Myrddin’s reception is as curious as the man himself. Some critics accuse him of
excessive romanticism (see Fox, Montresor, et al.). Yet Angharad is grudgingly1 accepted,
even by his detractors, as a profound and surprising work. His admirers—and there are
many, both critical and commercial — insist that the relatability of his work, the
universalism, is intentional2, reflecting a keen understanding of the human condition. In this
manner, he is generally considered worthy4 of his status as national author.
From the foreword to The Collected Works of Emrys Myrddin, edited by Cedric
Gosse, 212 AD
The next morning was cloud-dense and sunless, and Effy rose in a pale, rheumy gray light. She
had not returned to Hiraeth yesterday, even at Ianto’s urging, and had instead sat in the
guesthouse, her mind running dismally5 through her few and narrowing options.
She tried the rusted6 taps above the tub, twisting them back and forth9 until her fingers ached and
her palms were gritty with rust7. At last she managed to get a slow drip from one of them, and
cupped her hands under the trickling10 stream. It took the better part of an hour to scrub herself
clean and wash her hair, but she refused to go into town filthy11. She had that much dignity left.
When she was finished, Effy put her pill bottle in her purse and slid on her coat. She left her
trunk ajar and abandoned. What did she need that couldn’t be replaced? She considered it as she
began her stumbling walk down the cliffs toward Saltney. Some clothes, her drafting linens12, a
cheap set of protractors and compasses. She would not miss any of it.
Effy had finally settled on a plan late last night, lying under the green duvet, waiting for her
sleeping pill to do its work. As rancid water dripped onto the pillow beside her, she decided13 she
couldn’t afford to wait, or plead with Wetherell for a ride. She would leave Saltney first thing in
the morning, and she would walk herself, the sea be damned.
The dark-haired creature be damned, too. She knew the stories, and she knew her own mind.
The Fairy King did not show his face in the light of day. But she took one of her pink pills, for
good measure.
Her plan had seemed sound enough until it started drizzling14. Effy went on stubbornly, her
boots scrabbling against the loose rocks, as the road turned steeper and steeper. The sprinkle of
rain was enough to turn the packed dirt into mud, and soon every step was a labor15, the muck
sucking at her shoes. Water trickled16 down her face.
Her vision blurring17, Effy stared determinedly19 ahead, trying to gauge20 how much of her journey
was left. There was a sharp bend in the road, and the cliffs rose jaggedly above it, blocking her
view of Saltney. She could see no smoke chuffing from chimneys in the distance, no thatched
roofs along the horizon.
She rubbed at her cheeks. To her left the sea was lapping at the edge of the road, in broad
tongues of salt and foam21. A wave crested22 over the rock and washed the toe of her boot.
Panic was rising in her chest when Effy heard the rumble23 of a car engine behind her. A black
car was clattering24 down the road, its windows speckled with raindrops, its hood25 sleek26 and wet.
Effy stepped aside to let it pass, but instead it slowed to a halt beside her. The driver’s-side
window rolled down.
Preston stared at her in silence for several moments, his arms braced27 on the steering28 wheel. His
hair looked as untidy as it had yesterday, and his eyes were unblinking behind his glasses. At last,
he said, “Effy, get in.”
“I don’t want to,” she said mulishly.
Of course the rain chose that precise moment to pick up, the fat droplets29 catching30 on her
lashes31. Preston’s gaze was flat with skepticism. “The road is all but washed away down there,” he
said. Then, in complete deadpan32, he added, “Are you planning to swim?”
She glanced down the muddy road, glowering33, and said, “Is this how you entice34 all the girls
into your car?”
“Most girls don’t give me the chance, since they’re sensible enough not to try and saunter
down cliffs in the rain.”
Her face turned magnificently warm. She stomped35 around the other side of the car, cheeks
flaming. In one furious motion, she jerked open the car door and plunked into the passenger seat.
She looked stubbornly forward as she said, “I object to the word saunter.”
“Your objection is noted36.” His gaze didn’t shift from her. “Put your seat belt on.”
He was trying to humiliate37 her, to treat her like a child. “My mother doesn’t even make me
wear my seat belt,” she scoffed38.
“I don’t suppose your mother spends a lot of time driving you down half-sunken roads.”
She couldn’t think of a clever reply to that. Preston had his seat belt on, and she was too cold
and wet to argue. As she buckled39 herself in, she thought, You are so insufferable. She almost said
it out loud.
They drove on in silence for several moments, the wheels of the car spinning hard against the
muck. Every time the rain picked up, Effy’s mood turned fouler40. It was like the weather was
mocking her, reminding her how stupid and helpless she’d been, and how Preston, dryly logical,
had come to her rescue. She sank down in her seat, scowling41.
The inside of Preston’s car smelled like cigarettes and leather. It was not, as much as she
loathed42 to admit it, entirely43 unpleasant. There was something almost comforting about it. She stole
a glance at him, but his eyes were fixed44 determinedly on the road as the car wound down the
cliffside.
“Why are you going into Saltney?” she asked.
He looked surprised to hear her speak. “I go to the pub to work sometimes. It’s hard to focus in
that house, with Myrddin’s son breathing down my neck.”
A flare45 of anger in her belly46. “Maybe Ianto doesn’t like soulless academics rifling through his
dead father’s things for little anecdotes47 to pad their thesis.”
Preston’s head snapped up. “How did you know it’s for my thesis?”
Effy was so pleased her bait had worked, she had to keep herself from smiling. For the first
time, she felt she had gained some ground, had some advantage over him. “I just assumed you had
an ulterior motive48. You were so uneasy when Ianto tried to show me the study.”
“Well, congratulations on your powers of observation.” Preston’s tone took on a bit of
bitterness, which pleased Effy even more. “But just so you know, not a single literature student
would pass up the opportunity.”
Not a single literature student. Was he trying to belittle49 her, to rile her? Had he guessed the
real reason she despised him so much? Effy tried to hide her frustration50 and envy. “The
opportunity to what? Write some gossipy little thesis and get a gold star from the department
chair?”
“No,” Preston said. “The opportunity to find out the truth.”
That was the second time he’d said it—the truth. Like he was trying to make his self-interested
scheming sound more noble. “Why did Ianto even invite you here?” she bit out.
“He didn’t. Obviously he didn’t object to the university creating a collection out of his father’s
papers, but he didn’t invite me.” Preston’s eyes darted52 briefly53 toward her, then back to the road.
“Myrddin’s widow did.”
The mysterious widow again, who hadn’t even left the bedchamber to greet Effy, who had
insisted on marooning55 her in the guesthouse. Why was she playing patron to a scurrilous56
university student?
The car sloshed through a mess of salt water and foam, a wave that hadn’t yet receded57. A
sudden stop sent Effy lurching forward, her seat belt catching her before she smacked58 her face into
the glove box.
Still unwilling59 to concede, she righted herself and stared straight ahead in surly silence. She
could have sworn she saw the ghost of a smirk60 on Preston’s face.
As the car turned down the last bend in the road, he sobered and asked, “Why are you so
desperate to get to Saltney?”
Her stomach knotted instantly. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was confess that
she was planning to leave Hiraeth after only one day. Even in the face of such an impossible task,
surrender was humiliating. Doubly humiliating, because Preston had been living and working in
that awful house for weeks, undeterred by the rot and ruin and sinking cliffs. Admitting the truth
would mean accepting he was cleverer, more resourceful, more determined18.
And it would be worse to tell him the deeper, more painful truth: that seeing Hiraeth had
ruined her childish fantasy, ruined the version of Myrddin she had constructed in her mind, one
where he was benevolent61 and wise and had written a book meant to save girls like her.
Now when she imagined him, she thought only of the crumbling62 cliffs, the rocks falling out
from under her feet. She thought of that drowned room in the basement, of Ianto saying, My father
was always his own greatest admirer.
“I need to call my mother,” she said.
It was the first lie that came into her head, and it wasn’t a very good one. Effy’s cheeks
warmed. She felt like a child caught shoplifting, embarrassed by the clumsiness of her artifice63.
Preston lifted a brow, but his expression didn’t seem disdainful. “Does she know you’re taking
time off from your studies?”
His tone was casual, unassuming, but it stopped Effy’s heart for a brief moment. They went to
the same university. Different colleges, of course, but it was possible that they’d passed each other
in the library, or while drinking coffee in the Drowsy64 Poet. Being the only girl in the architecture
college was like being under a bell jar, everything she did closely scrutinized65. The rumors66 had
started so easily, and traveled so far. It wasn’t unrealistic to imagine that he had heard about
Master Corbenic.
Now that her mind had conjured67 the possibility, her belly pooled with terror and dread68. She
had the abrupt69 urge to fling open the car door and pitch herself into the sea.
She managed to calm herself and reply icily, “That’s none of your business.”
Behind his glasses, Preston’s gaze hardened. “Well,” he said. “I’ll drop you off by the phone
booth.”
Mercifully, the rest of the car ride was short. By the time Preston pulled into Saltney, the rain
had stopped, too. Dirty puddles71 pocked the road. The main street housed a church, made from the
same crumbling white stone as the cliffs, a fish shop with a wooden sign hanging slanted72 above the
door, and the pub, soft golden light gleaming from behind its rain-streaked windows.
“You can let me out here,” Effy said. “I’ll walk.”
Preston pulled over without a word. Effy tried to open the door, but the handle just flapped
uselessly. She pulled it over and over again, frustration rising to a fever pitch, her face burning.
“It’s locked,” Preston said. His voice was tight.
It was a petulant73 sort of stubbornness that kept Effy yanking at the handle, even though the
door wouldn’t budge74. After several more moments, she heard Preston draw a breath, and then he
reached over, fumbling75 for the lock.
His shoulder was pressed against her chest, their faces close enough that Effy could see the
muscle feathering in his jaw76. His skin was very lightly tan, and from this vantage point she noticed
the faint scattering77 of freckles78 on his cheeks. She hadn’t seen them before. There were two red
marks where his glasses had dug in, tiny nicks that winged the bridge of his nose.
She wondered if they hurt. She almost wanted to ask. It was a strange thought, and she wasn’t
sure why it had occurred to her. Her heart was shuddering79 unsteadily, and she was certain Preston
could feel it through the wool of her sweater and his coat.
At last the door clicked open. Preston pulled back, letting out a quiet huff. Effy only then
realized that she, too, had been holding her breath.
Cold air wafted80 in from the open door, bringing with it the smell of the sea. She clambered out
of the car as quickly as she could, her bottom lip stinging where she’d bitten it nearly to bleeding.
The train station was not far from the pub, but as soon as she started to walk, Effy’s legs began to
go numb81 beneath her. She watched from the street as Preston climbed out of the car, the collar of
his jacket pulled up around his ears.
There was a pale flush painting his cheeks, and Effy was sure she wasn’t imagining it. He gave
her one stiff, tight nod and then vanished into the pub. While the door was briefly open, Effy heard
the muffled82 music of the record player.
She turned toward the train station. There was no use waiting, she figured, if she was indeed
going to leave. On the way, her left foot plunged83 into a puddle70, soaking the hem8 of her pant leg.
Already she missed Caer-Isel and coffee shops and Rhia. She even missed Harold and Watson.
Mostly, she missed paved streets.
There were no other cars aside from Preston’s, and the street was dreary84 and empty. The train
station was nothing more than a small ticket booth and a stretch of silent tracks, water beading on
the booth’s window and dripping off the awning85.
She didn’t know when the next train was coming, and there didn’t appear to be any sort of
schedule posted. Effy glanced over her shoulder, as if she might catch Preston watching her. But
why would he care enough to investigate her lie?
Effy was only a few paces away from the station when she saw the telephone booth—its glass,
too, misted thoroughly86 with condensation87.
She wasn’t sure exactly what made her enter it and pick up the phone. She owed no loyalty88 to
the stupid lie she’d told Preston. And yet she found herself dialing her mother’s number again.
A very small part of her did want to hear her mother’s voice. It was the urge that a dog had to
nose the same old beehive, forgetting the fact that it had been stung before.
“Hello? Effy? Is that you?”
“Mother?” The relief she felt almost bowled her over. “I’m so sorry for not calling you back
sooner.”
“Well, you should be,” her mother said. “I was frantic89. I told your grandparents. Where are
you?”
“I’m still in Saltney.” Effy swallowed. “But I’m going to leave now.”
There was a rustling90 sound; she imagined her mother shifting the receiver so it was cradled
between her shoulder and her ear. “What made you finally change your mind?”
Finally was a little pinch of cruelty. It had only been one day. “I just realized you were right. I
was taking on more than I could handle.”
Her mother made a low, approving sound. There were the faint noises of cars rattling91 down the
street in the background. Effy pictured her mother standing3 by the open window, telephone cord
wrapped around her lithe92 body. She imagined the armchair in the living room where she used to
curl up after school and do her homework; she imagined her grandparents shuffling93 about in the
kitchen downstairs, cooking venison and mincemeat pies. She imagined her bedroom, with the
same pastel pink wallpaper she’d had since she was a child and the stuffed bear she’d been too
embarrassed to bring to university but missed every night.
“Well, thank the Saints,” her mother said. “I can’t handle any more trouble from you.”
“I know,” said Effy. “I’m sorry. I’m coming home now.”
The words shocked her the second she uttered them. A moment ago, she’d been missing Caer-
Isel, but she realized now that even if it was familiar, it wasn’t safe. A beat of silence. Her mother
inhaled94 sharply.
“Home? What about your studies?”
“I don’t want to go back to Caer-Isel.” The knot of tears rose in her throat so suddenly, it was
painful to speak. “Something happened, Mother, and I can’t—”
She wanted to tell her mother about Master Corbenic, but any capacity for speech abandoned
her. It still only came back to her in flashes; there was no narrative95, no story with a beginning,
middle, and end. There was only the haziness96 of dread, the dry-mouthed panic, the nightmares that
sent her jolting97 awake at night.
And she knew exactly how much sympathy her mother had for her nightmares.
“Effy.” Her mother’s voice was so razor-edged, it made Effy’s stomach curdle98. “I don’t want
you to come home. You can’t. I have work and you’re an adult now. Whatever mess you’ve made,
you need to sort it by yourself. Go back to school. Take your medication. Focus on your studies.
Let me have my life. You are taking your pills, aren’t you?”
Effy wished, in that moment, that her senses would dull again. She wanted to go to that deep-
water place, where she could hear only the churning of the waves above her.
But her mind wouldn’t carry her there. Instead she felt acutely the cold press of the telephone
against her ear, and the tightening99 of her throat, and the panicked, off-kilter beat of her heart. She
lifted her hand to rub at the knob of scar tissue where her ring finger should be.
“I’m taking them,” Effy said. “But that’s not—”
She cut herself off. She meant to say that’s not the problem, but wasn’t it? At any point when
she’d been in Master Corbenic’s office, she could have run. That’s what the boys in her college
whispered: that she’d wanted it. After all, why else would she have stayed? Why had she never
pushed him away? Why had she never said that simple word, no?
Trying to articulate the inarticulable fear she’d felt as she sat in his green office chair would
lead her down the same road it always had. It would end with her mother telling her there was no
such thing as monsters. That there was nothing watching her from the corner of her room, no
matter how many nights Effy could not sleep under its cold, unblinking gaze.
“Haven’t I done enough?” Her mother’s voice was trembling faintly, like a needle against a
scratched record. “For eighteen years it was just you and me, and by the Saints, you didn’t make it
easy . . .”
She considered reminding her mother that her grandparents had done just as much, that they
had paid for her schooling100, taken her on trips, helped with her homework, tended to her while her
mother nursed her gin headaches or stayed in bed for days under a gloom of exhaustion101. But Effy
had listened to this record turn a thousand times. There was no use saying any of that, no use
saying anything at all.
“I know,” was all she managed, in the end. “I’m sorry. I’ll go back to school now. Goodbye,
Mother.”
She hung up before her mother could answer.
Effy stepped out of the phone booth, her boots crunching102 the wet gravel103. She had expected to feel
a tight cord of panic lace up her spine104, but instead she felt oddly serene105. It was the removal of
choice that calmed her. There were only two roads ahead of her now, one of them well-trod and
dark, the other half lit and waiting.
She had thought she could go down that dark road, but the more she thought of the whispers in
the hall and Master Corbenic, the more she realized she could not bear it. That made her next
decision easy. She knelt to roll up her wet pant leg and then stood and marched down the empty
street, the train station blurring in her peripheral106 vision.
Effy hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces when she saw someone coming down the road
toward her. He was an older man with a weather-beaten face and a shepherd’s crook107, and there
were a number of bleating108 sheep at his back. She couldn’t count how many until he grew closer.
It was city-bred instinct that had Effy clutching her purse against her body, but the man paused
more than an arm’s length away from her, wizened109 fingers curled around the crook. His eyes were
the color of sea glass, a matte and cloudy green.
“I know you aren’t from here,” he said, in a garbled110 Southern accent that Effy struggled to
understand. “A pretty young girl alone on the cliffs up there—you haven’t been reading your fairy
tales.”
Effy felt deeply offended. “I’ve read plenty of fairy tales.”
“Haven’t been reading them right, then. Are you a religious girl? Do you pray to your Saints at
night?”
“Sometimes.” Truthfully, she hadn’t been to church in years. Her mother had only brought her
out of vague obligation, citing her grandmother’s faith and devotion to Saint Caelia, patron of
maternity111. The nearest chapel112 in Draefen was dedicated113 to Saint Duessa, the patron of blessed
liars114. Effy had sat there in a starched115 white dress, swinging her legs beneath the pews and counting
the number of red bits in the stained glass windows. Once or twice she had caught her mother
nodding off.
“Well, your prayers are no use,” the old shepherd said. “They won’t protect you against him.”
The wind picked up then, brittle116 and cold. It blew the grass on the hilltops flat and carried the
salt spray of the sea from the shoreline. One of the black-faced sheep bleated117 at her anxiously.
There were seven of them, horns curled against their flat heads like mollusks.
Electricity sparked along Effy’s skin. She lowered her voice and leaned closer to the shepherd.
“Do you mean the Fairy King?”
The man did not immediately reply, but his eyes shifted left and then right, toward the hills
and then toward the sea, as if he expected something to come rising or lumbering118 out of either one.
Effy thought of the creature in the road, its wet black hair and bone crown. She had seen it.
Wetherell had seen it. Perhaps the shepherd had seen it, too. Her whole body felt like a live wire,
blood running with adrenaline.
“Guard yourself against him,” the shepherd said. “Metal on your windows and doors.”
“Iron. I know.”
The old man reached into his left pocket and dug around for several moments. Then he held
out his hand. Cupped in his palm were a bevy119 of stones, white and gray and rust-colored, like the
pebbles120 on the beach. Each one had a small hollow in its center, through which Effy could see the
man’s wrinkled, ancient skin.
“Hag stones,” the shepherd said. “The Fairy King has many clever disguises. Look through
these and you’ll see him coming, in his true form.”
He grasped Effy’s wrist and pried121 her fingers open, then deposited the stones in her palm
before she could protest. They were heavier than they had looked when the old man held them.
She put the stones in the pocket of her trousers.
When she looked up again, the shepherd had turned around and was walking down the road,
away from her, up toward the green hills. His sheep bobbed after him like buoys122 on the water. One
paused in the road and looked back at her.
Her skin was still electric. Effy reached into her pocket and lifted one of the stones to her eye,
peering through the hollow in the middle. But she only saw the sheep staring back at her,
unblinking and frozen.
She lowered the stone again, feeling foolish. Fairy tales or not, back in Caer-Isel, she never
would have stopped to listen to the ramblings of some strange old man in the street. She put the
stones back in her pocket and wiped the sea spray off her cheeks. It occurred to her that she’d just
been the exact opposite of pickpocketed.
The pub had a name, but the sign was so damp and wood-rotted that Effy couldn’t make it out.
She pushed through the door with more confidence than she felt. The hairs on her neck were stiff
and risen from listening to the shepherd’s words.
At once she was bathed in the pub’s warm, golden light. There was a stone fireplace in the
corner that crackled with a sound like twigs123 snapping under the tread of a boot. Above it, the
mantel bore old sepia-toned photographs. The room was crammed124 with a number of circular tables
and two booths in the far back corner. The wood on the booths was shinier, newer, clearly an
effort at modernizing125.
Behind the bar were rows and rows of liquor bottles, some of them clear, others green or
amber54, gleaming like hard candies. The record she’d heard earlier was still turning, playing a song
by a supine-voiced woman Effy didn’t recognize.
The pub was empty save for two older men sitting by the window—fishermen, judging by
their thick sweaters and rubber boots—and the bartender, a woman about her mother’s age, with
hands that looked like they’d worked as many years as Effy had been alive. And Preston, whose
untidy hair she spotted126 over the top of one of the booths. She darted around the nearest table so he
wouldn’t see her.
She had only been to a pub once or twice in her life, when Rhia had taken her. She didn’t
know any of the unspoken etiquette127. She didn’t drink, either. Alcohol, the doctor had said, reacted
poorly with her medication, and Effy already had enough trouble discerning what was real.
The bartender gave her a pitiless, glowering look. “You going to order something?” she asked,
her accent as incomprehensible as the shepherd’s had been.
Effy took a step toward the bar. “Yes. Sorry. I’ll have a gin and tonic128, please.”
It was her mother’s drink of choice and the first thing that came to mind. The bartender raised
a brow but busied herself fetching a glass. Effy felt her cheeks heat. It was only just past nine in
the morning, but she hadn’t known what else to order.
She let her gaze wander toward the fishermen, who had stopped their conversation to watch
her, eyes small and keen under their bushy brows.
The shepherd’s words thrummed in the back of her mind. Look through these and you’ll see
him coming, in his true form.
To religious Northerners, the fairies were demons129, underworld beings, the sworn enemies of
their Saints. To smarmy130, agnostic scientists and naturalists131, the Fair Folk were as fictitious132 as any
other stories told in church. But to Southerners, fairies were a mere133 fact of life, like hurricanes or
adders134 in your garden. You took precautions against them. You shut your windows and locked
your doors. You didn’t go overturning any large rocks.
Effy almost raised the hag stone to her eye again, but she would have felt stupid, here in open
sight of the bartender and these men. Besides, the Fairy King was vain until his very last breath.
He would choose a more dignified135 disguise.
The sound of a glass being placed on the bar jolted136 her from her thoughts. The bartender
looked at her expectantly.
“How much?” Effy asked. The bartender told her, and Effy dutifully counted out the coins. The
fishermen were still watching. The bartender took the money and Effy picked up her glass.
“What’s the most popular drink here?”
“Usually scotch137. But seeing as it’s winter now, most people order hot cider.”
Effy clutched her cold glass, flushing. As soon as the bartender went back to wiping the
counter, she scurried138 away.
Once she was out of sight of the bartender, she considered her options. She could sit at one of
the tables, in full view of the leering fishermen, or she could take the booth right next to Preston’s
and—what? Sip51 her drink in silence, while Preston worked on the other side, both acutely aware
of the other’s presence with only the thin glossy139 wood between them like a church confessional?
Effy could scarcely imagine anything more awkward. And after the episode in the car, she felt
as if she needed to reclaim140 some of her lost dignity. Before she could lose her nerve, she marched
toward Preston’s booth and sat down across from him.
He startled at once, slamming his book shut. With the flush painting his cheeks and his darting141
eyes, he looked like a guilty schoolboy. She supposed that was what he was, only she didn’t know
what he had to feel guilty about.
“I guess you finished your phone call,” he said.
“Yes,” Effy replied. By Preston’s elbow was a glass of scotch, half full, which made her feel
less foolish for ordering a drink at nine in the morning. She still hadn’t decided if she was actually
going to take a sip, but she was glad she had it—it made her feel more like Preston’s equal.
He slid his book back into his satchel142, but not before Effy saw the title on the spine: The
Poetical143 Works of Emrys Myrddin, 196–208 AD.
He caught her looking and gave a defiant144 look back. “One of your library books,” he said. “I
didn’t mean to salt the wound.”
She decided not to let him fluster145 her. “You must have just been reading it, then. ‘The
Mariner’s Demise146.’”
“It’s not one of Myrddin’s well-known works. I’m surprised you recognized it.”
“I told you. He’s my favorite author.”
“The scholarly consensus147 is that Myrddin’s poetry is generally middling.”
Effy’s face heated, anger curdling148 her stomach. “Why bother studying something you clearly
find beneath you?”
“I said that was the scholarly consensus, not my personal opinion.” Which of course he wasn’t
going to share. He was much better than Effy at keeping his cards close to the vest. His glasses had
slipped a bit down the bridge of his nose; he pushed them up again. “And anyway, you don’t have
to love something in order to devote yourself to it.”
He said it so offhandedly149, she knew he hadn’t meant to rile her, but that only made it worse—
that he had to do so little to wound her so much. “But what’s the point otherwise?” she managed.
“You scored high enough on your exams to study whatever you want, and you chose literature on
a whim150?”
“It wasn’t a whim. And maybe architecture is your life’s passion, maybe it’s not. We all have
our reasons for doing what we do.”
Another flare of anger. “I don’t see any reason for studying literature unless you care about the
stories you’re reading and writing.”
“Well, I study theory, mostly. I’m not a writer.”
That crushed her like something caught in the tight, relentless151 snarl152 of a riptide. How could he
be satisfied only studying literature, never writing a word of his own? Never getting to put to paper
the things he imagined? Meanwhile, the banal153 reality of her own life made her miserable154:
sketching155 plans for things she didn’t know how to build, drawing houses other people would call
home. It was enough to make her want to cry, but she dug her fingernails into her palm to keep the
tears from pricking156 her eyes.
“Well,” she said at last, trying to match the cool flatness of his tone, “I can’t imagine what an
Argantian would learn from reading Llyrian fairy tales, anyway. Myrddin’s our national author.
You wouldn’t understand his stories unless you grew up hearing your mother read them.”
“I told you,” he said slowly, “my mother is Llyrian.”
“But you grew up in Argant.”
“Obviously.”
That earned her a scowl—it was the first time Effy had seen him appear chastened, defensive157.
But the small victory tasted less sweet than she had thought it would. Of course Preston was aware
of his accent and his unmistakably Argantian surname. She remembered her conversation with the
literature student in the library, who had echoed her question: I mean, how many Argantians want
to study Llyrian literature?
Underneath158 it was a second, unspoken question: What gives them the right?
She didn’t want to be like that boy, didn’t want to be like those Llyrians, small-minded and
bigoted159, believing all the absurd superstitions160 and stereotypes161 about their enemies. No matter how
much she disliked Preston, it wasn’t his fault for being born Argantian, any more than it was her
fault for being born a woman.
And Effy remembered the reverence162 in his tone when he’d recited those lines from “The
Mariner’s Demise.” We all have our reasons for doing what we do.
Maybe there was a reason he’d attached himself to Myrddin. Maybe it wasn’t just shameless
opportunism. Suddenly, and against all odds163, she actually felt sorry for goading164 him.
Preston lifted his glass and downed it in a single swig, without even grimacing165. When he was
finished, he glanced toward her untouched gin and tonic. “Are you going to drink that?”
Effy looked down at her glass, the ice melting, tonic water fizzing. She thought of her mother’s
bloodshot eyes after a night of drinking and felt vaguely166 nauseous. “No.”
“Then let’s go.”
“What?”
“I’ll drive you back to Hiraeth.”
“I thought you were going to work here,” she said. “What about Ianto breathing down your
neck?”
“At the house it’s Ianto, here it will be you.” Preston caught the beginnings of an objection on
her lips, and hurriedly went on: “It’s not your fault. You just won’t have anything to do in town
except drink gin and stare at me while I work. I’m not happy to be the most interesting thing in
Saltney, but regrettably I can assure you that that is the case.”
“I don’t know about that.” Effy thought of the shepherd, the stones in her pocket. She decided
not to mention any of that. Instead she said, “Not to wound your ego167, but I saw some very
interesting sheep dung on my way over here.”
Preston actually laughed. It was a short, surprised little huff of air, but there was no malice168 in
it, only genuine amusement. And Effy found—regrettably—that she liked the sound of it.
She returned her still-full glass to the bartender and followed Preston out into the street. It had
started to drizzle169 again, and the water caught in his hair like tiny bright beads170 of morning dew.
Effy licked a drop of rain off her lips as Preston reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack
of cigarettes. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it one-handed, the other hand braced on the
driver’s-side door. His long, thin fingers wrapped around the handle entirely.
“Can I have one?” she asked.
She wasn’t exactly sure why she said it. Maybe she wanted to prove something to him, to
make up for the glass of gin she’d left melting on the bar.
Maybe she was just distracted by the way his lips rounded gently when he smoked them. Effy
shook her head, trying to dispel171 the unwelcome thought.
Preston looked as surprised as she felt. But without a word, he plucked out another cigarette,
put it in his mouth, lit it, and passed it to her over the hood of the car.
Effy let out a short laugh of her own. “You don’t trust me with your lighter172?”
She was very pleased to see his cheeks pink. “I was trying to be polite,” he said. “I won’t make
that mistake again.”
They got into the car. Effy put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled, trying not to cough. She’d
never smoked before, but she didn’t want Preston to know that. She also didn’t want Preston to
know that she was thinking intently about how the same cigarette had touched his lips mere
moments ago. Her gaze kept darting to his mouth, the way he held his cigarette delicately between
his teeth while he drove.
The car wound up the hillside, cigarette smoke curling in the quiet air, the sea thrumming its
ceaseless rhythm against the rocks. Perhaps it was the cigarette, perhaps the oddly comforting
smell of Preston’s car, but Effy felt a sort of numbing173 calm come over her.
She reached for the stones in her pocket anyway, running her finger along the hollows, as she
was delivered to Hiraeth once again.
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1
grudgingly
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2
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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3
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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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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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13
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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14
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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15
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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16
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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17
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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18
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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19
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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20
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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21
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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22
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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23
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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24
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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25
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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26
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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27
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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28
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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29
droplets
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| n.小滴( droplet的名词复数 ) | |
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30
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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31
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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32
deadpan
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| n. 无表情的 | |
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33
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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34
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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35
stomped
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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37
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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38
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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40
fouler
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的比较级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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41
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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42
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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45
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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46
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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47
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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48
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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49
belittle
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| v.轻视，小看，贬低 | |
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50
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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51
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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52
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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53
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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54
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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55
marooning
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| vt.把…放逐到孤岛（maroon的现在分词形式） | |
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56
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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57
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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58
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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60
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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61
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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62
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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63
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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64
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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65
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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67
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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68
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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69
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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70
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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71
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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72
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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73
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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74
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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75
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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76
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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77
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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78
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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79
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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80
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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82
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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83
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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84
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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85
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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86
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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87
condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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88
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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89
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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90
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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91
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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92
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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93
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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94
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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96
haziness
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| 有薄雾，模糊； 朦胧之性质或状态； 零能见度 | |
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97
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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98
curdle
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| v.使凝结，变稠 | |
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99
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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100
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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101
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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102
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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103
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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104
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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105
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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106
peripheral
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| adj.周边的，外围的 | |
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107
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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108
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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109
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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110
garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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112
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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113
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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114
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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115
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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117
bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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118
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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119
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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120
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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121
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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122
buoys
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| n.浮标( buoy的名词复数 )；航标；救生圈；救生衣v.使浮起( buoy的第三人称单数 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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123
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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124
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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125
modernizing
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的现在分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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126
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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127
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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128
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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129
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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130
smarmy
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| adj.爱说奉承话的 | |
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131
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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132
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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133
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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134
adders
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| n.加法器，（欧洲产）蝰蛇（小毒蛇），（北美产无毒的）猪鼻蛇( adder的名词复数 ) | |
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135
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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136
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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138
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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140
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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141
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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142
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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143
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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144
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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145
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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146
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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147
consensus
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| n.(意见等的)一致，一致同意，共识 | |
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148
curdling
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| n.凝化v.（使）凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
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149
offhandedly
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| adv.立即地；即席地；未经准备地；不客气地 | |
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150
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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151
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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152
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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153
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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154
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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155
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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156
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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157
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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158
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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159
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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160
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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161
stereotypes
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| n.老套，模式化的见解，有老一套固定想法的人( stereotype的名词复数 )v.把…模式化，使成陈规( stereotype的第三人称单数 ) | |
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162
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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163
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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164
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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165
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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166
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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167
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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168
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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169
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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170
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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171
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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172
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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173
numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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