of it, devon said, nonplussed. But I appreciate the trust. Thanks for telling me, even if I don't have a bloody clue where it is. Well, like you said, the success of our journey requires mutual reliance, hester said, sounding embarrassed. Informing you of the destination is a small enough gesture. You'd have needed to tell me in the next couple of hours anyway. Did you? Devon picked up the television remote and unmuted the news channel. Come grab me when you've got the car, eh? I want to see if there's any updates about us in the meantime. It's a plan. Hester unlocked the door and held her hand out to Kai. All right, young man. You get to be my accomplice. Devon sat patiently on the edge of the bed until they'd disappeared, keeping her eyes to the screen when the door clicked shut. After Hester and Kai, she got up, drew the bolt as a precaution and rang Ramsay on her mobile. He answered on the first ring. Tell me this is good news. Inner leaving, she said, a little breathless. We're going to a place called Traquair House in Inner Leven. It's a town in the Border counties. I know it. A pause in a leaving of all places. Why there, I wonder. How should I know? She said, exasperated. Maybe it was the first place they could find. Anyway, I need a few days to settle in once we get there. Fine. I need a little time myself to organise things on this end. He sounded serene, cheerful, almost pleasant, like boy Ramsay had been during his best moods. Let's set a date. December 26th at 23:00 clock hours. Send a confirmation text once you're there. And keep your phone if you can. We can track it. That's tomorrow evening, she said dazedly, counting up in her head. Barely 36 hours. Are you sure? Why the fuck wouldn't I be sure? He snarled. Roused to sudden ire. It's not a problem, is it? You're not on God damn holiday, Dev. No, no, of course not. A brutally tight window, but it would have to do. It's fine. I was just surprised. Is there anything else? Don't fuck up. Don't try anything stupid. Look out for the night I'm sending your way. See you in a day and a half. The line went dead. Devon watched the call disconnect and wondered how Ramsay had fared last night, stranded on that train with his superiors breathing down his neck. How he'd explained the dead bodies and everything else that had gone wrong with the night's actions. She suspected with a kind of grudging admiration that he'd not encountered any trouble. He was a tough person in his own spiteful little way. That toughness made him blind, though. Ramsay thought himself so strong and so frightening that no one would dare to get in his way, and thought of her as so desperate and so shaped by circumstance that she wouldn't have a path around his enforced treachery and spiralling plans. The only intelligence he ever acknowledged was that which mirrored his own. Ramsay believed his strength came from his own cruelty and so could not recognise such qualities in other people. Including her. So much the better. If Devon wanted to enact her own plans, she simply had to take advantage of Ramsay's blindness. She crooked her neck, brought up her recent contacts, and pressed the call button again, but this time for a different number, the one she'd called yesterday evening before leaving the flat with Hester and Kai. Three rings, followed by cautious silence. Nike Terrace follows the Firefly, she said, because there was no need for Morse code at the moment. It's me. Witch like herself was seeking the way out came the answer, and Jarrow Easterbrook sighed theatrically. Still gives me a heart attack every time you ring. You know I'm losing years off my life over here. She couldn't help but smile. He never changed. Not in the ways that mattered. It's good to hear from you. Devon crushed the handset against her ear. Things are moving, and very quickly. Can you pick me up from Traquair House in Inner Leithen? When are we talking? How quick is quick? She grimaced. Tomorrow, apparently. Although I'm not sure exactly when we're leaving. Jesus, Dev. One day's notice? Really? You've had months to prepare, she protested. Ok, fine. It's not fair, but it's all I've got. Ramsay is going full throttle. Fuck me. Is that a no? She said, iced with sudden anxiety. A rustling noise, paper being rifled. Are you there? She said. I don't have much time. It's enough time. I can do it, he said. Listen. At the juncture where the Leithen Water tributary meets the River Tweed, you will find a trio of riverine islands. Meet me there tomorrow morning. A trio of what now? Damn his romanticism, she thought with annoyance. Can't we just meet in town? Fuck, Someone's coming. Gotta go. He hung up. Devon clutched the disconnected receiver, vacillating between relief and anxiety. So much to juggle. So many spinning plates. Focus on the goal, she thought, chest squeezing. Focus on the goals. Not the obstacles. On the needs, not the fears. Two days. Only two days. Devon stood, scooped up her bag, and went to catch up with her other two companions. The car would be ready by now. The inside of the little grey Ford smelled like the outside of a farm a few miles in, and Devon felt compelled to roll down the window and hang her head out. The balm of snow and woodland soothed her offended nose. In the driver's seat next to her, Hester hummed as she steered them toward a twisting country road, avoiding the motorway she'd insisted on driving since she had shoes and knew where they were going. Fined by Devon. Haggling had been straightforward enough, and if the farm owners found it odd that Hester paid in cash, they hadn't complained. Likewise, neither Devon nor Hester complained when they charged far more than the car was worth. As with the room last night, money solved a host of quibbles. As they'd pulled away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. The farm owners were staring after them with hands on hips, heads leaned together. Devon had wondered briefly if the pair would end up filing a police tip off, then decided she didn't really care. The miles drifted by and Devon leaned her head against the rest, oddly tired despite a good night's sleep. Too much cumulative exhaustion. She was just starting to doze off when Kai's voice jerked her to wakefulness. D' you hear that? He peered through the back passenger window, craning his neck. Sounds like a motorcycle coming down the road. Devon sat up, instantly alert. Where? Which direction? Hester said. Are you sure? Ahead of us. He pointed. Hester hit the brakes abruptly, throwing all three of them against their seatbelts, and stuck her head out of the window to listen. Devon also peered out. The narrow country road lay empty, couched between greyish green fields and speckled with sheep. And cutting through that domestic silence was the unmistakable burr of a bike engine, too far to be seen. Yet on that twisting Road from the front, she said, coming towards us. Hester revved the car back into motion. The two of you duck down and he likely will just pass us by. Hurry. Kai hunkered down, eyes squeezed shut. The speck blossomed into a lumpy squidge of black, growing bigger as the two vehicles streamed toward each other. The knight was clearly visible on his black bike, ironically helmetless smart suit obscured by an expensive bomber jacket. One of Ramsey's knights, out scouting for them here to have a flashy car chase, just as she'd requested. His voice floated up from her memory. Keep this one alive, please. I'm tired of cleaning up the bodies of my men, and nights are not infinitely expendable. Fuck that. Every night she could kill in advance improved her chances of getting out of this mess alive. And even better if it made her look good in Ravenscar eyes. What are you doing? Hester hissed. Eyes on the road. Duck down. No. Devon lunged across and wrenched the wheel to the right, ramming the night at 60 miles an hour with a little grey Ford bike hit car at a skewed angle with a brassy clang. Hester swore and stomped the brakes. Devon bruised her chest against the tight restraints of the seatbelt, guts slamming against her ribs. The night cascaded up and over the windshield in a tornado of limbs before landing on the ground near the passenger side. A single moment of stunned stillness, and then he rolled over, trying to crawl away. Black blood streamed from his nostrils and from a ruined eye socket. One of his legs bent in the wrong direction and he could only crawl a few inches. Devon unclipped her seatbelt and swung the car door open with all her strength. Daw met Knightly head with a dull clunk. It was one blow too many. He flopped back on the tarmac, stunned into unconsciousness. A frustrated shout from Hester as Devon vaulted from the Ford, still barefoot like she had been in the forest all those years ago, running and hunted. For a moment she stood above the prone knight, spasmodic indecision holding her in place. Murder, much like the second hand clothes she wore, never quite felt comfortable. But she still remembered all too clearly the fear and horror of that first escape attempt. If the Patriarchs had required her death, the knights would have delivered without a backward glance. Besides, the only good knight was a dead knight. Necks were hard to break, so Devon took the easy option and, prying the knife from his belt, spiked his blade through the fifth left intercostal space straight to the heart. He never regained consciousness. 30 seconds of stillness as winter sunlight slowly warmed the frost limbed road, and the night bled out inside his own chest cavity. She stepped back, breathing through her nose. At last we meet the woman who killed Mattley Easterbrook. Hester leaned against the car. I was beginning to wonder when you'd show yourself. What about you? Devon said. When will you show yourself? The night was already decaying, skin grown thin and brittle and pale like parchment as his veins dried up. Lines of inky blood traced uneven patterns across the exposed flesh. I won't lose sleep over one dead night, hester said, ignoring the question pointedly. But for the record, I did not appreciate you snatching the wheel. That could have gone diabolically wrong. Sorry. Split second decision. It wasn't fair of me. I could have just driven past him. I'm not sure this was worth the fuss. Were still an hour from the border. He might have alerted the others. You don't think this murder would alert them? Not if they don't find the evidence. Devon picked up the clothes, shaking out the ink damp mess of paper. I'll hide the suit and motorbike. They'll notice he's missing eventually, but by then we'll be out of their reach. Hester duly obliged. Devon dumped an armful of stained fabric into a ditch by the side of the road. Picking up the bike with both hands, she flung it into the hedge, a heavy thing to toss, though fun to watch it go flying. Kai, meanwhile, observed them from the back with an expression Devon couldn't read. She met his gaze briefly, held it for a few seconds before turning away. He'd seen worse. What was one more murder in his presence? Inwardly, she was already rehearsing excuses. To Ramsay, I couldn't stop her. She was the one driving because the family never let me learn that skill. And also because only Hester knew our end location. Of course, that was assuming he even asked, because he wouldn't have the chance if she had her way. By the time he thought to suspect anything, Devon planned to be long gone. The idea that she might never see her brother again gave her a sudden kick of endorphins, and she almost smiled. Hester sank into the driver's side. I suppose we're lucky Mr. Flying Knight here didn't crack the windshield. I'm always lucky, devon said, clipping in her seatbelt. This is what luck feels like. You're bloody weird, you know that? God almighty. Let's just get to Inner Leathen. Hester put the car into gear and drove off, leaving the empty road well behind. None of them looked back. Chapter 19 the Exile formerly known as Prince. Five years ago, the prince was beside himself, and in his despair he fell down from the tower. He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell pierced his eyes. Then he wandered quite blind about the forest, ate nothing but roots and berries, and did nothing but weep over the loss of his dearest Rapunzel, Hans Christian Anderson Rapunzel. Devon thought she would not love anyone as much as she'd loved Salem. Wounds healed into scars, the skin growing thick and rigid and protective, or so folks said, along with once bitten, twice shy, time cures all, and other such cliches. The cliches were wrong. Devon was wrong. When the time came, she birthed her second child on the games room couch of Easterbrook Manor, because even after her water broke, she opted to keep playing Final Fantasy through the early contractions. Only when the pain ramped up too severely for her to hold a controller did she allow Jarrow to run off for help. By then she was lying on her side and not fit to walk anywhere, and afterward, when her newborn son lay in her arms and opened his swollen eyes wide, her heart cracked open all over again, as if she'd learned nothing at all. The first time round, a boy, said the closest aunt, and murmurs of disappointment chased the announcement. A mere three aunts lived at the villa out of some forty adults. Devon knew none of their names and had exchanged not a word with any of them till now. They'd attended her birth anyway, because that was what women were expected to do for each other. A boy. Amazing. Jaro had mostly flitted around the edges of the room, kept out of the way by irritated ants. How'd you feel, dev? He sounded 12 and excited. Joy rendered his features childish. I. I feel. Devon looked down at the squirming bundle cradled against her chest as the ants fussed around her, taking away the placenta and mopping up the mess. The mantra, she thought. Don't care, don't bond. Think only of Salem. It didn't work. The rehearsed words fell away. She was attached again to another tiny creature who would snuff out her spirit when she lost him to the families. Only this time things were hard because he was a boy, horror and might grow up to be something worse than a bride, a knight, or even a husband, or both, a herter of women and a hunter of princesses. And still she would adore him, hopelessly, pine for his loss endlessly, for here was the thing that no fairy tale would ever admit, but that she understood in that moment. Love was not inherently good. Certainly it could inspire goodness. She didn't argue that poets would tell you that love was electricity in your veins that could light a room, that it was a river in your soul to lift you up and carry you away, or a fire inside the heart to keep you warm. Yet electricity could also fry. Rivers could drown and fires could burn. Love could be destructive. Punishingly, fatally destructive. And the other thing, the real bloody clincher of it all, was that the good and the bad didn't get served up equally. If love were a balance of electric lights and electric jolts, two sides of an equally weighted coin, then fair enough, she could deal. That wasn't how it worked, though. Some love was just the bad all the time, an endless parade of electrified bones and drowned lungs and hearts that burned to a cinder inside the cage of your chest. And so she looked down at her son and loved him with the kind of twisted, complex feeling that came from having never wanted him in the first place. She loved him with bitterness, and she loved him with resignation. She loved him though she knew no good could ever come from such a bond. Dev Gero said again, recalling her to the moment she burst into tears. Spooked by the noise, her newborn opened his mouth wide and began to wail. From out of his mouth flopped a tube like tongue, curling and uncurling weakly. Oh no. The blonde aunt covered her mouth with both hands like a distressed Victorian heroine. The others peered over, faces immediately paling. A heated discussion broke out between the other two, something about who would have to inform the men and how long they should wait. Vision blurred with tears, Devon found herself trying to tuck her crying son's tongue back into his mouth, as if she could tuck away in him the things other people found awful and hide them out of sight. The tubular tongue curled around her finger like a warm spaghetti strand, and he settled at once, soothed by suckling like any other child. She remained immobile, tears evaporating as the ants argued behind her. Shit, jarrow said. Mattley's going to bloody flip when he gets back. But he looked worried rather than disgusted, and she was grateful for that. Can you blame him? What a waste, said the oldest of the women. I'd best let the knights know. Another one for their dragon pens. Poor little monster. I don't care what Matley or anyone else thinks, devon said, and was met by shocked faces. My son is beautiful. This child will grow up to consume minds, said one of the women who'd been arguing. Our concern is not with how he looks, but what he will grow into I thought we didn't care about humans, devon snapped. Why are you bothered if he eats a few and he hasn't eaten anyone yet? He's only a baby. Eventually he'll wean off that milk and grow into his hunger, said the first ant, nostrils flaring. Dragons do not care what they eat or who, as long as they do. Your son would eat you given half the chance. Redemption cures the need, not the want, said the older woman. He will crave minds all his life, no matter how much redemption you give him. Dragons are never safe, can never be trusted, only managed. He's still beautiful, devon said. He's still mine. The baby fussed again, no longer conned by suckling a mere finger, and she eased him to a breast. All the things she'd learned to do from having Salem. What is his name? Did Mattley pick one? He didn't latch the way Salem did, and the sensation was odd, but she could get used to it. It doesn't get an Easterbrook name. Devon twisted her neck round to the sight of Matley, who had stalked in silently and now stood behind her. He wore white slacks and a white shirt, painfully searing as ever in that shadowed room. 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 realising 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. Matt, 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 ravens cars 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's 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 ants in the background. Mattley 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 barrelled 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 ants 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. Oh, 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. Jarry 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. The pamphlet had a sparky flavour, 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 stand ins 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 Hurt's finger. Oh, that reminds me. Nearly forgot. Jarrah 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 talesque all the same. Princesses and 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. Okay. 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. Jaro puts his Game Boy in her lap. I hear it's 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 Mattley'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 realised the electric fire 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. 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 closer 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 princess has 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 10 year old Salem, waiting forlornly in the Winterfield courtyard for a mother who would not be arriving, growing sullen with the years of that betrayal and the abandonment. A worse alternative. Lewton had fed Devon nothing but lies, and Salem had already forgotten her mother existed as Devon had forgotten her own. It hurt to think of that. It hurt in places and in ways that she didn't have words for. But it did not hurt as much as abandoning the boy in her arms to an even worse fate. She had to choose between them, and it was no choice at all. Salem was already lost through Devon's failure, and her son needed her more. When he had settled at her breast, she reached across, tapping thimble to wood. Help me. Jarrow blinked. Help you how? What with? Help me take him to Ireland like you offered before. His mouth opened and closed. I know he is a dragon and that changes things. But if we can steal some redemption and oh, Dev. The bedspring sighed as he shifted his weight. You have the worst timing you know that. A thump of fear beats in her chest. What do you mean? Im being sent to live with the Gladstones too, he said wearily. The same chalet the exiled Victor live in, just off the main house. He flushed at her appalled expression. It could be worse. They were going to send me to the knights, but the knights don't want me because I'm too old to train. Thank God for that mercy. But it was still her fault he was being sent away, she thought, and felt sick. He was being punished for defending her from Matley, as Ramsay had once been punished for following her lead. If only she'd held her tongue both times. You are here to say goodbye, she said, engulfed by sudden rising panic. The Game Boy is your goodbye present? Yes. I'm sorry. His turn for the apologies. I meant it when I said you could reach out if you changed your mind. But I can't do what you're asking. I'm leaving today. I shouldn't be here at all. Only I couldn't go without checking on you first. But why teach me Morse code if you were just leaving anyway? Someone pounded on the door, calling Jaro's name. They both jumped. Just a minute, he shouted over one shoulder, then turned back to her. Because you can't talk, daft woman. I've asked a couple of the ants to eat Morse code books, too. They'll be able to understand your requests and look after you across the next few weeks while your throat heals up all right. No. She wanted to scream. It wasn't all right. Will I see you again? Definitely. I promise. Only it might have to wait until your son has gone to the other dragons. His smile was sad and sickly. I'll travel and find you when all this is over. That is, years from now. She tapped frantically. I will not see you for ages. I know. I'm so sorry, Dev. Really I am. Everything was happening too fast. All her doors were closing, her options receding, even her last resort, dangerous flight with a child in tow was a life raft withdrawn, leaving her floundering. She was about to be alone in a hostile house with a child she could not keep. Again. The person outside knocked harder, shouted louder and more impatiently, Shit. I have to go. He bent to give her a gentle hug, careful of the baby, and said in her ear, listen, if you ever feel like ditching the families with or without your kids, then get in touch. I'll help if I can. I swear. She wanted to tap out. How? I can't write. I can't call. But there was no time another Easterbrook brother stuck his head in, saying, come on, mate, we don't have all day. Bye. Jarrow said again and left with the last of Devon's light.
- [49:53]
A
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