When the king was first interred1,
He did not dream at all.
It was the abhorrent2 nothingness
That cast a dreadful pall3.
That bleak4 and black oblivion
Was too much like death to bear.
And so the dreams came like a balm
For the half-dead king’s despair.
From “The Dreams of a Sleeping King” by Colin Blackmar, 193 AD
The next day, Preston was jumpier than usual, flinching5 at every unexpected sound. He couldn’t
seem to get over the fact that Ianto had waved his rifle at them. But that was the least of Effy’s
concerns. Ianto’s more overt6 antagonism7 didn’t bother her—a man with a gun was an enemy she
could easily recognize and comprehend.
No, she was far more concerned about the things she could only see out of the corner of her
eye, the voices she heard when no one else was listening.
Ianto’s threats had been vague, but she knew he didn’t want to see her and Preston together
again. So they began working only under the cover of night.
It would have taken days, if not weeks, to read through the whole diary with the careful
attention it required. But the entries they had read pointed8 over and over again to Colin Blackmar.
If Preston was to be believed, they didn’t have much time to solve the mystery before the rest of
the literature college came pounding at the door—or before Ianto banished9 him from the house.
“We could only have days,” Preston said. “We have to focus on Blackmar now.”
Effy knew nothing about Blackmar other than her memories of that one terrible poem, which
she had a clear vision of reciting while wearing an itchy school sweater.
“He’s about as patriotic10 a writer as you can imagine,” Preston said. “Openly nationalist.
There’s a reason every Llyrian child has to learn ‘The Dreams of a Sleeping King.’ And the king
is venerated11 because he slaughtered12 hundreds of Argantians.”
Preston’s voice tipped up at the end; he always sounded uncharacteristically nervous when he
spoke13 of Argant, and his normally subtle accent became more pronounced.
“I bet the Llyrian government wishes they could put him in the Sleeper14 Museum too,” Effy
said. That was one thing all the Sleepers15 had in common: they had to be from the South.
“Oh, Blackmar is probably pitying himself that he had the misfortune to have been born north
of Laleston. I suppose he could make up some story about how he was an orphan16 child, taken in
by nobility, but with Southern blood running true in his veins17. There you go—Sleeper Museum,
eternal veneration18, magic.”
Preston’s tone dripped with irony19, and Effy rolled her eyes. “It must be immensely frustrating20
for you, to put up with all our Llyrian superstitions21. Just because it’s an archaic22 belief doesn’t
mean it’s not true.”
“Argant has plenty of its own superstitions, let me assure you. But I think magic is just the
truth that people believe. For most people, that truth is whatever helps them sleep at night,
whatever makes their lives easier. It’s different from objective truth.”
Effy laughed shortly. “No wonder you’re such a terrible liar23.”
It did charm her to know that despite all his monologuing about good lies requiring a willing
audience, he still flushed and stammered25 over his falsehoods.
“I don’t like lying.” Preston folded his arms over his chest. “I know it’s not realistic, but the
world would be a better place if everyone just told the truth.”
It was a strangely naive26 thing to say. Effy had never thought much about the lies she told—she
didn’t feel good about them, but they didn’t rend27 her apart with guilt28, either. Lying was a form of
survival, a way out of whatever trap had been set. Some animals chewed off their own limbs to
escape. Effy just tucked away truth after truth, until even she wasn’t sure if there was a real person
left at all, under all those desperate, urgent lies.
But it had been a long time since she’d even tried telling anyone the truth. She just assumed no
one would believe her. Preston especially, with his pretentiousness29 and disdain30 for anything that
couldn’t be proven. Yet even though he held to his principles, he wasn’t as close-minded as she’d
initially31 imagined him to be. He truly considered all the things she said, all the new information
presented to him—and he’d even told her he was perfectly32 willing to be proven wrong.
Somehow, Effy found herself blurting33 out, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Preston blinked at her. “Where did that come from?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Effy had surprised herself with the words. “I’m just curious. I know you
don’t believe in Sleeper magic, but ghosts are different, aren’t they?”
Preston’s expression suddenly became very hard. “There’s no proof that ghosts are real. No
scientific evidence to support it.”
“But there’s nothing to prove they aren’t real, is there?”
“I suppose not.”
She expected Preston to say more, but his mouth had snapped shut and he wasn’t meeting her
eyes. It was uncharacteristic of him to be so withdrawn34. Usually it took very little coaxing35 to get
him to wax poetic36 on practically any subject.
“And there are so many ghost stories,” Effy pressed. “So many sightings—I bet in a room full
of people, half of them would claim they’ve seen a ghost. Every culture has ghost stories. That
seems significant.”
“I don’t know what brought this up,” Preston said slowly, “but if you really want to know what
I believe—I believe in the human mind’s ability to rationalize and externalize its fear.”
“Fear?” Effy raised a brow. “Not all ghost stories are scary. Some are comforting.”
“Fine, then.” Preston’s voice was tight, his gaze fixed37 stubbornly on some point above her
head. “I believe in the emotions—grief, terror, desire, hope, or otherwise—that might conjure38
one.”
It was not the dismissive answer Effy thought she might get. He hadn’t laughed at her, like
she’d been afraid he would. He hadn’t told her she was childish or stupid. But she could tell from
the way he’d spoken, how his whole body had tensed when she’d said the word ghost, that it was
something he very much did not want to discuss. It was like she’d gotten too close to picking open
a wound.
She found that she didn’t want to hurt him, and so she resolved not to bring up what she had
seen. What she had heard. Instead, Effy asked, “Blackmar is alive, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Preston looked relieved that she’d changed the subject. “Ancient, but alive.”
“Then let’s go see him,” she said. “He’s the only one who can answer our questions.”
Preston hesitated. They had both felt it too dangerous to keep the lights on in the study, so they
were working by moonlight and candlelight, keeping their voices low. Right then the left side of
his face was doused39 in orange, the right side in white.
“As it happens, I wrote to Blackmar already,” he said at last. “His name crops up quite a lot in
Myrddin’s letters as well. I thought he might give me some insight into Myrddin’s character, since
Ianto won’t talk about his father at all.”
“Well?” Effy prompted.
“The letter came back marked ‘return to sender,’” Preston said. “But I know he opened it and
read it, because the seal was broken and replaced with one of his own.”
“Can I see the letter?”
Somewhat reluctantly, Preston produced it. Effy flattened40 the paper against the table, squinted41
in the candlelight, and read.
Dear Mr. Blackmar,
I am a literature student at the university in Caer-Isel, and my thesis concerns some of the
works of Emrys Myrddin. I’ve recently become aware that the two of you maintained
correspondence, and I hoped I might make a scholarly inquiry42 into the nature of your
relationship, if you are amenable43 to answering some of my questions. I am happy to make
the journey to Penrhos if you find face- to- face conversation preferable to written
correspondence.
Sincerely,
Preston Héloury
Effy blinked up at him. “This is the worst letter I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you mean?” Preston looked affronted44. “It’s brisk and professional. I didn’t want to
waste his time.”
“He has to be in his nineties now, Blackmar. He has plenty of time on his hands. Where’s the
flattery? The beseeching45? You could’ve at least pretended to be a fan of his work.”
“I told you, I don’t like lying.”
“This is for a good cause. Isn’t it worth lying a little bit, if it helps get to the truth?”
“Interesting paradox46. Llyr doesn’t have a patron saint of blessed liars47 for nothing. Do parents
ever name their children after Saint Duessa?”
Effy’s skin prickled. She didn’t want to go down this dark road. “Some, I guess. But stop
changing the subject. I’m making fun of your terrible letter.”
Preston let out a breath. “Fine. Why don’t you write one, then?”
“I will,” she said with resolve.
That night, Effy wrote her letter, beseeching and full of flattery. They couldn’t risk putting it in
Hiraeth’s postbox, since Ianto could easily check it, so Preston drove down to Saltney to send it.
“There’s nothing to do now except wait,” Preston said. “And I’ll keep looking through the
diary.”
Effy found her mind lingering on a different mystery, the one she still didn’t have the courage
to tell Preston about. The Fairy King, the ghost, Ianto’s strange conversation. The thoughts
haunted her both sleeping and waking, and she found herself fleeing Hiraeth as quickly as she
could at night, barreling toward the safety of the guesthouse.
It was almost a relief to not think about Myrddin for a while. She didn’t want to remember the
photographs, the diary entry where he’d called women frivolous48. A part of her wished she’d never
seen any of it at all.
At least distracting Ianto turned out to be easy. For him, Effy drew sketches49 that would never
leave the paper, floor plans that would never be realized. She found that he was a willing audience
for her lies. He wanted to believe, as she once had (as maybe a part of her still did) that the project
of Hiraeth was more than just an imagined future. A castle in the air.
“I like the look of the second floor here,” Ianto said, as they spread out her drawings over the
dining table. “The bay windows overlooking the sea—it will be lovely for watching the sunrise
and sunset. My mother will like it, too.”
“Does your mother not want me to be here?” Effy had been holding on to the question
practically since she arrived at Hiraeth, but after the odd half conversation she’d overheard, it was
killing50 her more than ever not to ask it.
Now seemed like a good time. Ianto was in a jaunty51 mood. The sun was wriggling52 through the
clouds. The Fairy King had not appeared to her since that day in the car, and Ianto had never
brought up the incident. To him, it seemed, the whole event had never occurred.
Ianto leaned back in his chair and let out a breath. There was a long stretch of silence, and Effy
worried that there was not, in fact, a good time to ask the question after all.
“She’s a very private woman,” he said at last. “My father made her that way.”
Effy’s stomach clenched53. “What do you mean?”
“He grew up in dire54 poverty, as you know. He hardly had more than the clothes on his back,
and his father’s little fishing boat. When he finally did have something of his own, he was loath55 to
let it go.” Another beat of silence. “This house—he let it decay rather than have any stranger come
to fix the leaking pipes or broken windows, much less the crumbling56 foundation. It’s a good
metaphor57, I think, but I’m no literary scholar like our other guest.”
He almost never mentioned Preston by name. He called him the student or the Argantian.
Ianto’s words reminded Effy of a certain passage from Angharad.
“I will love you to ruination,” the Fairy King said, brushing a strand58 of golden hair from
my cheek.
“Yours or mine?” I asked.
The Fairy King did not answer.
That made her think of the photographs again, and that made her cheeks turn pink. Maybe she
didn’t want to know about the ghost, about Myrddin’s widow, about whatever secrets Ianto was
hiding. It was all tangled59 up like catch in a fishing net, nearly dead things thrashing as they choked
on air.
Maybe Preston was right about why people believed in magic. The truth was an ugly,
dangerous thing.
“Well,” Effy said, “I’ll try my best to stay out of your mother’s way.”
“Oh, I doubt you’ve disturbed her,” Ianto said. His colorless eyes had taken on a bit of that odd
gleam she’d seen in the pub, and it startled her so much that she jerked back in her seat. “You’re
as demure60 as a little kitten.”
Effy tried a smile. Fingers trembling, she gripped the hag stones in her pocket.
Only a day after her conversation with Ianto, there was a letter in Hiraeth’s postbox. Effy and
Preston had both been staking it out at all hours to intercept61 the letter before Ianto could see it. It
happened to arrive on Effy’s watch, and she seized it, clutched it to her chest, and ran up the stairs
to the house. She didn’t care that it was still daylight and Ianto might see her and be furious; she
burst into the study, breathing hard, and slapped the envelope down in front of Preston.
He was sitting at Myrddin’s desk, head bowed over the diary. The sunlight streaming through
the window illuminated62 little flecks63 of gold in his brown hair, and highlighted the pale scattering64
of freckles65 across his nose. When he saw the letter, his face broke into a smile that, for some
reason, made Effy’s heart give a tiny flutter.
“He really wrote back,” Preston said. “I can’t believe it.”
“You should have more faith in me. I can be very charming, you know.”
Preston gave a huff of laughter. “I actually do know that.”
Effy’s cheeks grew warm. She picked the envelope up again and neatly66 broke Blackmar’s seal.
She pulled the letter out gingerly; it was written on very thin paper, almost translucent67 in the
sunlight. She held it out so that Preston could read it, too.
Miss Euphemia Sayre,
I was pleased to receive such an admiring letter. You seem like a lovely, agreeable young
woman. I would be more than happy to host you and your academic compatriot at my
manor68, Penrhos. You already know the address, as the successful delivery of your letter
demonstrates. You seem like quite a special young girl indeed, to be so interested in the
work of two old men, one now six months dead. I will certainly entertain you for as long as
it takes to satisfactorily answer your questions about my work and the work of Emrys
Myrddin. He was a dear friend and even, in the end, family.
All my best,
Colin Blackmar
“I just went on about how much I loved ‘The Dreams of a Sleeping King,’” Effy said, so
pleased by the outcome of her letter-writing efforts that she was beaming and blabbering, words
coming out fast and eager. “I barely mentioned Myrddin at all—I didn’t want to offend him by
even suggesting I might be more interested in Myrddin’s work than his own. I told you all it would
take was some flattery.”
Effy looked at Preston expectantly, but he had gone silent, his brow furrowed69 as he stared at
the letter. “I didn’t know that was your full name.”
In all her excitement, she’d forgotten that she had signed her letter to Blackmar as Euphemia.
She’d done it intentionally70. No one, not even her mother, not even her stiff and formal
grandparents, called her Euphemia. But Effy had a childish, frivolous quality to it. She didn’t want
Blackmar to think of her as frivolous. She wanted him to take her inquiries71 seriously. So she had
used her real name.
Now she could see Preston’s mind turning, and her stomach shriveled. “Yes,” she said. “That’s
my full name.”
“Do you mind if I ask—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be unspeakably rude—” She had never
heard him stammer24 like this. His face was flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. “You don’t
have to answer, of course, and honestly, please feel free to hit me or call me a twat for asking at
all, but—were you a changeling child?”
Effy let the room sink into silence. She had gone by her nickname for so long, she had almost
forgotten the significance of her real one: that a saint’s name was the mark of a changeling.
She closed her left hand into a fist and opened it again. It really was an unspeakably rude
question. No one asked. She was a good Northern girl from a good Northern family, and
changeling children were a barbaric custom, practiced only by peasants in the Bottom Hundred.
“Yes,” she said finally, and she was surprised by how easy it was, to say that single word.
“I’m really sorry. It’s just that you mentioned being fatherless—” Preston ran a hand through
his hair, looking positively72 miserable73.
“It’s all right,” she said. That was easy to say, too. In fact, Effy realized, she could tell the
whole story as if it had happened to someone else, and it would be completely painless. “My
mother was my age, or somewhere near it, when she had me. My father was a man who worked at
my grandfather’s bank — older. There was no wedding or proper courtship. It was an
embarrassment74 to my grandfather that she ended up pregnant. He fired my father, banished him
back to the South. He was from the Bottom Hundred—one of those upstart provincial75 geniuses.”
“I’m sorry,” Preston repeated desperately76. “You don’t have to say any more.”
“I don’t mind.” Effy was elsewhere now, floating. Her mind had opened its escape hatch and
she was gone. “My mother had me, but a child was such an inconvenience to everyone. To her and
my grandparents. I was a terrible child, too. I threw tantrums and broke things. Even as an infant I
wouldn’t nurse. I screamed when anyone touched me.”
And then she stopped. The escape hatch snapped shut. She hit that wall, the boundary between
the real and the unreal. In her mind there was an even divide, a before and an after. Once she had
been an ordinary, if imprudent, little girl. And then, in the span of a moment, she became
something else.
Or maybe she had always been wrong. A wicked fae creature from the unreal world, stranded77
unfairly in the real one.
“There’s a river that runs through Draefen,” Effy said after a moment. “That’s where my
mother left me. I remember it was the middle of winter. All the trees were bare. I know she
thought some sad and childless woman would come pick me up. She didn’t mean to expose me, to
let me die—”
Preston’s expression was unreadable, but he had not taken his eyes off her face. She really
should have taken the out he had tried to give her and stopped talking. Preston was the biggest
skeptic78 she’d ever met. He didn’t believe in magic; he didn’t even believe in Myrddin. Why would
he believe her, when no one else had?
But he had listened to her, when she had asked him about ghosts. He had not dismissed her,
laughed at her, though clearly the discussion had made him uncomfortable. And then she thought
of the way he had dropped to the floor in front of her and cleaned her skinned knees and hardly
even questioned why she had thrown herself from Ianto’s car.
Effy opened her mouth again, and words poured out.
“No childless woman came for me,” she whispered. “But he did.”
Behind his glasses, Preston’s eyes narrowed. “Who did?”
“The Fairy King,” she said.
The old, barbaric custom was this: In the South, it was believed that some children were
simply born wrong, or were poisoned by the fairies in their cradles. These changeling children
were awful and cruel. They bit their mothers when they tried to nurse them. They were always
given the names of saints, to try to drive the evil away. Effy always wondered whether her mother
had picked her name, Euphemia, to be a blessing79 or a curse. The feminine variation of Eupheme,
patron saint of storytellers. Most of the time it just felt like a cruel joke.
But if that did not work, it was the mother’s right to abandon her child: to leave them out for
the fairies to take back.
Preston would probably say that was just the pretty truth the Southerners told themselves to
sleep easily at night—that they weren’t leaving their children out to die, that a fairy would come to
spirit them back to their true home, in the realm of fae. But Effy had seen him. Thirteen years
later, and still the image was bright and clear in her mind. His beautiful face and his wet black
hair. His hand, reaching out for hers.
Even thinking of it now, her chest tightened80 with panic. Before the true terror could take hold
and plunge81 her under, Preston’s voice shattered the memory.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “The Fairy King is a story.”
She had heard it so many times that the words didn’t sting anymore. Ordinarily she would
have stopped talking right then and there, apologized, told him she was only joking.
But the words kept pouring out.
“He was there with me,” Effy said. “He stepped right out of the river. He was still all
glistening82 and wet. It was dark, but he stood in a puddle83 of moonlight. He told me he was going to
take me, and he was terrifying, but when he held out his hand, I took it.”
That was the hardest part to speak aloud. The ugliest confession84, the black rotted truth at the
very core of her. She had reached back. Any ordinary child would have shrunk away in fear,
would have wept, would have screamed. But Effy had not made a sound. She had been ready to let
him take her.
“But my mother returned,” she said. Her voice was thick. “She snatched me up from the
riverbank and pulled my hand right out of the Fairy King’s grasp. I saw the look of fury on his
face before he vanished. He hates nothing more than to be refused. My mother held me, but where
I had touched him, my finger was rotted away. He took it with him, and said he would be back for
the rest.”
She held up her left hand, with its missing fourth digit85. She didn’t add the last of what the
Fairy King had said: That he had taken her ring finger so that no other man could put a wedding
band on it. So that she would always belong to him.
“You said it was winter.” Preston’s voice was gentle. “Your finger could’ve fallen off from
frostbite.”
That was what the doctor had said, of course. He had bandaged it and given her a brown
syrupy medicine to stave off infection, just like, years later, he had given her the pink pills to stave
off her visions.
It wasn’t until years later, when Effy first read Angharad, that she had learned what really kept
the Fairy King at bay. Iron. Mountain ash. Rowan berries. She had broken off a bough86 of mountain
ash in the park in Draefen and kept it under her pillow. She had stolen her grandfather’s iron
candelabra and slept with it in her hand. She had even tried to eat rowan berries, but they tasted so
bitter, she spit them out, gagging.
“I know you don’t believe me,” she said. “No one ever has.”
Preston was silent. She could almost see his mind working, the thoughts scrolling87 behind his
eyes. At last, he said, “I suppose that’s why you’re such a big fan of Myrddin’s work.”
“I didn’t read Angharad until I was thirteen,” Effy said, cheeks growing hot. “If that’s what
you mean. It wasn’t a child’s imagination—I didn’t have some image of the Fairy King in my
mind.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I just meant . . . it must have been easier to believe that
there was some magic at work—a childhood curse, the pernicious Fair Folk. Something other than
ordinary human cruelty.”
He didn’t believe her. Maybe that was for the best. Her stomach was churning now. “I knew
you wouldn’t understand.”
“Effy,” Preston said softly. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to tell me.”
“My mother did come back for me, in the end,” she said in a rush. “And she felt so
enormously guilty for leaving me. She even gave me a good saint’s name. I feel sorry for the other
changeling children, named after Belphoebe or Artegall.”
“That isn’t right, Effy.” Preston’s voice was low but firm, and he met her gaze unrelentingly.
“Mothers aren’t supposed to hate their children.”
“What makes you think she hated me?” Now she did feel angry, not because he hadn’t
believed her, but because he had no right to judge her mother—a woman he’d never even met.
“Like I said, I was a terrible child. Any mother would’ve been tempted88 to do the same.”
“No,” Preston said. “They wouldn’t.”
“Why do you always have to be so certain you’re right?” Effy tried to imbue89 her words with
venom90, but she just sounded desperate, scrambling91. “You don’t know my mother, and you hardly
know me.”
“I know you well enough. You aren’t terrible. You’re nothing close. And even if you were a
difficult child—whatever that means—there’s no justification92 for your mother wanting you dead.
How did your mother expect you to live with that, Effy? To go on as normal knowing that she
once tried to leave you out in the cold?”
She swallowed. Her ears were ringing; for a moment, she thought it was the bells from below
the sea, the bells of those drowned churches. If she had had one of her pink pills with her, she
would have taken it.
Her mother had gotten her those pills for a reason, so Effy could live with it, so she could go
on as normal knowing that she’d once been left for dead. Her mother had pulled Effy right from
the Fairy King’s grasp, leaving just a finger behind. That was love, wasn’t it?
“You said you believe in ghosts,” she said thickly. “What’s so different about this?”
“I said I believed in the horror or desire that might conjure one,” Preston said. His eyes shifted,
a muscle pulsed in his throat. “I can’t tell you I believe in the Fairy King, Effy. But I believe in
your grief and your fear. Isn’t that enough?”
She hadn’t even told him the worst thing of all: that the Fairy King had never truly left her. If
she told Preston she had seen the Fairy King in the car with Ianto, he would realize he had made a
terrible mistake in trusting her to help him. He would never believe another word she said.
Her eyes pricked93 with tears, and she swallowed hard to keep them from falling. “No,” she said.
“It’s not enough. You are being rude. You’re being mean. It’s not—no one believed Angharad,
either. And because no one believed her, the Fairy King was free to take her.”
Preston inhaled94. For a moment she thought he might argue, but there was no petulance95 on his
face, no vitriol. He looked almost grief-stricken himself.
“I’m sorry for being rude,” he said at last. “I wasn’t trying to be. I’m only trying to tell you . . .
well, I was trying to say you deserve better.”
With a sudden shock like a rush of cold seawater, Effy found herself thinking of Master
Corbenic.
“You deserve a man, Effy,” Master Corbenic had told her once. “Not one of these awkward,
acne-spotted boys. I see the way they look at you—with their leering, mopey eyes. Even if it isn’t
me you want, in the end, I know that you’ll find yourself in the arms of a man, a real man. You’d
exhaust these spineless boys. You need someone to challenge you. Someone to rein96 you in.
Someone to keep you safe, protect you from your worst impulses and from the world. You’ll see.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, forcing the memory to dissipate. She didn’t
want to think of him. She would rather think of the Fairy King in the corner of her room.
But when she opened her eyes, there was no Master Corbenic. No Fairy King. There was only
Preston standing97 before her, his gaze taking her in carefully, tenderly, as if he was worried that
even his stare might chafe98.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she bit out.
“All right,” he said gently. But his eyes never left her.
She did not linger at Hiraeth that night. She did not want to speak to Preston, and she certainly
didn’t want to speak to Ianto. Instead, when the sun humbled99 herself to the encroaching darkness,
Effy retreated toward the guesthouse.
The air was cruelly cold and the grass wet from an earlier sprinkling of rain. Effy buttoned her
coat all the way up to her throat and wrapped her scarf around her neck three times, hiding her
mouth and nose behind the wool fabric100. Then she slid down against the door to the guesthouse
until she was seated in the grass, knees pulled up against her chest.
Her sleeping pills and her pink pills lay untouched on the bedside table inside. It grew darker
and darker. Over and over again Preston’s words thrummed in her mind: I believe in your grief
and your fear. Isn’t that enough?
No. It wasn’t enough. As long as that was the only thing he believed, she would always be just
a scared little girl making up stories in her head. She would be infirm, unstable101, untrustworthy,
undeserving of the life she wanted. They put girls like her in attic102 rooms or sanatoriums, locked
them up and threw away the keys.
Effy waited until it was black as pitch and she couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her
face. Then she lit a candle she’d brought from the house and held it out into the dense103 darkness.
I was a girl when he came for me, beautiful and treacherous104, and I was a crown of pale gold
in his black hair.
I was a girl when he came for me, beautiful and treacherous, and I was a crown of pale gold
in his black hair.
I was a girl when he came for me, beautiful and treacherous, and I was a crown of pale gold
in his black hair.
She repeated the line over and over again in her mind, and then she spoke it out loud, into the
black night and its uncanny silence.
“I was a girl when he came for me, beautiful and treacherous, and I was a crown of pale gold
in his black hair.”
She was not afraid. She needed him to come.
And then, behind the tree line, a flash of white. Wet black hair. Even a sliver105 of face, pale as
moonlight.
All her fear came piling down again, and Effy’s mind thrashed like something caught in the
foaming106 surf. She staggered to her feet, dropping the candle. The wet grass instantly snuffed it out,
and she was plunged107 into darkness.
She felt for the handle of the door, wrenched108 it open, and hurled109 herself through. She slammed
it shut behind her, the iron brace110 scraping against stone.
Her heart was pounding against her sternum like a trapped bird. Effy’s knees shook so terribly
that she fell forward again, and had to crawl across the cold floor until she reached the bed. Her
fingers were trembling too much to light another candle. She just heaved herself into bed and
pulled the green duvet over her head.
He had come for her, just like he had promised all those years ago. She had seen him. He was
real. She was not mad.
As long as the Fairy King was real, he could be killed, just as Angharad had vanquished111 him.
If he was not real, there would never be any escape from him.
Effy crammed112 two sleeping pills into her mouth and swallowed them dry. But even the pills
could no longer stop her from dreaming of him.
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1
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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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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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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9
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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14
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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15
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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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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18
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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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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frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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22
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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23
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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24
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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25
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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26
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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27
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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28
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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29
pretentiousness
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| n.矫饰；炫耀；自负；狂妄 | |
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30
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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31
initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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32
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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33
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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34
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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35
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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36
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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37
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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38
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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39
doused
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| v.浇水在…上( douse的过去式和过去分词 )；熄灯[火] | |
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40
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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41
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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42
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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43
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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44
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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45
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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46
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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47
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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48
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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49
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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50
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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51
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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52
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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53
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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55
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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56
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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57
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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58
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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59
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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60
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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61
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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62
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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63
flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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64
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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65
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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66
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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68
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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69
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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71
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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72
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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73
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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74
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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75
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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76
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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77
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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78
skeptic
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| n.怀疑者，怀疑论者，无神论者 | |
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79
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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80
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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81
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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82
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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83
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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84
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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85
digit
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| n.零到九的阿拉伯数字，手指，脚趾 | |
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86
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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87
scrolling
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| n.卷[滚]动法，上下换行v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的现在分词 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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88
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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89
imbue
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| v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见)，感染 | |
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90
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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91
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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92
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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93
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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94
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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96
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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97
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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98
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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99
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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100
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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101
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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102
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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103
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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104
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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105
sliver
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| n.裂片，细片，梳毛；v.纵切，切成长片，剖开 | |
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106
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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107
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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108
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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109
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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110
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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111
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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112
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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