The Drowning was more than a climatological event. It came to define social, political,
and economic history in the region, and gave rise to a distinctive1 and ever more salient
subculture among residents of the Bottom Hundred. Somewhat paradoxically, it caused an
upswing in Southern nationalism, a hardening of Llyr’s North-South divide. It can thus be
said that the Drowning structures the core of Southern identity, even nearly two centuries
later.
From the introduction to A Compendium2 of Southern Writers in the Neo-Balladic
Tradition, edited by Dr. Rhys Brinley, 201 AD
The next morning was the first truly cloudless day in the Bay of Nine Bells since Effy had arrived,
and she took it as a sign. As soon as she awoke, she dressed quickly and scampered3 up the path
toward the house, her boots sliding in the soft dirt.
Below, even the sea appeared to be behaving itself, the waves a hushed murmur4 against the
stone. Sunlight glinted off the white peaks of foam5. In the distance, she saw two seals at play in the
water, their gray heads pebble-small from her vantage point.
Yesterday’s calm had given way to a fledgling determination. Sitting in the car beside Preston,
tobacco smoke filling the cab, Effy had decided6 she would try. She could not give up before she
even started.
You don’t have to love something in order to devote yourself to it, Preston had said. In the
moment she had chafed7 at his condescension8, but now she realized—with some reluctance—that it
was actually good advice.
And maybe she had been wrong about Myrddin in a few aspects, but that didn’t mean she was
wrong about everything. He was still the man who wrote Angharad. He was still the man who put
iron on the doors of the guesthouse.
Angharad had once thought her tasks impossible, too. At first she had never believed she could
escape the Fairy King.
Effy was no great designer, but she was an excellent escape artist. She was always chipping
away at the architecture of her life until there was a crack big enough to slip through. Whenever
she was faced with danger, her mind manifested a secret doorway9, a hole in the floorboards,
somewhere she could hide or run to.
At last the house came into view, starkly10 black against the delicate blue sky. Effy had her
sketchpad with her original design for Hiraeth Manor11 and three pens, lest one or two of them run
dry. She was panting with pleasant exhaustion12 by the time she climbed the mossy steps.
Ianto was waiting for her at the threshold. He looked pleased to see her, perhaps even relieved.
“You look as though you’re feeling better,” he remarked.
“Yes,” she said, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment13 as she remembered how she’d fled
from the house. “I’m sorry about not coming yesterday—I’m still, um, getting used to the air
down here, I think.”
“Understandable,” Ianto said, generously. “You’re a Northern girl through and through, I can
tell. But I’m glad to see you looking less green.” She didn’t know whether he was commenting on
her appearance or her attitude, until he added, “Your skin is a lovely color.”
“Oh,” she said. Her face heated. “Thank you.”
Ianto’s pale eyes were shining. “Let’s begin, then,” he said, and beckoned14 Effy through the
doorway.
Effy shook off the slight feeling of unease and followed after him. She had been chosen on the
strength and inventiveness of her original design, but that had been done before seeing Hiraeth
itself. Ianto’s initial entreaty15 had made it sound like there would be nothing but a large empty field
waiting for her, ready to be filled with a new foundation. Not a dilapidated monstrosity. After
returning from Saltney yesterday, Effy had sat down on the edge of the bed, sketchpad balanced on
her knees, and tried to marry her initial vision with the ugly reality she’d seen.
The result was, at least to her novice’s eyes, not half bad. She figured the plan would evolve
over time—Ianto wanted a finalized16 design before she returned to Caer-Isel—but she could do it.
She needed to do it.
Ianto led her into the foyer, which, despite the sun and cloudless sky, was still only half filled
with gloomy gray light. The puddles17 on the floor were murky18 and salt- laced. Wetherell was
standing19 by the entrance to the kitchen, looking stiff and dour20 and hard-edged. When she said good
morning to him, he responded with only a nod.
Effy refused to let him temper her enthusiasm. “This is where I want to start, actually,” she
said. “The foyer. It should be flooded with light on a sunny day.”
“That will be difficult,” Ianto said. “The front of the house faces west.”
“I know,” she replied, reaching into her purse for her sketchpad. “I want to flip21 the whole
house around, if we can. The foyer and the kitchen facing east, overlooking the water.”
Ianto assumed a pensive22 look. “Then the entrance would have to be along the cliff.”
“I know it sounds impossible,” she acknowledged.
Wetherell spoke23 up. “What it sounds is expensive. Has Mr. Myrddin discussed the financial
constraints24 of the project with you?”
“Not now,” Ianto said, waving a hand. “I want to hear the extent of Effy’s plans. If we need to
make adjustments, we can do that later.”
For a moment Wetherell looked like he might protest, but his lips thinned and he sank back
against the doorway.
“Well,” she began carefully, “I did think about that. Cost and feasibility. Following my design,
it would be necessary to demolish26 most of the current structure and set the new house back several
acres from the edge of the cliff. Given the unpredictability of the rock, the uneven27 topography . . .”
Effy trailed off. A pall28 had come over Ianto’s face. His look of displeasure told her that their ideas
were not, in fact, aligned29. Had he not thought of an entirely30 new structure taking the place of the
old?
Ianto’s expression, the darkening of his eyes, filled her with a vague but terrible dread31. She
shrank back.
But he only said, “Will you come upstairs with me, Effy? I’d like you to see something.”
Effy nodded numbly33, immediately feeling foolish for being so afraid. It was the sort of thing
her mother would have chastised34 her for—nothing happened, Effy. She’d been offered that puzzled
scorn in lieu of comfort as a child when she’d run to her mother’s room after having a nightmare.
After having the same nightmare, over and over again, that same dark shape in the corner of
her room. Eventually she had stopped coming to her mother’s door at all. Instead she read
Angharad in the lamplight until her sleeping pills pulled her under.
Ianto led her upstairs, hand gliding35 over the rotted-wood banister. Effy followed, feeling a bit
unsteady on her feet. As they passed the portrait of the Fairy King, she paused briefly36 and met his
cold stare. She hadn’t meant to do it. It felt like a taunt37, a reminder38 that this version of the Fairy
King was trapped inside a gilded39 frame, inside an unreal world.
But the real Fairy King was not muzzled40 like the one in the painting. And she had seen that
creature in the road.
Effy gripped the hag stone in her pocket as she and Ianto reached the upstairs landing. Water
was dripping off the carvings41 of Saint Eupheme and Saint Marinell. Ianto was so tall that it
dripped onto his shoulders and his black hair.
He didn’t seem to notice. Living in a place like this, Effy supposed, you might begin to not feel
the cold or damp at all.
“This way,” Ianto said, directing her down the hall. The floor groaned43 emphatically beneath
them. He stopped when they reached a small and unremarkable wooden door. “You left in such a
hurry the other day, I didn’t get to show you this. Not that I blame you entirely, of course. This
house is not for the faint of heart.”
The knob began to rattle44 and the doorframe began to shake, as if someone were pounding on
the door from the other side. Effy tensed, heart pattering. She found herself thinking of Master
Corbenic’s office and the green armchair, its loose threads like reaching vines.
Ianto threw the door open. Or rather, he turned the knob and the wind did the rest, nearly
yanking the door right off its hinges with a vicious howl. Effy stumbled back instinctively45, raising
a hand to shield her eyes. It wasn’t until there was a lull46 in the wind’s wailing47 that she was able to
peer through the open door.
There was a narrow balcony, only half its boards fully25 intact, eaten away so thoroughly48 by
mold and damp that the floor resembled a checkerboard: stretches of black emptiness alternating
with planks49 of sun-blanched wood. It creaked and moaned in the wind the way Effy imagined a
ghost ship would, tattered50 sails swaying to a banshee’s song.
She looked up at Ianto in horror. She hoped he didn’t expect her to actually set foot on the
ruined platform.
As if able to read her thoughts, he thrust out his arm to hold her back. It was a large arm,
black-haired, the skin under it as pale as the ancient stone.
“Don’t go any further,” Ianto said. “And ignore yet another testament51 to my father’s
negligence52. I want you to look at the view.”
Feeling safer behind Ianto’s arm, Effy peered forward. Over the rotted wood was the cliff face,
green and white and gray, dotted with eyries and smaller gull53 nests, feathers catching54 in the wind.
Below it, the sea looked sleek55 and deadly, waves gnashing their teeth against the rock.
Effy felt the height in the soles of her feet and her palms turned slick. Before, when the cliff
had broken apart beneath her, it had been so unexpected, she hadn’t even had the chance to be
afraid. Now she understood the danger of the rocks, the ocean’s foaming56 wrath57.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ianto said. Even in the wind, his hair still lay mostly flat.
“It’s terrifying,” Effy confessed.
“Most beautiful things are,” Ianto said. “Do you know why it’s called the Bay of Nine Bells?”
Effy shook her head.
“Before the Drowning, the land stretched out further into the sea. There were dozens of small
towns there on the old land—fishing villages, mostly. What have you been taught about what
happened to them?”
“Well, there was a storm,” Effy started, but she could tell it was one of those false questions
that was like a hole in the floor. If you took the bait, you would fall right into it.
Ianto smiled at her thinly. “That’s one of the misconceptions many Northerners have about the
Drowning. That it was one enormous storm, a single night of terror and then its aftermath. But it
can take a person up to ten minutes to drown. Ten minutes doesn’t seem like a very long time, but
when you can’t breathe and your lungs are aching, it seems very long indeed. You can even die
after you’ve been pulled from the drink, dry on land, water having rotted your lungs beyond
repair. The Drowning of the Bottom Hundred took years, my dear. It started with the wet season
lasting58 longer than it should and the dry season being less dry than it ought. A few cliffs
crumbling59, a marsh60 or two swelling61 past its margins62—at first it was scarcely remarked upon, and
certainly not taken as a warning.
“Have you heard the expression about the frog in hot water? If you raise the temperature
slowly, he won’t notice a thing until he’s boiled alive. A soft-bellied Northerner might have seen
the danger coming, but the Southerners practically had scales and fins63 themselves. The sea took
and took and took, thousands of little deaths, and they endured it all because they knew nothing
else. They didn’t think to fear the Drowning until the water was lapping at their door.
“The lucky ones, the wealthier ones, with their homes set back further from the shore,
managed to flee. But the waves rose up and swallowed everything, houses and shops and women
and children, the old and the young. The sea has no mercy. In this bay there were nine churches,
and they were all swallowed up, too, no matter how hard their supplicants pleaded with Saint
Marinell. They say that on certain days you can still hear the bells of those churches, ringing
underwater.”
Effy turned toward the water and listened, but she didn’t hear any ringing.
“The Drowning was two hundred years ago,” she said. “Long before your father was born.”
She hoped it didn’t sound disparaging64.
“Of course,” Ianto said. “But the story of the Drowning lives in the minds of every child who
is born in the Bottom Hundred. Our mothers whisper it to us in our cradles. Our fathers teach us to
swim before we can walk. The first game we play with our friends is to see how long we can hold
our breath underwater. It’s the fear we have to learn. The fear keeps the sea from taking us.”
Effy remembered what Rhia had told her about the Southerners and their superstitions65. About
how they feared a second Drowning and thought the magic of the Sleepers67 would stop it.
Watching the ocean barrage68 the cliffs, and hearing Ianto speak, Effy could understand why they
thought such a thing. Fear could make a believer of anybody.
Strangely, she found herself thinking of Master Corbenic. When he had first placed his hand
over her knee, she had thought he was being warm, fatherly. She hadn’t known to be afraid. Even
now, she didn’t know if she was allowed to be.
“That’s why my father built this house here,” Ianto went on. “He wanted my mother and me to
learn how to fear the sea.”
“Your mother isn’t from the Bottom Hundred?” It wasn’t the point of what Ianto had said, but
the small detail stood out to Effy, who hadn’t seen even a trace of the mysterious widow.
“No,” Ianto said shortly. “But Effy, I hope you understand that to tear down this house would
be an act of sacrilege. It would dishonor my father’s memory. Perhaps I was unclear in my initial
missive, and I apologize. This house cannot be leveled. I know that you have enormous respect
and affection for my father and for the legacy69 of Emrys Myrddin, so I am confident you can rise to
the challenge.”
Did he believe, too, that Myrddin’s consecration70 would stop another Drowning? That perhaps
it would even reverse the damage that had already been done? Effy didn’t ask; she didn’t want to
risk offending him. As she tried to decide how to reply, Ianto reached over and pulled the door
shut. The wind’s howling grew muffled71, and her hair lay flat again.
“I’m ready,” Effy said at last. “I want to do this.”
She wanted so badly to do something valuable for once, to make something beautiful,
something that was hers. She wanted this to be more than just an escape, wanted to be more than a
scared little girl running away from imaginary monsters. She couldn’t write a thesis or a
newspaper article or even a fairy tale of her own—the university had made damn sure she knew
that. This was her only chance to make something that would last, so she would take it, no matter
how insurmountable the task seemed.
And when she went back to Caer-Isel, it would be to tell Master Corbenic and her schoolmates
that they had been wrong about her. She would never go back whimpering and kneeling. She
would never sit in that green chair again.
She would have to put her faith in Myrddin once more. She would have to believe he would
not set her an impossible challenge. She would have to trust, as she always had, the words written
in Angharad, the happy ending it promised. So what about the million drowned men? So what
about the rumors72 of another Drowning?
Her only enemy was the sea.
“Excellent,” Ianto said, smiling his one-dimpled smile. “I knew I was right to choose you.” He
reached over and rested a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Effy froze.
Ianto did not stop staring at her, as if he expected her to reply. But all Effy could feel was the
clamminess of his touch, the enormous weight of his hand. It sent her stumbling backward in time,
back to Master Corbenic’s office. Back to that green chair.
She couldn’t speak for how heavy it felt. She felt as if she’d turned into an old doll, buried
under cobwebs and dust.
When the stretch of silence became too long and too awkward, Ianto let her go. The intensity73
of his gaze dimmed, as if he had sensed her sudden terror. He blinked, looking a bit dazed himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to run some numbers by Wetherell.
He’s not going to be happy with me, I’m afraid. Please just wait here.”
Effy didn’t wait. Her head was throbbing74 and her stomach felt thick. Myrddin’s strange ruin of a
house creaked and groaned around her. Many years ago, before the first Drowning, the people of
the Bottom Hundred had executed their criminals by tying them up on the beach at low tide. Then
they all watched and waited as the waves came up. They brought picnic blankets and bread. They
fed themselves as the sea fed the sinner, pouring water down her throat until she was pale and
gorged75.
Effy wasn’t sure why she always pictured a woman when she thought of it. A woman with
kelp-colored hair.
That was exactly the sort of barbarity the Northern conquerors76 claimed they were saving their
Southern subjects from. Centuries later, it was the stuff of fairy tales and legends, all of it
generally Llyrian, as if no conquest had ever occurred. As if whole villages had not been
slaughtered77 in a quest to eradicate78 those unseemly traditions. As if stories were not spoils of war.
Effy walked slowly down the hall, one hand pressed flat against the wall for support. Her
nausea79 did not abate80 as she paused outside one of the doors. It was the study on the other side,
Preston’s room. Curiosity, or maybe something else, compelled her to reach out for the knob.
She had always sat numbly inside the church confessional, trying to invent sins that seemed
worth confessing but not so horrifying81 as to scandalize the priest. Now she had the unmistakable
urge to confess. She wanted someone to know how Ianto had touched her—even if she was still
trying to convince herself it had been nothing at all. A friendly gesture, a bracing82 pat on the
shoulder. But didn’t all drownings begin with a harmless dribble83 of water?
Effy hated that she couldn’t tell right from wrong, safe from unsafe. Her fear had transfigured
the entire world. Looking at anything was like trying to glimpse a reflection in a broken mirror, all
of it warped84 and shattered and strange.
Preston had said all he cared about was the truth. Who better, then, to tell her whether her fear
was justified85? She felt, somehow, that he could be trusted with this.
All that time in the car and he had never touched her. In fact, he had moved about her, around
her, in a very careful sort of way, as if she were something fragile he did not want to risk breaking.
Effy held her breath and opened the door slowly. It creaked like the rest of the house, an awful
squeal86 like a dying cat. She was expecting to see Preston sitting behind Myrddin’s desk, head bent87
over a book.
But the room was empty, and Effy felt a thud of disappointment. She let her gaze wander
across the scattered88 papers and old books, the cigarettes lining89 the windowsill, the blanket thrown
over the shredded90 chaise longue. She looked at the chaise for a moment, trying to imagine Preston
sleeping there.
It made her smile a little bit to think about it. His long legs would dangle91 over the edge.
Feeling more curious and emboldened92, she moved toward the desk. It had been Myrddin’s,
though she could no longer imagine him sitting there—Preston was all over it. His books were
lying open like clamshells, water stains yellowing their pages. The Poetical93 Works of Emrys
Myrddin, 196–208 AD was open to the page with “The Mariner’s Demise94.” Effy traced her finger
over the words, thinking of Preston doing the same. Had she imagined the reverence95 in his tone, or
did he feel passionately96 about Myrddin after all?
There were papers strewn about, some balled up or folded, others just crumpled97 and then
smoothed flat again. Many had ragged98 edges, as though they’d been ripped out of a notebook. Effy
looked for Preston’s notebook, but she didn’t see it. His pens were scattered around, irresponsibly
uncapped.
It was funny now, how she had assumed he would be fastidious and precise in all his work.
Even she didn’t leave her pens uncapped like some kind of barbarian99.
Effy was aware that she was snooping, but she didn’t care. She smoothed some of the papers
flat. Most of them were written in Argantian, which she couldn’t read, though she did pause to
study Preston’s handwriting. It was tight and neat, the same way it had looked in the library
logbook, but not necessarily elegant. He had a funny way of drawing his g’s, two circles stacked
like a headless snowman. Effy bit her lip because it seemed like a silly thing to smile at, even
though it did charm her.
She unfolded another paper, this one written in Llyrian.
Proposed thesis title? Execution of the Author: An Inquiry100 into the Authorship of the Major
Works of Emrys Myrddin
Part one: present theory of false authorship, starting with ??
Part two: cryptographic evidence—ask Gosse for samples
Part three: letters, diary entries—use nearest mimeograph, in Laleston?
The list went on for quite a bit longer, but Effy’s mind stopped on the first line. Execution of
the Author. With trembling fingers, she turned the paper over. Preston had drawn101 some aimless
sketches102 in the margins and scrawled103 some slapdash words, repeating their way down the page.
She was staring at his marginalia in shocked disbelief when the door creaked open.
“What are you doing?” Preston demanded.
Effy crumpled the paper at once, heart pounding. “I could ask you the same.”
Her voice sounded more certain than she felt. Preston had a mug of coffee in one hand, and his
lithe104 fingers curled around it so tightly that his knuckles105 were white. That same muscle feathered
in his jaw106. Effy remembered how guarded he had been when Ianto showed her the study, how
quickly he had put his notes away when she joined him in the booth yesterday.
Now she knew why he’d been so careful to hide his work.
“Effy,” he said gravely. He still hadn’t moved from the threshold, but his eyes were darting107
around behind his glasses.
“‘Execution of the Author,’” she read aloud in a quavering voice. “‘An Inquiry into the
Authorship of the Major Works of Emrys Myrddin.’ This is your thesis?”
“Just wait a second,” Preston said, an edge of desperation to his words. Effy found she quite
liked the idea of him begging her, and a little heat rose in her cheeks at the thought. “I can explain
everything. Don’t go running off to Ianto.”
Her cheeks heated further. “What makes you think I would run to Ianto?”
Preston paced toward her slowly, letting the door groan42 shut behind him. Effy’s heart was
beating very fast. She remembered what the shepherd had told her, about the Fairy King in his
disguises, and in that moment she thought she could see a bit of that wickedness in Preston, his
eyes narrowed and his chest swelling.
Effy reached for the hag stone in her pocket.
In another moment, all the ferocity in him fizzled. He shrank back, as if tacitly apologizing for
daring to approach her like that, and Effy’s hand slid from her pocket. Preston did not make a very
convincing Fairy King. Too stiff. Too scrawny.
“Listen,” he said. “I know you’re a devotee of Myrddin, but this isn’t meant to disrespect his
legacy.”
Effy held the paper against her chest. “You think he was a fraud?”
“I’m just trying to get at the truth. The truth doesn’t have an agenda.” When she only stared
back at him stonily108, Preston went on. “‘Fraud’ has certain connotations I’m not comfortable with.
But no, I don’t think he’s the sole author of the majority of his works.”
Gritting109 her teeth, Effy wished he would just speak plainly for once. She struggled to keep her
voice even as she replied, “Myrddin was a strange man, a hermit110, a recluse—but that doesn’t make
him a fraud. Why would you believe something like that? How could you believe something like
that?”
It was Myrddin they were talking about, Emrys Myrddin, the seventh and most recently
consecrated111 Sleeper66, the most celebrated112 author in Llyrian history. It was absurd. Impossible.
“It’s complicated.” Preston put down his coffee mug and ran a hand through his already-
mussed hair. “For starters, Myrddin was the son of a fisherman. It’s not clear whether his parents
were even literate113, and from what I can find out, he had stopped attending school by age twelve.
The idea that someone of his limited education could produce such works is—well, it’s a romantic
notion, but it’s highly improbable.”
Effy’s blood pulsed in her ears. By now, even the tips of her fingers had gone numb32 with fury.
“You’re nothing more than a typical elitist twat,” she bit out. “I suppose that only the spectacle-
wearing university-educated among us can write anything meaningful?”
“Why are you so interested in defending him?” Preston challenged. His gaze was cold, and
even in her rage, Effy supposed it was deserved. “You’re a Northern girl. Sayre isn’t exactly a
Southern peasant name.”
How much time had he spent thinking about her surname? For some reason it made her
stomach flutter.
“Just because I’m not a Southerner doesn’t mean I’m a snob,” she said. “And that just proves
how stupid your theory is. Myrddin’s work isn’t just for superstitious114 fisherfolk for the Bottom
Hundred. Everyone who reads it loves it. Well, everyone who isn’t an elitist—”
“Don’t call me a twat again,” Preston said peevishly115. “I’m far from the only one to question
his authorship. It’s a very common theory in the literature college, but so far, no one has done
enough work to prove it. My adviser116, Master Gosse, is leading the charge. He sent me here under
the pretense117 of collecting Myrddin’s documents and letters. I am here with the university’s
permission—that part wasn’t a lie.”
The thought of a bunch of stuffy118, pinch-nosed literature scholars sitting around in leather
armchairs and coldly discussing ways to discredit119 Myrddin made Effy feel angrier than ever.
Angier than when she’d confronted Preston on the cliffside, angrier than when she’d seen his name
written in the library’s logbook.
“What’s your end goal, anyway? Just to humiliate120 Myrddin’s fans? They would remove him
from the Sleeper Museum, they would . . .” Something truly terrible occurred to her. “Is this a
grand Argantian plot to weaken Llyr?”
Preston’s expression darkened. “Don’t tell me you actually believe the stories about Sleeper
magic.”
Effy’s stomach shriveled. Her fingers curled into a fist around Preston’s crumpled paper. Of
course he wouldn’t believe in Sleeper magic, being a heathen Argantian and an academic to boot.
She felt embarrassed to have mentioned it.
“I didn’t say that,” she snapped. “But it would be massively humiliating for Llyr, losing our
most prestigious121 Sleeper. It would affect the morale122 of our soldiers, at the very least.”
“Llyr is winning this war, in case you weren’t aware.” Preston spoke aloofly123, but a shadow
passed over his face. “They’re even thinking about reinstating a draft in Argant—all men eighteen
to twenty-five. It’s not my aim at all, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Llyrian
soldiers were to suffer a loss of morale.”
Effy could hardly imagine anyone less suited to military life than Preston Héloury. “So you’re
a saboteur.”
He scoffed124. “Now you’re being truly ridiculous. This isn’t about politics, not in the slightest.
This is about scholarship.”
“And you think scholarship is completely removed from politics?”
To his credit, Preston seemed to genuinely consider this, fixing his gaze on some obscure point
on the far wall for a moment. When he looked back at her, he said, “No. But ideally it would be.
Scholarship should be the effort to seek out objective truth.”
Effy made a scathing126 noise in the back of her throat. “I think you’re deluded127 in even believing
there’s such a thing as objective truth.”
“Well.” Preston folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose we fundamentally disagree, then.”
Effy’s rage was starting to subside128, leaving her shaky with the ebbing129 of adrenaline. She
stopped to think more calmly.
“Well,” she said, mimicking130 his smug tone, “I don’t think Ianto would be very happy to learn
that the university student he’s hosting is actually trying to tear down his father’s legacy. In fact, I
think he would be furious.”
She was glad to see Preston’s face turn pale.
“Listen,” he said again, “you don’t have to do this. I’ve been here for weeks and I’ve hardly
found anything of use. I’m going to have to give up the project and leave soon, unless . . .”
Effy arched a brow. “Unless?”
“Unless you can help me,” he said.
At first she thought she had misheard him. If he had meant to fluster131 her, it had worked. When
she recovered herself, Effy asked, incredulously, “Help you? Why would I ever help you?”
And then, without preamble132, Preston said, “‘I looked for myself in the tide pools at dusk, but
that was another one of the Fairy King’s jests. By the time it was dusk, the sun had cowed herself
too much, drawn close to the vanishing horizon, and all that remained in those pools was darkness.
Her ebbing light could not reach them.’”
He looked at her expectantly. Even as dazed as she was, Effy remembered the end of the
passage. “‘I slapped at that cold, dull water with my hands, as if I could punish it for disobeying
me. And in that moment, I realized that without knowing it, the Fairy King had spoken truly:
although the tide pools had not shown me my face, I had been revealed. I was a treacherous133,
wrathful, wanting thing, just like he was. Just as he had always wanted me.’” Effy paused, gulped134
down a breath, and then added, “And it’s ‘waning light,’ not ‘ebbing.’”
Preston folded his arms across his chest. “No one else in the literature college can do that.
Quote Angharad word for word at the drop of a hat. And that poem, ‘The Mariner’s Demise’?
Myrddin isn’t known for his poetry, and that’s a very obscure one.”
“What’s your point?”
“You clearly want to be in the literature college, Effy. And you deserve to be.”
Effy could only stare at him. She had to remember to breathe, to blink. “You can’t be serious. I
have a good memory—”
“It’s more than that,” he said. “What do you think the other literature students have that you
don’t?”
Now he had to be toying with her. Hot, indignant tears pricked135 at her eyes, but she refused to
let them fall. “Just stop it,” she bit out. “You know the reason. You know women aren’t allowed in
the literature college. You don’t need to play some cruel, silly game—”
“It’s an absurd, outdated136 tradition,” Preston cut in sharply.
Effy was surprised at his vehemence137. He could have repeated the same platitudes138 that all the
university professors did, about how women’s minds were too insipid139, how they could only write
frivolous140, feminine things, nothing that would transcend141 time or place, nothing that would last.
“I didn’t think you’d care so much about a rule that doesn’t affect you at all,” she said.
“You should know by now that I’m not a fan of doing things just because that’s the way
they’ve always been done.” Preston set his jaw. “Or preserving things just because they’ve always
been preserved.”
Of course. Effy’s cheeks warmed. “So, what? I would get a paragraph in your
acknowledgments?”
“No,” he said. “I would make you coauthor.”
That was even more unexpected. Effy’s breath caught, her heart skipping its beats. “I don’t—
I’ve never written a literary paper before. I wouldn’t know how.”
“It’s not hard. You already know Myrddin’s works back to front. I would write all the theory
and criticism parts.” Preston looked at her intently. “If you went to them with a truly
groundbreaking literary thesis, they wouldn’t be able to come up with an excuse not to let you in.”
Effy almost rolled her eyes—who called their own work groundbreaking? But she allowed
herself, briefly, to imagine a new future. One where she went back to the university with her name
beside Preston’s on a groundbreaking thesis (maybe even before his, if Preston wanted to play fair
and put their names in alphabetical142 order). One where the literature college broke with its
outmoded tradition. She would never have to draw another cross section.
She would never have to see Master Corbenic again.
There was hope, blooming like a tender little flower bud. Master Corbenic, the other students
—they couldn’t win if she quit their game and started playing another.
But it would mean betraying Myrddin. Betraying everything she had believed her whole life,
the words and stories she had followed like the point of a compass. Angharad had always been her
true north.
“I can’t,” Effy said at last. She couldn’t bring herself to elaborate further.
Preston exhaled143. “Aren’t you at least a little bit curious about Myrddin’s legacy? Don’t you
want to find out the truth for yourself? He’s your favorite author, after all. You could end up
proving me wrong.”
She snorted, but she couldn’t deny the idea was appealing. “You really care more about the
truth than you do about being right?”
“Of course I do.” There was not an ounce of hesitation144 in his voice.
His intensity made her falter145. As if sensing her will had wavered, Preston pressed on. “I can’t
tell you it won’t be difficult, getting the department to change their minds. But I’ll fight for you,
Effy. I promise.”
He met her eyes, and there was no subterfuge146 in his gaze. No artifice147. He meant it sincerely.
Effy swallowed hard.
“I did try, you know,” she managed. “When I first got my exam score. I wrote a letter to your
adviser, Master Gosse. I suggested thesis topics. I told him how much Myrddin’s work meant to
me.”
Preston drew a gentle breath. “And what did he say?”
“He never replied.”
Effy had never told anyone that, not even her mother. She looked down at her hands, still
curled around the crumpled piece of paper. They were trembling just a little bit.
“I’m sorry,” Preston said. And then he hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I—that’s
terrible and cruel.”
She said nothing, trying to ignore the tears pricking148 at her eyes.
“But I have faith in this project,” Preston went on. His voice was softer now. “I have faith in
you—in both of us.” He stammered149 a little bit at the end, as if embarrassed by what he had said.
Effy had never heard him trip over his words before, and for some reason it made her want to trust
him more.
“But what about the Sleepers?” she asked, risking the possibility that Preston would just scoff125
at her again. “I know everyone at the university is a snooty agnostic who thinks they’re too clever
for myths and magic, but not everyone in Llyr feels the same. Especially in the South. They think
that Myrddin’s consecration is the only thing preventing a second Drowning.”
“A single paper isn’t enough to destroy a myth in one fell swoop,” Preston said. “Especially
not one that’s had centuries to build. The Sleeper Museum isn’t going to evict150 Myrddin the
moment we step off the train in Caer-Isel with our thesis in hand.”
He hadn’t spelled it out precisely151, but Effy knew what he meant: that truth and magic were two
different things, irreconcilable152. It was precisely what Effy had been told all her life—by the
physicians who had treated her, by the mother who had despaired of her, by the schoolteachers
and priests and professors who had never, ever believed her.
Effy had put her faith in magic. Preston held nothing more sacred than truth. Theirs was not a
natural alliance.
And yet she found herself unable to refuse.
“Don’t you think they’ll have the same apprehensions153 I did?” It was her last line of defense154.
“Don’t you think some of them will ask why a person with the name Héloury is so intent on
destroying the legacy of a Llyrian national author?”
“All the more reason to have a blue-blooded Llyrian name like Effy Sayre on the cover sheet
next to mine.” Preston’s gaze held a bit of amusement. “Consider it an armistice155.”
Effy couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. “Is that really why you want my help?”
“Not just that. Ianto is shutting me out. He doesn’t trust me. But he trusts you.”
She remembered the way Ianto had laid his hand on her shoulder. How heavy it had felt, how
it had pushed her back down into that drowning place. Without thinking, she blurted156 out, “So what
do you want me to do? Seduce157 him?”
Preston’s face turned strikingly red. “No! Saints, no. What kind of person do you think I am?”
Effy was flushing, too, unable to meet his gaze. Why had she said that? It was more proof that
something was broken inside her brain, like a skewing of train tracks. She could never trust
anyone’s intentions.
“Do Argantians have a patron saint of truth?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” said Preston. “But I’ll swear by your Saint Una if it makes you happy.”
Somehow, Effy found herself nodding. Her right hand was still clutching Preston’s paper, so
she stuck out her left hand, with its missing ring finger.
Preston took her hand and they shook. His palm was soft, his fingers long and thin. Effy
usually didn’t like shaking hands with people. She always held on past the point of comfort
because she never knew when it was time to let go.
“I swear by Saint Una I’ll help you,” she said. “And I won’t reveal you—us—to Ianto.”
“I swear by Saint Una I won’t betray you,” said Preston. “And I’ll fight for you. I promise your
name will be there on the cover sheet, right next to mine.”
Effy held on to him, their fingers locked. She waited for him to twitch158, to shake her loose, but
he didn’t. The pad of his thumb was ink stained. She wondered if this was some sort of test, if he
was trying to judge her mettle159. Effy had never thought of herself as someone with much staying
power.
Yet there was nothing challenging in his eyes, and Effy realized then that he was giving her the
choice. It was a small thing, maybe not worth remarking upon at all. But very rarely did anyone
allow Effy to choose.
Finally she let go. Preston’s hand dropped to his side at once, fingers flexing160.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” he said stiffly. “Can I have my paper back?”
Mortified161, Effy released the page and set it down on the desk. The ink had bled a little onto her
palm. “You should have written that one in Argantian, too,” she said.
Preston gave her a thin-lipped look. “I know that now.”
Back in the guest cottage that night, Effy’s mind wouldn’t stop turning. Even after she had
swallowed her sleeping pill, she lay awake staring at the damp and moldy162 ceiling, thinking of the
bargain she had struck.
Perhaps in the morning she would realize it was a foolish thing to do. Perhaps she would regret
not leaving on the next train.
Perhaps she would regret betraying Myrddin.
But for the moment, all she could feel was a stomach-churning adrenaline. She rubbed at the
nub of her ring finger. It was as smooth as a hag stone.
Effy rolled over, hair streaming out over the green pillowcase, heartbeat still quick. When she
closed her eyes, she could see Preston’s page of notes, blue ink against white. It was her name
he’d scrawled aimlessly in the margins, repeating all the way down the page:
Effy
Effy
Effy
Effy
Effy.
点击
收听单词发音
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1
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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compendium
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| n.简要，概略 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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starkly
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| adj. 变硬了的,完全的 adv. 完全,实在,简直 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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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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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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finalized
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| vt.完成（finalize的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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18
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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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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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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21
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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22
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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23
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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24
constraints
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| 强制( constraint的名词复数 )； 限制； 约束 | |
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25
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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26
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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27
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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28
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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29
aligned
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| adj.对齐的，均衡的 | |
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30
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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31
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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32
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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33
numbly
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| adv.失去知觉，麻木 | |
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34
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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35
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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36
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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38
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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39
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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40
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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41
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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42
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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44
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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45
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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47
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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51
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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52
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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53
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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54
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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55
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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56
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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57
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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58
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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59
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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60
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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61
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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62
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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63
fins
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| [医]散热片；鱼鳍；飞边；鸭掌 | |
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64
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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65
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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66
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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67
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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68
barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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69
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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70
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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71
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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72
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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73
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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74
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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75
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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76
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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77
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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79
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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80
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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81
horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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82
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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83
dribble
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| v.点滴留下，流口水；n.口水 | |
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84
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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85
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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86
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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87
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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88
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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89
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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90
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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92
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
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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94
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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95
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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96
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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97
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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98
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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99
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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100
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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102
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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103
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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104
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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105
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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106
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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107
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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108
stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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109
gritting
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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110
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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111
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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112
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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113
literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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114
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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115
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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116
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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117
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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118
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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119
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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120
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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121
prestigious
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| adj.有威望的，有声望的，受尊敬的 | |
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122
morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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123
aloofly
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| 冷淡的； 疏远的； 远离的 | |
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124
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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126
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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127
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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129
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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130
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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131
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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132
preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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133
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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134
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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135
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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136
outdated
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| adj.旧式的，落伍的，过时的；v.使过时 | |
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137
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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138
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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139
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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140
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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141
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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142
alphabetical
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| adj.字母（表）的，依字母顺序的 | |
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143
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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144
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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145
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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146
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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147
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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148
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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149
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
evict
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| vt.驱逐，赶出，撵走 | |
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151
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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152
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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153
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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154
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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155
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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156
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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158
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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159
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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160
flexing
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| n.挠曲，可挠性v.屈曲( flex的现在分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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161
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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162
moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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