It began as all things did: a girl on the shore, terrified and desirous.
From Angharad by Emrys Myrddin, 191 AD
The poster was as frayed1 and tattered2 as a page torn from someone’s favorite book. Surely, Effy
thought, that was intentional3. It was printed on a thick yellow parchment, not unlike her drafting
linens4. The edges were curling in on themselves—either shyly or protectively, as if the parchment
had a secret to hide.
Effy used both hands to smooth the paper flat, then squinted6 at the curling script. Handwritten,
it was smeared7 in several places. It was further obscured by a water stain of no discernible shape,
like a birthmark or a growth of mold.
To the esteemed9 students of the Architectural College,
The estate of Llyr’s national author EMRYS MYRDDIN is soliciting10 designs for a
manor11 home outside the late author’s hometown of Saltney, Bay of Nine Bells.
We ask that the proposed structure—HIRAETH MANOR—be large enough to house
the surviving Myrddin family, as well as the extensive collection of books, manuscripts,
and letters that Myrddin leaves behind.
We ask that the designs reflect the character of Myrddin and the spirit of his enormous
and influential12 body of work.
We ask that the designs be mailed to the below address no later than midautumn. The
winner will be contacted by the first day of winter.
Three conditions, just like in one of Myrddin’s fairy tales. Effy’s heart began beating very fast.
Almost unconsciously, she reached up to grasp at her knot of golden hair, tied back with its
customary black ribbon. She smoothed down the loose strands13 that floated around her face in the
drowsy15, sunlit air of the college lobby.
“Excuse me,” someone said.
Effy’s gaze darted16 over her shoulder. Another architecture student in a brown tweed jacket
stood behind her, rocking back and forth17 on his heels with an air of obvious irritation18.
“Just a minute,” she said. “I haven’t finished looking.”
She hated the way her voice shook. The other student huffed in reply. Effy turned back to the
poster, pulse ticking even faster now. But there was no more left to read, only the address at the
bottom, no signature, no cheery best of luck! sign-off.
The other student began tapping his foot. Effy reached into her bag and pawed through it until
she found a pen, uncapped and clearly unceremoniously abandoned, the nib8 thick with dust. She
pressed it against the tip of her finger, but no inkblot appeared.
Her stomach twisted. She pressed again. The boy behind her shifted his weight, the old wood
under him groaning19, and Effy put the pen in her mouth and sucked until she tasted the metallic20 bite
of ink.
“For Saints’ sakes,” the boy snapped.
Hurriedly she scrawled21 the address on the back of her hand and dropped the pen into her bag.
She tore away from the wall, and the poster, and the boy, before he could do or say anything more.
As she walked briskly down the hallway, Effy caught the end of his muttered curse.
Heat rose to her cheeks. She reached her studio classroom and sat down in her customary seat,
avoiding the gazes of the other students as they shuffled22 to their places. She stared down, instead,
at the bleeding ink on the back of her hand. The words were starting to blur23, as if the address were
a spell, one with a tauntingly24 short life span.
Cruel magic was the currency of the Fair Folk as they appeared in Myrddin’s books. She had
read them all so many times that the logic25 of his world was layered over hers, like glossy26 tracing
paper on top of the original.
Effy focused on the words, committing them to memory before the ink could run beyond
legibility. If she squinted until her eyes watered, she could almost forget the boy’s whispered slur27.
But her mind slipped away from her, running through all the reasons he might have scoffed28 and
sneered29 at her.
One: She was the only female student at the architecture college. Even if the boy had never so
much as glimpsed her in the halls before, certainly he had seen her name on the exam results, and
then, later, on the college roster30 in the lobby. Three days ago, some anonymous31 vigilante had
taken a pen and turned her last name, Sayre, into something lewd32, preserving the last two letters.
Two: She was the only female student at the architecture college, and she had placed higher
than him in the entrance exam. She had scored high enough for the literature college, but they
didn’t accept women, so she had settled for architecture: less prestigious33, less interesting, and, as
far as she was concerned, monumentally more difficult. Her mind didn’t work in straight lines and
right angles.
Three: He knew about Master Corbenic. When Effy thought of him now, it was only in small
pieces. The gold wristwatch nestled in the dark, thick hair of his arms. The adultness of it had
shocked her, like a blow to the belly34. Few of the boys at her college—and that’s what they were,
boys—had such thick arm hair, and even fewer had expensive wristwatches to nestle in it.
Effy squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image to vanish. When she opened them again, the
chalkboard in front of her looked glassy, like a window at night. She could picture a thousand
blurry35, half-seen things behind it.
Her studio professor, Master Parri, was running through his usual introduction, only in
Argantian. It was a new policy at the university, instituted only at the start of her first term, six
weeks ago. Officially, it was out of respect for the university’s few Argantian students, but
unofficially, it was out of a sort of preemptive fear. If Argant won the war, would they impress
their language upon all of Llyr? Would children grow up shaping its vowel36 sounds and verbs
instead of memorizing Llyrian poetry?
It might be a good idea for everyone at the university to have a head start.
But even when Master Parri lapsed37 back into Llyrian, Effy’s mind was still turning, like a dog
unable to settle itself down to sleep. Master Parri wanted two cross sections finished by the end of
class. She had chosen to do a redesign of the Sleeper38 Museum. It was the city of Caer-Isel’s most
beloved tourist attraction, as well as the alleged39 seat of Llyrian magic. There, the seven
Storytellers slept in their glass coffins40, silently warding41 Llyr against threats and, according to
some, waiting for the country’s bleakest42 moment to rise again and protect their homeland. It was
either provincial43 superstition44 or gospel truth, depending on who you asked.
Ever since Myrddin had been laid to rest, just before the start of her term, tickets had been sold
out and lines for the museum wrapped around the block. Effy had tried three times to visit, waiting
for hours only to be turned away at the ticket booth. So she had simply had to imagine how the
Storytellers would look, penciling in the features of their slumbering45 faces. She had taken extra
care with Myrddin’s. Even in death, he appeared wise and gentle, the way she thought a father
would.
But now, while Parri’s voice rolled ceaselessly over her like low tide against the shoreline,
Effy opened her sketchbook to a new page and penciled in the words HIRAETH MANOR.
After studio, Effy went to the library. She had turned in only one of her cross sections, and it
wasn’t very good. The elevation47 was all wrong—lopsided, as if the museum were built on a
craggy cliffside instead of the meticulously48 landscaped center of Caer- Isel. The university
buildings curled around it like a conch shell, all pale marble and sun-blanched yellow stone.
She never would have dreamed of turning in such shoddy work at her secondary school back
home. But in the six weeks since she had started university, so much had changed. If she had come
to Caer-Isel with hope, or passion, or even just petty competitiveness, it had all eroded49 quickly.
Time felt both compressed and infinite. It rolled over her, like she was a sunken statue on the
seafloor, but it tossed and thrashed her, too, a limp body in the waves.
Yet now the words Hiraeth Manor snagged in her mind like a fishhook, propelling her toward
some purpose, some goal, even if it was hazy50. Maybe especially because it was hazy. Bereft51 of
vexing52 practical details, it was much easier to imagine that the goal was within her reach.
The library was no more than five minutes from the architecture college, but the wind off Lake
Bala lashing53 her cheeks and running its frigid54 fingers through her hair made it feel longer. She
pushed through the double doors in a hurry, exhaling55 a cold breath. Then she was inside, and the
sudden, dense56 silence overwhelmed her.
On her first day at the university—the day before Master Corbenic—Effy had visited the
library and loved it. She had smuggled57 in a cup of coffee and found her way to one of the disused
rooms on the sixth floor. Even the elevator had seemed exhausted58 by the time it reached the
landing, groaning and heaving and giving a rattle59 that sounded like small bones being shaken
inside a collector’s box.
The sixth floor housed the most ancient books on the most obscure subjects: tomes on the
history of Llyr’s selkie-hunting industry (a surprisingly lucrative60 field, Effy had discovered, before
the selkies were hunted to extinction). A field guide to Argantian fungi61, with a several-page-long
footnote on how to distinguish Argantian truffles from the much-superior Llyrian varieties. An
account of one of Llyr and Argant’s many wars, told from the perspective of a sentient62 rifle.
Effy had folded herself into the most concealed63 alcove64 she could find, under a rain-marbled
window, and read those arcane65 books. She had looked particularly for books on fairies, and spent
hours thumbing through a tome about fairy rings outside Oxwich, and then another long-dead
professor’s ethnography on the Fair Folk he encountered there. Such accounts, centuries old, were
written off by the university as Southern superstition. The books she had found had been spitefully
shelved under Fiction.
But Effy believed them. She believed them all: the rote5 academic accounts, the superstitious66
Southern folklore67, the epic68 poetry that warned against the wiles69 of the Fairy King. If only she
could have studied literature, she would have written her own ferocious70 treatises71 in support of her
belief. Being trapped in the architecture college felt like being muted, muzzled72.
Yet now, standing73 in the lobby, the library was suddenly a terrifying place. The solitude74 that
had once comforted her had become an enormous empty space where so many bad things could
happen. She did not know what, exactly—it was only a roiling75, imprecise dread76. The silence was a
span of time before inevitable77 disaster, like watching a glass teeter farther toward the edge of a
table, anticipating the moment it would tip and shatter. She did not entirely78 understand why the
things that had once been familiar now felt hostile and strange.
She didn’t intend to linger there today. Effy made her way up the vast marble stairs, her
footsteps echoing faintly. The arched ceilings and the fretwork of wood across them made her feel
as if she were inside a very elaborate antique jewelry79 box. Dust motes80 swam in columns of golden
light.
She reached the horseshoe-shaped circulation desk and placed two hands flat on the varnished81
wood. The woman behind the desk looked at her disinterestedly82.
“Good morning,” Effy said, with the brightest smile she could muster83. Morning was generous.
It was two fifteen. But she’d only been awake for three hours, just long enough to throw on clothes
and make it to her studio class.
“What are you looking for today?” the woman asked, unmoved.
“Do you have any books on Emrys Myrddin?”
The woman’s expression shifted, her eyes pinching with disdain84. “You’ll have to be more
specific than that. Fiction, nonfiction, biography, theory—”
“Nonfiction,” Effy cut in quickly. “Anything about his life, his family.” Hoping to endear
herself to the librarian, she added, “I have all his novels and poetry already. He’s my favorite
author.”
“You and half the university,” the woman said dismissively. “Wait here.”
She vanished through a doorway85 behind the circulation desk. Effy’s nose itched87 at the smell of
old paper and mildew88. From the adjacent rooms she could hear the flutter of pages being turned
and the slowly scything89 blades of the ceiling fans.
“Hey,” someone said.
It was the boy from the college lobby, the one who’d come up behind her to see the poster. His
tweed jacket was under his arm now, suspenders pulled taut90 over a white shirt.
“Hi,” she said. It was more of a reflex than anything. The word sounded odd in all that quiet,
empty space. She snatched her hands off the circulation desk.
“You’re in the architecture college, right,” he said, but it didn’t have the tenor91 of a question.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly.
“So am I. Are you going to send in a proposal? For the Hiraeth Manor project?”
“I think so.” She suddenly had the very strange sensation that she was underwater. It had been
happening to her more and more often lately. “Are you?”
“I think so. We could work on it together, you know.” The boy’s hand curled around the edge
of the circulation desk, the intensity92 of his grip turning his knuckles94 white. “I mean, send in a joint95
proposal. There’s nothing in the rules that says otherwise. Together we’d have a better chance at
winning the contract. It would make us famous. We’d get scooped96 up by the most prestigious
architectural firms in Llyr the second we graduate.”
The memory of his whispered slur hummed in the back of her mind, quiet but insistent97. “I’m
not sure. I think I already know what I’m going to do. I spent all of studio class sketching98 it.” She
gave a soft laugh, hoping to smother99 the sting of the rejection100.
The boy didn’t laugh, or even smile back. For a long moment, silence stretched between them.
When he spoke101 again, his voice was low. “You’re so pretty. You really are. You’re the most
gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen. Do you know that?”
If she said yes, I do, she was a conceited102 harpy. If she shook her head and rebuffed the
compliment, she was falsely modest, playing coy. It was fae-like trickery. There was no answer
that wouldn’t damn her.
So she said, fumbling103, “Maybe you can help me with the cross sections for Parri’s studio.
Mine are really bad.”
The boy brightened, drawing himself up to his full height. “Sure,” he said. “Let me give you
my number.”
Effy pulled the pen out of her bag and offered it to him. He clasped his fingers around her wrist
and wrote out seven digits105 on the back of her hand. That same rainwater rush of white noise
drowned out everything again, even the scything of the fans.
The door behind the circulation desk opened and the woman came back through. The boy let
go of her.
“All right,” he said. “Call me when you want to work on your cross sections.”
“I will.”
Effy waited until he had vanished down the stairs to turn back to the librarian. Her hand felt
numb104.
“I’m sorry,” the librarian said. “Someone has taken out everything on Myrddin.”
She couldn’t help the high pitch of her voice when she echoed, “Everything?”
“Looks like it. I’m not surprised. He’s a popular thesis subject. Since he only just died, there’s
a lot of fertile ground. Untapped potential. All the literature students are clamoring to be the first
to write the narrative106 of his life.”
Her stomach lurched. “So a literature student checked them out?”
The librarian nodded. She reached under the desk and pulled out the logbook, each row and
column filled out with book titles and borrowers’ names. She flipped107 open a page that listed a
series of biographical titles and works of reception. Under the Borrower column was the same
name, inked over and over again in cramped108 but precise handwriting: P. Héloury.
An Argantian name. Effy felt like she’d been struck.
“Well, thank you for your help,” she said, her voice suddenly thick with a knot of incoming
tears. She pressed her fingernails into her palm. She couldn’t cry here. She wasn’t a child any
longer.
“Of course,” said the librarian. “I’ll give you a call when we get the books back in.”
Outside, Effy rubbed at her eyes until they stopped welling. It was so unfair. Of course a literature
student had gotten to the books first. They spent their days agonizing109 over every stanza110 of
Myrddin’s famous poetry, over every line of his most famous novel, Angharad. They got to do
every day what Effy had time for only at night, after she’d finished her slapdash architecture
assignments. Under her covers, in a pale puddle111 of lamplight, she pored over her tattered copy of
Angharad, which lay permanently112 on her nightstand. She knew every crack in its spine113, every
crease114 on the pages inside.
And an Argantian. She couldn’t fathom115 how there even was one at the literature college,
which was the university’s most prestigious, and especially one who was studying Myrddin. He
was Llyr’s national author. The whole thing seemed like a terrible knife-twist of fate, a personal
and spiteful slap in the face. The name in its precise writing hovered116 in the forefront of her mind:
P. Héloury.
Why had she even thought this might work? Effy was no great architect; she was only six
weeks into her first semester at the university and already in danger of failing two classes. Three,
if she didn’t turn in those cross sections. Her mother would tell her not to waste her time. Just
focus on your studies, she would say. Your friends. Don’t run yourself ragged117 chasing something
beyond your reach. She wouldn’t mean it to be cruel.
Your studies, her mother’s imagined voice echoed, and Effy thought of Master Parri’s
disdainful glare. He had held up her one cross section and shaken it at her until the page rippled118,
like she was an insect he was trying to swat.
Your friends. Effy looked down at the number on the back of her hand. The boy’s 0s and 8s
were bulging119 and fat, as if he had been trying to cover as much of her skin as he could in the blue
ink. All of a sudden, she felt very sick.
Someone shouldered roughly past her, and Effy realized she had been blocking the doorway to
the library. Blinking, embarrassed, she hurried down the steps and crossed to the other side of the
street, darting120 between two rumbling121 black cars. There was a small pier122 that overlooked Lake
Bala. She leaned over the railing and rubbed at the third knuckle93 of her left hand like a worry
stone. It ended there, abruptly123, in a shiny mass of scar tissue. If the boy had noticed the absence of
her ring finger, he hadn’t said anything about it.
Pedestrians124 brushed past her. Other students with leather satchels125 on their way to class, unlit
cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. Tourists with their wide-lensed cameras moving in an
awkward, halting mass toward the Sleeper Museum. Their odd accent drifted toward her. They
had to be from the southernmost region of Llyr, the Bottom Hundred.
Beneath her the waves of Lake Bala lapped timidly at the stone pier. White foam126 frothed like
spittle in a dog’s mouth. Effy sensed a dangerous frustration127 under the meekness128 of the tide,
something fettered129 that wanted to be free. A storm could come on as quickly as an eyeblink. The
rain would cause a sudden bloom of black umbrellas to rise up like mushrooms, and it would wash
all the tourists out of the street.
Just faintly, through the ever-present rheum of fog, Effy could glimpse the other side of the
lake, and the green land that lay there. Argant, Llyr’s belligerent130 northern neighbor. She used to
think the problem was that Argantians and Llyrians were too intractably different, and that was
why they couldn’t stop going to war and hating each other. Now, after living in the divided city
for six weeks, she understood that it was the opposite problem. Argant was always claiming that
Llyrian treasures and traditions were really their own. Llyr was forever accusing Argant of
stealing their heroes and histories. The appointment of national authors, who would eventually
become Sleepers131, was a Llyrian effort to create something Argant couldn’t take.
It was an archaic132 tradition, but dutifully followed, even if most Northerners didn’t believe what
Southern superstition said: that when Llyr’s tanks rolled across that green land, when their rifles
peeked133 up from the trenches134 they had dug into Argantian soil, it was the magic of the Sleepers that
protected them. That when Argantian guns jammed or an out-of-season fog crept across the
battlefield, that was Sleeper magic, too.
For the past several years, the war had been at a standstill. Occasionally the sky rumbled135 with
the sound of distant gunfire, but it could easily be mistaken for thunder. The inhabitants of Caer-
Isel, Effy included, had learned to treat it like the white noise of traffic, vexing but unavoidable.
With Myrddin’s consecration136 as a Sleeper, she hoped the odds137 might turn in Llyr’s favor.
She had no choice but to believe in the Sleeper magic, in Myrddin’s magic. It was the
foundation her life was built upon. Though she had read Angharad for the first time at thirteen, she
had been dreaming of the Fairy King long before that.
A spray of salt water kissed her cheeks. To hell with that literature student, that Argantian, P.
Héloury. To hell with Parri and those terrible cross sections. She was tired, tired of trying so hard
for something she didn’t even want. She was tired of being afraid she might see Master Corbenic
in the hall or the college lobby. She was tired of the memories that swam behind her eyelids138 at
night, those little pieces: the enormous span of his fingers, knuckles whitening as his fist clenched139
and unclenched.
Effy stood up and retied her hair. Overhead the sky had turned the color of iron, clouds
swollen140 with ominous141 fury. The tram clanged down the street, louder than the nearing thunder—
real thunder this time, not gunfire. She buttoned her jacket and hurried toward her dorm as the rain
started to fall.
She staggered into her dormitory damp-haired, water dripping off her lashes142 and pooling in her
boots. Effy yanked them off and hurled143 them down the hallway, where they landed with two empty
thuds. Of course today would end with her getting caught in one of Caer-Isel’s miserable144 autumn
downpours, despite rushing to escape the rain.
Having exhausted a bit of her jilted fury, Effy hung up her jacket more calmly and squeezed
out her hair.
The door to her roommate’s bedroom creaked hesitantly open. “Effy?”
“Sorry,” she said, a flush creeping up her neck. Her boots were still slumped145 at the end of the
hallway. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“It’s all right. Maisie is here, too.”
Effy nodded, and went to retrieve146 her boots with a numb sort of embarrassment147. Rhia watched
from the doorway, dark curls askew148, her white blouse buttoned haphazardly149. Not for the first time,
Effy had interrupted something private between Rhia and her paramour, which made the situation
all the more humiliating.
“Are you okay?” Rhia asked. “It’s wretched outside.”
“I’m fine. I just didn’t have an umbrella. And I also might be failing three classes.”
“I see.” Rhia pursed her lips. “It sounds like you could use a drink. What’s that on your hand?”
Effy looked down. The rain had made the blue ink run all the way down her wrist. “Oh,” she
said. “I was mauled by a giant squid.”
“Terrifying. If you towel yourself off, you can come in and have some tea.”
Effy managed a grateful smile and went into the bathroom. Everyone had told her the
university dorm rooms were disgusting, but when she arrived, she’d thought of it as sort of an
adventure, like camping in the woods. Now it was just boringly, inanely150 gross. The grout between
the tiles was filthy151, and there was a sickly orange ring of soap scum around the edge of the tub.
When she yanked her towel off the rack, she saw a preternaturally huge spider scuttle152 away and
disappear into a crack in the wall. She didn’t even have the energy to scream.
When she stepped back into the hallway, drier, Rhia’s door was flung open, her room filled
with soft yellow lamplight. Maisie was perched on the edge of the bed, steaming mug in hand,
auburn hair swept up into a hasty bun.
“I saw Watson in there,” Effy said, collapsing153 into Rhia’s desk chair.
“No, I squished Watson, remember? That’s Harold.”
“Right,” Effy said. “Watson went out in a blaze of glory.” The black mess of him had taken ten
minutes to scrub off the bathroom wall.
As Rhia filled Effy’s mug, Maisie asked, “How come all the spiders are men?”
“Because then it feels more satisfying to squish them,” Rhia said, flopping154 down beside her on
the bed. Seeing her curled around Maisie like that, with such casual intimacy155, Effy had the sudden
sensation of being an intruder.
It was an eternal feeling, this sense of being unwelcome. No matter where she was, Effy was
always afraid she was not wanted. She took a sip156 of tea. The warmth helped ease some of her
discomfort157.
“So I think I’m failing three classes,” she said. “And it’s only midautumn.”
“It’s a good thing that it’s only midautumn,” Maisie said. “You have lots of time to make it
up.”
Rhia played absently with a strand14 of Maisie’s hair. “Or you could just quit. Come join us in
the music college. The orchestra needs more flutists.”
“If you can teach me to play the flute158 in the next week, consider it a deal.”
She didn’t say that frustrating159 as it was, architecture felt less like giving up than music would.
The architecture college was the second-most prestigious at the university. If she couldn’t study
literature like she wanted, at least she could pretend architecture had been her first choice all
along.
“Not sure that’s entirely realistic, my love,” Maisie said. She turned to Effy. “So what are you
going to do?”
Effy almost told them about the poster. About Emrys Myrddin and Hiraeth Manor and the
fresh drawing in her sketchpad. Rhia was impulsive160 and always full of wild ideas, including but
not limited to I’ll teach you to play flute in a week and let’s sneak161 up to the rooftop of the
astronomy college, but Maisie was almost annoyingly reasonable. She would have told Effy it was
a mad thing to even consider.
Right now the possibility of Hiraeth Manor, the dream, belonged to her and her alone. Even if
it was inevitable that it would come crashing down, she wanted to keep dreaming it a little while
longer.
So in the end she just shrugged162, and let Rhia try to talk her into taking up the organ instead.
Effy finished her tea and said good night to the other girls. But when she got back to her room, she
did not have the remotest desire to sleep. The itch86 of frustration and yearning163 under her skin
wouldn’t fade.
She sat on her unmade bed and picked up her battered164 copy of Angharad instead.
Angharad was Myrddin’s most famous work. It was the story of a young girl who became the
Fairy King’s bride. The Fair Folk were vicious, shrewd, and always wanting. Humans were
playthings to them, amusing in their petty, fragile mortality. The Fair Folk’s glamours165 made them
appear hypnotically beautiful, like a gaudily166 patterned snake with a deadly bite. They used their
enchantments167 to make humans play the fiddle168 until their fingers fell off or dance until their feet
bled. Yet Effy found herself half in love with the Fairy King sometimes, too. The tender belly of
his cruelty made her heart flutter. There was an intimacy to all violence, she supposed. The better
you knew someone, the more terribly you could hurt them.
In the book, the protagonist169 had her tricks to evade170 and ensorcell the Fairy King: bread and
salt, silver bells, mountain ash, a girdle of iron. Effy had her sleeping pills. She could swallow one,
sometimes two, and fade into a dreamless slumber46.
She turned to the back flap of the book, where Myrddin’s author photo and biography were
printed. He had been a hermit171 and a recluse172, especially in the last few years before his death. The
newspaper articles written about him were stiff and formal, and he had famously refused all
interviews. The black-and-white photo was grainy and taken at a great distance, showing only
Myrddin’s profile. He was standing at a window, his silhouette173 dark, face turned away from the
camera. As far as Effy knew, it was the only photo of Myrddin in existence.
Any house that honored Myrddin would have to be similarly mystifying. Was there any other
student at the architecture college who understood that? Who knew his works back to front? Effy
doubted it. The rest of them just wanted the prestige, the prize money, like the boy in the library.
None of them cared that it was Myrddin. None of them believed in the old magic.
Her sleeping pills lay untouched on the dresser that night. Instead, Effy pulled out her
sketchpad and drew until dawn.
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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linens
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| n.亚麻布( linen的名词复数 )；家庭日用织品 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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7
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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8
nib
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| n.钢笔尖；尖头 | |
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9
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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10
soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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11
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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12
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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13
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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14
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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15
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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16
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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17
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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18
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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19
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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20
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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21
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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23
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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24
tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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25
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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26
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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27
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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28
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
roster
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| n.值勤表，花名册 | |
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31
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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32
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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33
prestigious
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| adj.有威望的，有声望的，受尊敬的 | |
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34
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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35
blurry
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| adj.模糊的；污脏的，污斑的 | |
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36
vowel
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| n.元音；元音字母 | |
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37
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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38
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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39
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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40
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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41
warding
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| 监护，守护（ward的现在分词形式） | |
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42
bleakest
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| 阴冷的( bleak的最高级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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43
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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44
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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45
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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46
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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47
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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48
meticulously
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| adv.过细地，异常细致地；无微不至；精心 | |
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49
eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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50
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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51
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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52
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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53
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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54
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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55
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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56
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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57
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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58
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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59
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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60
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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61
fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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62
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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63
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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64
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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65
arcane
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| adj.神秘的，秘密的 | |
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66
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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67
folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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68
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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69
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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70
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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71
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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72
muzzled
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| 给（狗等）戴口套( muzzle的过去式和过去分词 )； 使缄默，钳制…言论 | |
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73
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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74
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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75
roiling
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| v.搅混（液体）( roil的现在分词 )；使烦恼；使不安；使生气 | |
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76
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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77
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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78
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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79
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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80
motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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81
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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82
disinterestedly
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83
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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84
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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85
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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86
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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87
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
mildew
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|
| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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89
scything
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| v.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的现在分词 ) | |
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90
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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91
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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92
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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93
knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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94
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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95
joint
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|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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96
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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97
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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98
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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99
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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100
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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101
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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102
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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103
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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104
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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105
digits
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| n.数字( digit的名词复数 )；手指，足趾 | |
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106
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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107
flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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108
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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109
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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110
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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111
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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112
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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113
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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114
crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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115
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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116
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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117
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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118
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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119
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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120
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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121
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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122
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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123
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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124
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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125
satchels
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| n.书包( satchel的名词复数 ) | |
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126
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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127
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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128
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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129
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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131
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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132
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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133
peeked
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| v.很快地看( peek的过去式和过去分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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134
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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135
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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136
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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137
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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138
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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139
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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141
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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142
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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143
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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144
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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145
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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146
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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147
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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148
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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149
haphazardly
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| adv.偶然地，随意地，杂乱地 | |
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150
inanely
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151
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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152
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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153
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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154
flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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155
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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156
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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157
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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158
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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159
frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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160
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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161
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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162
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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163
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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164
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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165
glamours
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| n.魅力，诱惑力( glamour的名词复数 ) | |
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166
gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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167
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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168
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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169
protagonist
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| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
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170
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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171
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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172
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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173
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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