Angharad is a difficult text to place. Certain passages read as lurid1 and vulgar, more
befitting an erotic tale or a romance, while others have exquisitely2 rendered prose and great
thematic depth. It is not uncommon3 to see housewives paging through their copies over a
pile of laundry, or commuters hunched4 over their paperbacks5 on the tram. And yet it is just
as common for Angharad to appear on the syllabi6 of the university’s most advanced
literature courses. No other book in Llyrian history can boast such universal appeal.
From the introduction to Angharad: The Annotated7 Collector’s Edition, edited by
Dr. Cedric Gosse, 210 AD
When Effy first came to Hiraeth, she would never have expected to find herself, at the bright hour
of seven in the morning, poring over a dead man’s letters with Preston Héloury. Yet that was
exactly where she found herself the next day.
“Well,” Preston said, “I suppose you’ll want to know where I’ve left off.”
She nodded.
“I suppose I’ll explain the basis for my theory, then. Myrddin’s family were refugees of the
Drowning,” said Preston. “It would seem intuitive for his works to paint the natural world as
inherently perilous8, unstable9, even malicious10. Much of his poetry personalizes nature in that way
—”
Effy cut him off. “‘The only enemy is the sea.’”
“Precisely. But Myrddin’s father was a fisherman, and his grandfather, too. Master Gosse was
the first to bring up that apparent contradiction. Myrddin’s family depended on the sea for their
livelihood11, yet it’s only ever painted as a cruel and vicious force of evil in his work.”
“That’s not true,” said Effy. “In Angharad, the Fairy King takes her out to see the ocean, and
she says it’s beautiful and free. ‘Lovely and dangerous and vast beyond mortal comprehension, the
sea makes dreamers of us all.’”
Preston gave her an odd look. It was the first time she’d seen him look bemused, quizzical.
“Finish the quote.”
“Hm.” Effy racked her brain to remember the passage. “‘I looked to the Fairy King behind me,
and the ocean before, the two most beautiful things I had ever seen. They were both creatures of
rage and salt and foam12. Both could strip me to the bone. I wanted nothing more than to tempt13 their
wrath14, because if I were brave enough, I might earn their love instead.’”
“You really do know it cover to cover,” Preston said, and this time, Effy was certain—there
was admiration15 in his voice. “But I don’t think that paints the sea in a very charitable way, either.
The Fairy King is Angharad’s captor. Myrddin portrays16 the sea as a trickster god, luring17 Angharad
with its beauty, but always with the potential to destroy her utterly18.”
“He loved her,” Effy said. She was surprised at the vehemence19 of her tone. “The Fairy King.
He loved Angharad more than anything. She was the one to betray him.”
She’d never had the chance to speak about Angharad like this, to defend her position, to
present her own theories. There was something exhilarating about it, and Effy expected Preston to
challenge her. Instead he stared at her for a long moment, lips pursed, and then said, “Let’s move
on. The metaphoric20 resonance21 of one particular passage doesn’t matter right now.”
“Fine,” Effy said. But she felt let down.
“So anyway, Gosse published a paper discussing the irony22 of it, but he didn’t make any
specific claims about Myrddin’s authorship. That was a few months ago, when Myrddin was
freshly dead. Since then, scholars have really begun to dig into his background. Gosse wants first
crack at it, but he didn’t want to spook Ianto by coming himself—the intimidating23 effect of being
the preeminent24 Myrddin scholar and all that. So he sent me instead.” Preston frowned at this, as if
expecting her to berate25 him again. “There’s no schoolhouse in Saltney, as you saw. Myrddin had
some informal schooling26 from the nuns27, but that stopped definitively28 at age twelve. His parents
weren’t literate29. We have several documents from the Myrddins—including the lease from their
house—and they’re all signed with a mark.”
“Where is their house?” Effy asked. She thought of the shepherd retreating toward the green
hills. “I didn’t see very many homes down there.”
“Oh, it’s gone now,” Preston said. “Several of the older homes in Saltney, the ones closer to
the water, have already fallen into the sea. I almost don’t blame the locals for their superstitions30
about the second Drowning.”
She felt a thud of vague, confused grief. The house where Myrddin had grown up, where his
mother had tucked him into bed at night, where his father had rested his scarred fisherman’s hands
—swallowed up and eroded32, lost to the ages. Effy had listened for the bells under the water that
morning, but she hadn’t heard a sound.
Would she be responsible for further eroding33 Myrddin’s legacy34? Her stomach twisted at the
thought.
“That still doesn’t prove anything,” Effy said. “Look at all of Myrddin’s letters here. Clearly
he could read and write.”
“But look at them,” Preston emphasized. He picked up the nearest one, its edges curled, paper
turned yellow with time. “This is dated a year before the publication of Angharad. It’s addressed
to his publisher, Greenebough Books. Look how he signs his name.”
Effy squinted36 at the page. Myrddin’s script was quite careless, difficult to comprehend.
“‘Yours sincerely, Emrys Myrddin,’” she read aloud. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Pay attention to the surname,” Preston said. “He spells it Myrthin, with a th. That’s the
Northern spelling.”
Effy took the paper from him and ran her finger over the signature. The ink was old and faded,
smudged in places, but the th was clear.
She didn’t want to admit how much it baffled her, so she merely said, “It could have been a
simple mistake.”
“Strange mistake, to misspell your own surname.”
“So what?” she challenged. “Being a poor speller hardly equates37 to illiteracy38.”
“Regardless, I don’t think Myrddin wrote it at all. I think it’s a forgery39.”
Effy gave a derisive40 laugh. “Now you’re sounding as nutty as those superstitious41 Southerners
you have so much contempt for.”
“It’s not unprecedented42.” Preston sounded almost petulant43. “We’ve seen instances of literary
forgery before. The trick of any good lie is just finding an audience who wants to believe it.”
Effy chewed her lip. “Then who is the audience for Myrddin’s supposed lie?”
“You said it yourself.” The corner of Preston’s mouth turned up into a thin half smile.
“Superstitious Southerners who want to believe one of their own could transcend44 his common
origins and write books that make even Northern girls swoon.”
“I’ve never swooned in my life,” she said crossly.
“Of course not,” Preston said, completely straight-faced again. “But there are other people who
stand to profit from the lie. Myrddin’s publisher, for example—Greenebough makes a killing45 from
royalties46, even now. Half of Myrddin’s appeal was this compelling backstory: the impoverished47
provincial48 poet who turns out to be a genius. There’s a lot of money to be made off that myth.”
Preston had a way of speaking with such eloquence49 and certainty that for a moment Effy found
herself half-convinced, and too intimidated50 to argue. When the fog lifted, she was angry with
herself for being so easily swayed.
“You’re condescending,” she said. “Not all Southerners are backwards51 peasants, and not all
Northerners are snobs52. I bet you hate it when people paint Argantians in such broad strokes. You
know, most Llyrians think Argantians are cold, leering little weasels who believe in nothing but
mining rights and profit margins53. I can’t say you’re doing much to dispel54 those beliefs.”
Even as she spoke55, Effy regretted indulging the same old stereotypes56. Mostly, she was
frustrated57 with herself for failing to come up with a better argument against him.
“I don’t see it as my duty to refute Llyrian clichés.” Preston’s voice was cold now. “Besides,
it’s a fact that the South is economically deprived compared to the North, and that deprivation59 is
felt most acutely in the Bottom Hundred. It’s also a fact that Llyrian political and cultural
institutions are dominated by Northerners, and have been throughout history. That’s the legacy of
imperialism—the North reaps while the South sows.”
“I didn’t ask you to educate me about my own country,” Effy snapped. “Statistics don’t tell the
whole story. Besides, Argantians did the same thing. Cut up your northern mountain villages into
mining towns and coal tunnels, only you let your myths and magic fade into obscurity instead of
celebrating them. At least Llyr doesn’t try to hide its past.”
Preston looked weary. “Some might call it celebrating; others would call it flouting60 a colonial
legacy—oh, never mind. We can argue about this until the entire house falls into the sea. I’m not
asking you to buy my narrative61 wholesale62. But you did agree to help, so can you at least try not to
fight me at every turn?”
Effy ground her teeth and looked down at the pile of letters on the desk. She had agreed, but
she was finding it harder than she anticipated, what with Preston’s snooty attitude. She would try
her best to bear it, for now. Once she had secured a place in the literature college, she could spend
the rest of her university career trying to undo63 the damage she’d done to Myrddin’s legacy.
“All right,” she said at last, scowling64. “But you have to promise to be fifteen percent less
patronizing.”
Preston drew a breath. “Ten.”
“And you think I’m the stubborn one?”
“Fine,” he relented. “Fifteen, and you don’t swear at me again.”
“I only did that once.” She was still convinced he’d earned it. But he was right; there was no
use arguing with every breath.
Yet it all tasted bitter to swallow. She had abandoned her principles to get what she wanted, to
improve her standing65 at the university, to earn some academic honors. To escape the sneers66 in the
hallway, the whispers, and that green chair. What did that make her? No better than Preston, in the
end. At least he was committed to the vaguely67 noble principle of truth.
Mortified68 by this realization69, Effy fell silent.
Preston folded his arms across his chest. “Anyway. Before I came here, Gosse and I compiled
a list of vocabulary used across all of Myrddin’s work and cross-referenced that with his letters.”
Immediately forgetting her previous promise, Effy blurted71 out, “Saints, how bloody72 long did
that take you?”
“It’s my thesis,” Preston said, but the tips of his ears turned pink. “It turns out there’s very
little overlap73 between the vocabulary he uses in his letters and in his novels—specific phraseology
that appears over and over again in his books but never occurs in his letters. If it didn’t all bear the
name Emrys Myrddin, you would never imagine they were written by the same man. And then
there’s the problem of Angharad.”
Effy was instantly defensive74. “What’s the matter with Angharad?”
“It’s an odd book. Genre-wise, it’s hard to classify. Myrddin generally belongs to a school of
writers credited with reviving the romantic epic75.”
“Angharad is a romance,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “A tragic76 one, but still a
romance.”
Preston hesitated. Effy could almost see him turning over their agreement in his mind,
calculating how to moderate his tone by around fifteen percent. “Romantic epics77 are typically
written in the third person, and always narrated78 by men. Heroes and knights79 whose goals are to
rescue damsels and slay80 monsters. But the Fairy King is both lover and monster, and Angharad is
both heroine and damsel.”
“And of course you can’t simply credit that to Myrddin being a creative visionary,” Effy said,
scowling.
“There are just too many inconsistencies,” Preston said, “too much that doesn’t sit quite right.
And Ianto is so cagey about it. It only makes me more suspicious.”
Effy looked down at the scattered81 papers again. “Don’t tell me this is all you’ve managed to
find out.”
“I said I needed your help,” he said, and he didn’t manage to not sound miserable82 about it.
“Ianto is keeping me in the dark. Wetherell was the one who gave me these letters. He asked
around for them from some of Myrddin’s correspondents, his publisher and friends. But there have
to be more.”
“More letters?”
“Letters. Diary entries. Rough drafts of bad poems. Half-finished novels. Shopping lists, for
Saints’ sakes. Something. It’s like the man has been erased83 from his own home.”
“He has been dead for six months,” Effy pointed84 out. She thought again of what Ianto had
said: My father was always his own greatest admirer. She’d heard a hint of resentment85 there.
“Still,” Preston said, “I’m convinced Ianto is hiding something. This is an old, confusing
house. There has to be — I don’t know, a secret room somewhere. An attic86, a storage area.
Something he’s not showing me. Ianto swears there’s not, but I don’t believe him.”
Effy thought of the door with the pulse of the tide behind it. “What about the basement?”
Preston turned pale. “I don’t see any use in asking about that,” he said quickly. “It’s flooded.
And besides, Ianto guards that key with his life. I wouldn’t even bother.”
She detected a note of fear in his voice. She had never heard him sound even remotely afraid
before, and she decided87 not to press him on it. For now. Besides, something else had occurred to
her.
“The widow,” she said. “You told me she invited you here.”
“I’ve never seen her,” Preston replied, looking slightly less pale and relieved to have changed
topics. “Ianto told me she’s ailing58 and prefers to keep to herself.”
Effy couldn’t help but wonder about her. Myrddin had been eighty-four when he died; surely
the widow was not much younger. Perhaps ailing was a euphemism88 for mad. Men liked to keep
mad women locked up where everyone could comfortably forget they ever existed. But Ianto
hadn’t seemed to harbor any malice89 toward his mother. Effy shook her head, as if to banish90 the
thought.
“All right,” she said. “But what do you want from me?”
Preston hesitated, and didn’t meet her gaze. “Blueprints91 for the house,” he said after a beat.
“I’m sure they exist somewhere. Maybe Ianto showed them to you already.”
“He didn’t.” And Effy hadn’t even thought to ask, which was a bit embarrassing. “It would be
a very reasonable thing for me to request, though. I can ask.”
“Right. Ianto wouldn’t suspect a thing.” Preston’s eyes flickered92 behind his glasses, but his
expression was unreadable. “Just be careful. Don’t—”
Effy sighed. “I’ll be perfectly93 polite, if that’s what you mean.”
“I meant the opposite, really.” Now Preston was flushed. “I would keep him at an arm’s length.
Don’t be too . . . obliging.”
Effy couldn’t tell if he was trying to admonish94 her or warn her. Was it her he didn’t trust, or
Ianto? It made her skin prickle. Surely he didn’t think she was so incompetent95.
Preston looked so flustered96 that she knew there had to be something else he wanted to say, but
couldn’t. Effy kept her gaze on him to see if she could determine it, but she only succeeded in
flushing, too. In the end, she merely replied, “I’ll be careful.”
“Good,” he said, straightening up, his tone cool and clipped again. “And, of course, I’ll be
discreet97. I take all my notes in Argantian so Ianto can’t read them.”
“Except for one,” Effy said. She had spent all last night thinking about seeing her name
scrawled98 down the margins of that page in Preston’s precise, tidy script. Effy Effy Effy Effy Effy.
Maybe it was just meaningless marginalia. Maybe it was something else. She didn’t want to
embarrass him, but she didn’t think she could stand not knowing the truth. “Why not that note,
too?”
“Most of what I write doesn’t really matter.” Preston’s gaze was on her, unflinching, though
his flush had not entirely99 faded. “It’s just whatever errant idea goes through my head. I know I’ll
just throw them away later, so I don’t have to bother translating them from Argantian into Llyrian.
I suppose I thought that one was important.”
It took Effy the rest of the morning to work up the courage to talk to Ianto. Over and over again,
her mind replayed that moment where he’d laid his hand on her shoulder. She had slipped so
quickly into that deep-water place. She paced the upper landing and shook her head, trying to cut
the memory loose. He’s always been kind to you, a voice said. Eventually she convinced herself
that the gesture had been fatherly and nothing more.
Ianto was taking his tea in the dining room, under that perilously100 dangling101 chandelier.
Cobwebs stuck to the empty candleholders like spun102 sugar, and the glass shards103 seemed to ripple104,
even absent of wind. When he saw her, he immediately rose to his feet and said, “Effy! Please sit.
Can I get you some tea?”
She held the back of a chair in both hands. Instinctively105 she wanted to refuse, but she had
come there with a purpose. Slowly, with her belly106 roiling107, Effy slid into the seat.
“Sure,” she said. “Tea sounds lovely.”
“Excellent,” Ianto said. He hurried off to the kitchen and Effy sat there, palms slick, trying to
keep her mind from slipping away from her. Trying not to think of how heavy his touch had felt.
Ianto returned several moments later, carrying a chipped porcelain108 cup. He set it down before
her. She took a small, experimental sip110; immediately, unmixed sugar gathered like grit111 on her
tongue. She put the cup down again.
“I was just wondering—” she began, but Ianto held up his hand to stop her.
“I feel I know so little about you, Effy,” he said. “You’re an architect, you’re a fan of my
father’s, but surely there’s more to you than that.”
“Oh, I’m not very interesting,” she said, with a short, uncomfortable laugh.
Ianto captured her gaze and held it. “You’re very interesting to me. Are you originally from
Caer-Isel?”
“Draefen.” Effy rubbed the heel of her hand against her stockings. “I came to Caer-Isel to
study at the university.”
“A Northern girl through and through,” Ianto said with a smile. “I could have guessed as much
by your name.” He squinted at her for a moment, as if trying to remember something. “You don’t
happen to be related to the banking112 Sayres of Draefen.”
Effy felt her muscles relax slightly. These were easy questions to answer. “Yes. My
grandfather is the bank manager. My mother is one of his secretaries.”
“Clearly architecture doesn’t run in the family. What inspired you to study it?”
Effy considered how to reply. She didn’t want to express her true lack of enthusiasm for the
subject, so she merely said, “I like a challenge.”
Ianto gave a delighted chortle. “Well, you’ve taken up the right project, then.”
Feeling more at ease, Effy took another sip of tea and tried to smile along. She even allowed
herself to meet Ianto’s eyes. They were very unusual eyes, she realized, almost colorless, like
water. No matter how his expression changed, no matter whether he was smiling or frowning, his
eyes seemed not to shift at all. It was like looking into one of the tide pools, the Fairy King’s false
mirrors.
Very abruptly113, Ianto stood up. “You know,” he said, “this is hardly the right atmosphere to
have a lively conversation. Did you have a chance to visit the pub while you were in town
yesterday? I’m sure you’d like another chance to return to civilization, such as it is in the Bottom
Hundred.”
And that was how Effy ended up back at the pub in Saltney, sitting across the table from Ianto
Myrddin.
The windows of the pub were opaque114 with fog and rainwater left over from the earlier
downpour, and the lights inside glowed sallowly. Ianto was smiling, making small talk with the
bartender, who only looked as grim as ever.
Effy tried to order hot cider, but Ianto quickly procured115 two glasses of scotch116 instead. In an
effort not to be rude, Effy feigned118 taking tiny sips119 and watched him over the rim109 of the glass. His
damp hair brushed his shoulders, and his arm was braced120 over the back of the booth, as if to hold
himself in his seat.
She set her glass down, fingers trembling slightly. She tried to look around the pub curiously121,
so as to give the impression that this was the first time she’d seen it.
“Thank you,” she said. “You were right. This is lovely.”
“It’s nice to be out of the house,” Ianto said.
His voice had taken on an odd tone, lower and raspier. Effy was sure she was just imagining it.
“I know it’s no comparison to the fare in Caer-Isel,” Ianto went on, his voice still slightly off
pitch, “but the steak-and-kidney pie here is very good.”
Effy was planning to politely tell him she didn’t care for steak-and-kidney pie, thank you, but
there was no use. When the bartender returned, he immediately ordered two of them.
Once she had shuffled122 away again, Effy cleared her throat. “So, about Hiraeth—”
“You said you’re a girl who likes a challenge,” Ianto cut in. “I can see why you threw your
name in the hat for this project.”
Effy drew in a breath. Clearly getting the blueprints was going to be more difficult than she
thought. “Yes,” she said. “And you know how much respect I have for your father’s work.”
It wasn’t technically123 a lie, but it felt like one, considering the agreement she’d just made with
Preston. She said a quick, silent prayer to Saint Duessa, folding her hands in her lap. The patroness
of deception124 with good cause (arguable) was getting a lot of her solicitation125 lately.
“Of course,” said Ianto. “But the task is monumental. I wouldn’t blame you if you had to find
some unfortunate orphan126 to bleed out.”
Effy blinked, so taken aback that she was momentarily lost for words. “What?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard of that old myth?” Ianto looked pleased, but there was something eerie127
under his smile. “It’s a rite35 here in the South, dating back to the pre-Drowning days. Spilling the
blood of a fatherless child on the foundation of a castle was supposed to ensure its structure was
sound and strong. Blood sacrifice—I suppose you Northerners would think it very brutish.”
As a fatherless child herself, Effy found it both brutish and oddly fascinating. Luckily, their
food arrived before she could choke out a reply.
The steak-and-kidney pies were steaming, the same golden brown color of varnished128 wood.
Effy picked up her fork reluctantly. Preston was asking quite a lot of her, to feign117 enthusiasm for
kidney.
But to her surprise, Ianto didn’t touch his food. He was looking at her intently. He said,
“You’ve been spending time with the Argantian student lately.”
Effy’s heart stuttered. “Not really,” she managed. “Only this morning. He’s . . .” She fumbled129
for an innocuous descriptor, something that wouldn’t be a lie. “He has interesting things to say.”
“I don’t get a good feeling from him.” Ianto picked up his knife. The grease-marbled blade
glinted. “He’s a bit twitchy, isn’t he? A strange, skittish130 young man. Perhaps it’s the Argantian
blood.”
For some reason, Effy felt the need to defend Preston. “I think he’s just dedicated131 to his work.
He doesn’t waste time on small talk or pleasantries.”
“I suppose he’s very much like my father, in that way.” Ianto pointed his knife at her. “Go on,
then. Eat.”
Effy’s heart skipped another beat. She sliced through the flaky exterior132 of the pie, steam
wafting133 from the cut like a spirit escaping its vessel134.
Ianto watched her without blinking, his watery135, colorless eyes unreadable. When she was mid-
bite, he said, “You’re a very pretty girl.”
The food on her tongue burned too much to swallow. She wanted to spit it out into her napkin
but she couldn’t bring herself to; she could scarcely bring herself to move. Her eyes welled, and
Ianto just kept looking at her, gaze inscrutable and relentless136.
She didn’t think she looked pretty. At least, she had no idea whether she did or not. She was
wearing stockings and a plaid skirt, with a white woolen137 sweater over it. It was the sort of outfit138
she’d worn during her first week at university. Before Master Corbenic. She regretted it now. The
damp air had turned her normally wavy139 hair to curls and the curls to untended frizz. Because there
was no mirror in the guesthouse, she hadn’t been able to put on any makeup140, or even check to see
how large the circles under her eyes were.
It hurt so much to hold the steaming food on her tongue, but eventually it cooled down enough
to swallow. Effy put her hand to her mouth. The tip of her nose was starting to get hot, the way it
did when she was about to cry.
Ianto didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were unyielding—and, she noticed, they looked clearer.
Sharper.
“Your eyes. Your hair,” he said. “Beautiful.”
Effy dug her fingernails into her palm. She regretted coming here at all. But she didn’t want to
fail at her task. As much as it shocked her to realize it, she didn’t want to fail Preston. So she met
Ianto’s gaze and gathered up as much of a response to the insipid141 flattery as she could muster142.
“Thank you,” she said. Her blush, at least, was not feigned. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
The door to the pub clattered144 open and three fishermen stomped145 in, carrying with them the salt
smell of the sea. Even as the wind blew through the doorway146, Ianto’s black hair lay flat.
Effy had brought several of the hag stones in the pocket of her coat. Still holding her fork with
one hand, she touched the stones with the other. Did she dare to take one out in front of him?
Would her obvious terror ruin everything?
She couldn’t wait any longer; she would only grow more afraid. So she blurted out, “I wanted
to ask if you had blueprints for the house. That would really help me out a lot.”
This, at last, unlatched his gaze from hers. Surprise flittered briefly147 across his face and then
vanished, like a bird hitting a window and then fluttering crookedly148 off again. Unexpectedly, Ianto
reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper.
“There you are,” he said.
Eager, Effy reached out to take it. Her fingers had only brushed the edges of the paper when
Ianto suddenly grabbed her hand. His grasp was painfully tight, and she let out a small, shocked
whimper.
“Ianto—” she started.
His face was as pale as the cliff stone and his eyes held no color at all. And then, as suddenly
as he had grabbed her, he released her again, leaving Effy holding the papers. He rose from his
seat with such abruptness149 that it was almost violent. His knife clattered onto the table.
“Let’s go,” he said. His voice came out through gritted150 teeth. When Effy only stood there
staring, open-mouthed, he repeated in a snarl151, “Let’s go!”
Numbly152, Effy got to her feet. She tucked the blueprints into her purse and hurried after him.
Back in the car, Ianto’s gaze was trained unblinkingly at the road ahead, his enormous hands
wrapped around the steering153 wheel.
Effy was afraid to shatter the heavy, constricting154 silence, afraid to imperil her precarious155
victory, afraid to provoke Ianto. She looked out the window instead, eyes tracing the path of
raindrops sliding down the glass. Her fingers still throbbed157 where he had grabbed them.
The sea frothed angrily at the rocks, tongues of foam bathing the edge of the road. The water
had a greenish hue158 today, like a witch’s brew159.
Still staring straight ahead, Ianto barked out, “Did you enjoy your meal?”
“Yes,” Effy replied. The bites of steak-and-kidney pie sat queasily160 in her belly. Each bump in
the road made her stomach churn further.
“Good. Not all girls are so grateful for chivalry161, nor so humble162 about their own charms. In the
cities up North, I’ve heard that women are starting to have very uncharitable views about men and
marriage.”
Effy swallowed hard. It was true that there were more women at the university than ever, and
many of them left without wedding rings. Ten years ago, the only reason a girl went to college was
to find a husband. Her grandmother still inquired about this every time she wrote, asking if Effy
had met any nice young men. No, Effy always wrote back, I haven’t.
The car lurched and jostled, making her heart clatter143 in her chest. In one last effort at civility,
Effy asked, “Have you ever been married before?”
The car sloshed viciously through wet sand.
“No,” he said. “Marriage is not for all men.”
“I understand,” she said, trying to be charitable. “My parents never wed31.”
There was a long stretch of silence, during which the wind wailed163 so loudly that the windows
seemed to rattle164.
Ianto was driving far, far more quickly than Wetherell had driven in the same car. Effy grasped
the edge of the seat and bit down on her lip. The inside of the car smelled like brine and musk165. It
smelled like Hiraeth.
“Are you in a hurry to get back?” She nearly had to yell over the sound of the wind and the
sand flying up to pelt166 the windows.
“Of course,” Ianto said. But it was closer to a growl167.
The tone of his voice pinned her there, like a needle through a butterfly wing. She was filled
with a vague and ominous168 fear, fingers curled around the handle of her purse, blood racing156 and
heart pounding. A bodily, animal instinct was telling her: Something terrible is about to happen.
“I’m sorry,” she said. The air in the car felt extraordinarily169 stiff and heavy.
She had not taken her pink pill that morning, she realized.
Ianto’s gaze shifted from the road, and she had not been imagining it earlier—his once turbid170
eyes were now glassy and sharp. Something manic was glinting in them.
“We spoke for an hour and you never told me what I really want to know,” he said.
Effy wanted to tell him not to look at her, to keep his eyes on the road. The car was hurtling up
the cliffside so quickly that her body was practically pinned to the seat.
Miserably171, she managed to reply, “And what is that?”
Suddenly Ianto whipped his head around to check the road. And that was when Effy realized
the car had no rearview mirror. The side mirrors were turned inward, invisible. If Ianto wanted to
look behind him, he had to crane his neck backward.
How had she not noticed that before, when Wetherell was driving? Had there been mirrors
then?
Her vision was beginning to blur70. Not here, she begged herself. Not here, not now. She had the
pink pills in her purse, but she couldn’t risk taking them out in front of Ianto. She couldn’t bear the
questions he would ask about them. The hag stones in her pocket bounced jaggedly with the
rhythm of the car.
“Why did you really come here?” Ianto said at last. His voice was that same low, rasping snarl.
“A beautiful girl like you doesn’t need this project to pad her résumé. Any hot-blooded professor
would give you highest marks in a heartbeat.”
Her panic crested172 like a white-capped wave, and then Effy saw him. He was sitting in the
driver’s seat, where Ianto had only just been. His black hair was as slick as water. His skin was
moonlight pale, and his eyes burned holes right through her, down to her blood, down to her bone.
His fingers uncurled from the steering wheel and reached for her, nails long and dark and sharp as
claws.
She wasn’t wearing her seat belt, so when she flung the door open, it was easy enough to hurl173
herself out of the car.
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1
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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paperbacks
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| n.平装本，平装书( paperback的名词复数 ) | |
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syllabi
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| 判决理由书的要旨 | |
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annotated
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| v.注解，注释( annotate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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10
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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12
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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13
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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15
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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portrays
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| v.画像( portray的第三人称单数 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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20
metaphoric
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| adj. 使用隐喻的；比喻的；比喻意义的 | |
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21
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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23
intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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24
preeminent
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的 | |
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25
berate
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| v.训斥，猛烈责骂 | |
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26
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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27
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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28
definitively
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| adv.决定性地，最后地 | |
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29
literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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30
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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31
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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32
eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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33
eroding
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| 侵蚀，腐蚀( erode的现在分词 )； 逐渐毁坏，削弱，损害 | |
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34
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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35
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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36
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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37
equates
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| v.认为某事物（与另一事物）相等或相仿( equate的第三人称单数 )；相当于；等于；把（一事物） 和（另一事物）等同看待 | |
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38
illiteracy
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| n.文盲 | |
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39
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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40
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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41
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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42
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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43
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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44
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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45
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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46
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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47
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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48
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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49
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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50
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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51
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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52
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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53
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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54
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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55
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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56
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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57
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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58
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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59
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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60
flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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61
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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62
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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63
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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64
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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65
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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66
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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67
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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68
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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69
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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70
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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71
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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72
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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73
overlap
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| v.重叠，与…交叠；n.重叠 | |
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74
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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75
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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76
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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77
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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78
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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80
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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81
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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82
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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83
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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84
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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85
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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86
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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87
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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88
euphemism
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| n.婉言，委婉的说法 | |
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89
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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90
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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91
blueprints
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| n.蓝图，设计图( blueprint的名词复数 ) | |
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92
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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94
admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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95
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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96
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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97
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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98
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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99
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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100
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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101
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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102
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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103
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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104
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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105
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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106
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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107
roiling
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| v.搅混（液体）( roil的现在分词 )；使烦恼；使不安；使生气 | |
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108
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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109
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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110
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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111
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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112
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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113
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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114
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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115
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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116
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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117
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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119
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
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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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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123
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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125
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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127
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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129
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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130
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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131
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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134
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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142
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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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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numbly
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| adv.失去知觉，麻木 | |
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153
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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154
constricting
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| 压缩，压紧，使收缩( constrict的现在分词 ) | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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queasily
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| adv.令人恶心地 | |
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161
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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166
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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168
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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169
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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170
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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171
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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172
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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173
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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