What wisdom do you want from a death-marked girl? I can say only this: In the end I
learned that the water was in me. It was a ghost that could not be exorcised. But a guest,
even uninvited, must be attended to. You make up a bed for them. You pour from your
best bottle of wine. If you can learn to love that which despises you, that which terrifies
you, you can dance on the shore and play in the waves again, like you did when you were
young. Before the ocean is friend or foe1, it simply is. And so are you.
From Angharad by Angharad Myrddin (née Blackmar), 191 AD
It took some time, of course, for Effy and Preston to compile and index the letters, to copy the
pages of Angharad’s diary using the wheezing2 mimeograph in Laleston, and for Preston to write it
all up on the old typewriter that Laleston’s chief librarian grudgingly3 permitted them to use. They
had spent two weeks in Laleston, and had now been away from Caer-Isel more than a month.
Preston had a cigarette in his mouth while he worked, smoke curling out the window of their
hotel room. Sometimes he got up to pace, mussing his already mussed hair, muttering about
omniscient4 narration5 and melodrama6. Effy understood all the theory only vaguely7, but she offered
insight where she could.
She felt, as did Preston, that she understood Angharad on a level that was almost inarticulable:
it was as primal8 and unconscious as her lungs pumping and her heart beating.
“Why don’t you take a break?” Effy offered as she perched on the edge of the hotel bed, mug
of coffee in hand. “I can write for a while.”
“You don’t have to.” He had told her, at the beginning, that he thought it might be difficult for
her. To read all the words, to write in such a stilted9, formal manner about a life that so neatly10
mirrored her own.
“I want to,” Effy said. She handed him her coffee. “I want it to be finished. I want it all to be
done.”
What she meant was that she wanted it all tied up neatly. No more questions, no more
doubting. No more scolding about how what she knew and what she believed weren’t real.
Preston frowned. “I don’t think scholarship is ever really done,” he said. “If anything, this is
only the beginning. Academics and tabloid11 journalists alike are going to be hounding us, hounding
her. There are going to be a hundred papers, even books, arguing against our thesis. Not to
mention the Sleeper12 Museum . . . are you ready for all that?”
It didn’t make her happy. But Effy knew he was right.
She nodded as she slipped into the seat he had vacated. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s just get it all
down.” Seeing the look of alarm on Preston’s face, she added, “Not all of it. But the parts the
academics will believe.”
If she and Preston published a paper arguing for the literal existence of the Fairy King, they
would be laughed out of the university. Effy accepted that. It was enough—for now—that she and
Angharad knew the truth.
And of course, though she had seen the Fairy King, Preston had not. Effy knew he believed
her, in his own way, in a way that didn’t compromise his cynicism. She wasn’t exactly sure how
he made sense of it in his head. There was plenty to believe in—Ianto’s possession, the details in
Angharad’s diary — but there was plenty to doubt, as well. Ianto’s demise13 could have been
ordinary. And Effy had never heard the bells. There was a small prickle of grief when she thought
about it, how perhaps she and Preston would never quite see eye to eye.
But he believed her fear, her grief, her desire. That had to be enough.
Two weeks later, they had a finished draft. The title page bore both of their names in bold,
unequivocal black lettering: Euphemia Sayre and Preston Héloury. Her true name, stark14 against
the white paper. If there was anything to attach her true name to, it was this. Her true name held so
much sorrow and suffering, but it also held strength. Hope. The yearning15 to make the old saint’s
name mean something new.
Effy picked the title. Uncovering Angharad: An Inquiry16 into the Authorship of Major Works
Attributed to Emrys Myrddin.
Angharad had rented an apartment nearby in Laleston, with flowers in the window boxes and a
view of the bustling17 street below. From every room you could hear horns blaring and cars braking,
people shouting. It was not a quiet apartment. Effy sensed that Angharad had known enough
silence to last the rest of her life.
She and Effy sat together, right by the large windows that let in the deep golden light of late
afternoon. Angharad’s silver hair had been cut; it was no longer the gossamer18, slightly wild locks
of a young maiden19. It was a bit severe, the cut, like that of a schoolteacher or a governess,
someone with quiet authority. Effy liked it.
“Preston says that they’ll come to you,” she said. “As soon as our thesis is out there—reporters
and scholars will start hounding you.”
“Let them come. I have spent long enough being silent.”
“They’ll press you. They could be cruel.”
“I have nothing to hide,” she said. “And who do I have left to embarrass? My son is dead. My
father will be soon. My sisters and I haven’t spoken in decades. There’s no story to memorize, no
lines that need repeating. There’s only the truth.”
The truth. Effy nodded. In the street below, a cart rattled20 past, wheels knocking against the
pavement. “And what about Marlowe? Preston says he may try to sue . . .”
“He can try. Greenebough has nothing left to take from me. And I never signed anything; only
Emrys did. The secret was so precious that there was no contract, no paper trail, nothing bearing
my name.”
Someone shouted in the road. “Have you set your accounts in order?” Effy asked.
“Wetherell has,” Angharad replied. “Marlowe still owes me royalties21 from Emrys’s other
works. That’s in my husband’s will. You don’t have to worry so much about me, Effy. I know I’m
an old woman now, but I’m not looking for peace. I’ve spent my whole life fighting, even if no
one knew about it. The daily battles I waged in the privacy of that house, making sure the
mountain ash was blooming and the iron on the doors held fast . . . if I can survive that, I can
survive journalists and academics.”
“I wish I had fought.” Effy surprised herself by saying it. The words had leaped out of her
throat, unbidden. “I know I beat him in the end, but for so many years all I could do was run and
hide. I just sat there and let the water pour in around me. I didn’t know that I could fight back. I
didn’t know how to do anything but wait to drown.”
“Oh no, Effy. That’s not what I meant at all. You don’t have to take up a sword. Survival is
bravery, too.”
As if she could tell Effy was going to cry, Angharad laid a soft hand over hers. Effy wiped at a
few burgeoning22 tears and said, “There’s something else.”
Angharad arched a brow, and Effy reached into her bag. She pulled out her old and battered23
copy of the book, its pages dog-eared and water-stained, its spine24 cracked from so many openings.
The cover still bore that dead man’s name, but Effy opened the book to the page that held the
first line.
I was a girl when he came for me, beautiful and treacherous25, and I was a crown of pale gold
in his black hair.
Effy held it out to her. “Will you sign it for me?”
Without words, Angharad took it. She scrawled26 her name forcefully on the page in black ink.
When she was finished, she said in a low voice, almost like a confession27, “I’ve waited so long to
do that.”
“This way I’ll always remember,” Effy said. “I’ll always know. A lighthouse, like you said.”
“I know you have to leave now,” Angharad said, dabbing28 at her face. “But Effy, you can
always come back. It’s safe here. I’m growing rowan berries in the window boxes. You know
what they say about old habits.”
They both cried a little together, after that. Angharad’s green eyes were shining and bright.
Like two lighthouse beacons30 stretching over dark water, telling her there was safe harbor ahead.
There was so much to do when at last they returned to Caer-Isel. Preston fretted32 a bit over all the
coursework he had missed, but Effy had no such concerns. Her life in Caer-Isel had been so small,
so wretched and run-down, it had been easy to slip through the cracks. She had left it all behind so
quickly, escaped through its crumbling33 walls.
Now she wanted to tear it down to the foundation. She wanted to start anew.
Rhia performed exaggerated shock when she saw Effy, even mimed34 swooning. “Thank the
Saints,” she said. “You’re back now. I thought you might’ve turned into a fish after all.”
“No gills or fins,” Effy said. “But you were right about the Bottom Hundred. It’s a strange
place. It changes you in other ways.”
Rhia frowned, looking her up and down. “You do seem different. I can’t put my finger on it.
Maybe it’s your hair. No offense35, but have you brushed it at all since you left?”
“Barely,” Effy said with a small smile.
“Well, since you didn’t have the decency36 to call, I’m going to have to throw together a very
last-minute welcome-home party. It won’t be up to my usual standards. I apologize in advance.”
“Oh no,” said Effy.
“Oh yes,” said Rhia.
Effy set her trunk on the floor and hung up her coat. “And how are the spiders?”
Rhia let out a long, exhausted37 breath. “The war is at a stalemate, for now. Thank the Saints.
Generations have lived and died in your absence.”
Effy laughed. She began the work of unpacking38, as Rhia went on about all that she had missed.
Effy rolled up her thick sweaters and woolen39 socks and stuffed them in the drawer, letting Rhia’s
voice fade a little into the background. She touched her copy of Angharad, gently running her
fingers over the well-worn spine.
Then she tucked it under her pillow. Old habits.
“Hey,” Effy said. “Can I invite someone to the party?”
Rhia’s brows shot up. “But of course. Who is it?”
“He’s someone you’ve never met before. I think you’ll like him, though.” Effy paused,
considering. “He’s a bit smug, until you get to know him. Very pedantic40. Very smart.”
“Well, you’re painting quite a picture.” Rhia flopped41 onto Effy’s bed, a scheming smile on her
face. “I can’t wait to torment42 him.”
Effy could easily imagine it. “Be careful. He’s a very stubborn arguer.”
After that, it was another week before Effy and Preston were able to present their thesis to the
dean. Effy had only met Dean Fogg once, when he’d given her permission to go to Hiraeth, and he
had not changed at all in the weeks since. He was a narrow man with blindingly white hair and no
smile lines. His expansive office had a sitting area with five armchairs gathered around a coffee
table, and his assistant served them tea and biscuits in clinking silver dishes.
Master Gosse, Preston’s adviser43, was also present. He was Dean Fogg’s opposite in many
respects: short and broad where the dean was tall and thin, with an ebullient44 mustache and
maniacally45 curling black hair. He stood rather than sat, and refused the tea and biscuits. His dark
eyes were leaping swiftly from one thing to the next, like a kitten following a stuffed bird on a
stick.
The first few moments progressed in silence. Dean Fogg sipped46 his tea. He held a copy of their
thesis on his lap. Preston bounced his leg, an anxious tic, and Effy’s fingers curled and uncurled
against her thigh48. Master Gosse paced, a bit Preston-like. His brisk footsteps against the wood
floor were the only sound in the room.
At last, Dean Fogg set down his teacup and said, “I think it’s rather good.”
Effy almost let out a highly inappropriate laugh of relief. She clapped a hand over her mouth to
stop it from coming out, while Preston said, “I know the theory and criticism sections could use
some work. We could have cited more sources, delved49 deeper into alternative theories. But as a
whole, do you think the argument is there?”
“Well, there’s certainly an argument. And, of course, you’ve furnished it with evidence that no
other academic has any access to, presently . . . this diary and these letters. I suspect there’s quite a
bit more than what made it into your paper. But it won’t mean much until they’re widely
released.”
“What?” Effy managed. “What do you mean, ‘widely released’?”
“Any thesis needs to be vetted50, my dear,” Master Gosse said. He had stopped pacing. “You can
make an argument based on your interpretation51 of the evidence, but if no one else has read the
evidence—well, it’s just mythmaking, at that point. No one has any reason to believe you.”
Preston nodded. “I know it seems a bit counterintuitive. But we’ll have to give everyone else a
chance to read the letters and the diary before we can prove our thesis is correct.”
Effy glanced over at the chair beside her, the empty fifth seat in the office. It felt conspicuously52
empty. It felt as though it should have been occupied by Angharad. She remembered Angharad’s
fixed53 determination when she had spoken of these potential inquiries54. If she were here, she would
say again: Let them come.
“So let’s say we do release it all,” Effy said slowly. “We’re going to war with every other
academic, aren’t we?”
“Oh, not just academics,” Master Gosse said. “Tabloid journalists, the Sleeper Museum, the
Myrddin estate, Greenebough Publishing . . . they all have a vested interest in preserving
Myrddin’s legacy55. The Southerners will riot, which will cause the Llyrian government to go into a
panicked frenzy56. Personally, I expect them to sue the university. They might even sue you.”
Preston made a nervous sound. Dean Fogg frowned. “The university has ample legal counsel,”
he said. “But this mention of ‘we’ perturbs57 me, Euphemia. You are not, to be blunt, an academic.
You are not a literary scholar. You are a first-year architecture student—”
“With all due respect, sir,” Preston cut in, “this paper is as much Effy’s as it is mine. It
couldn’t have been written without her. We wouldn’t have found the diary or letters if not for her.
And she’s more brilliant than any of my colleagues at the literature college, so if you’re planning
on trying to leave her out of this somehow, I’m more than happy to take my paper elsewhere. To a
tabloid journalist, perhaps?”
Dean Fogg’s thin lips thinned further. “You make a very sorry scholar yourself, Mr. Héloury,
if you would leave this discovery to a newspaper gossip column.”
“It’s not my first choice,” said Preston, “or else we would be in the offices of the Llyrian Times
right now instead, meeting with their editor in chief. But if you object to Effy’s inclusion, well,
that’s just what I’ll have to do.”
Effy gave him a grateful smile as she rubbed the abrupt58 end of her ring finger.
“You’ve always been such a stubborn lad.” Master Gosse looked amused. “I never thought
you would try and extort59 the university, though. Good on you.” He seemed to mean it genuinely.
Dean Fogg gave a disgusted snort. “How do you think it will look for the university to publish
a groundbreaking thesis with a woman’s name on the cover sheet? There’s never been a woman at
the literature college before. It’s unprecedented60.”
“It’s an absurd, archaic61 precedent,” Preston said. “It should embarrass the university.”
“Watch yourself, Héloury,” Dean Fogg said.
Effy looked around the room again. Angharad had been here before: three men arguing over
her work, laying a framework for her future. She had been silenced then.
But Effy would not be silent now.
“This thesis is a story about a young woman who was taken advantage of by powerful men,”
she said. “She was bartered62 like a head of cattle, traded by men who tried to claim her work as
their own. How do you think it will look for the university to do precisely63 the same thing? If we do
hand over the thesis, and you publish it without my name, I’ll go straight to the offices of the
Llyrian Times and tell them yet another story about men using young women. If that’s the sort of
legacy you want for yourself as dean.”
It was impressive how quickly Dean Fogg’s face turned red, then purple. Effy had determined64,
upon further inspection65, that the thick white hair was in fact a wig66, and in his shock it slipped
incrementally67 to one side.
He took a decorous sip47 of tea, as if to calm himself, and then said, “So you would have me
admit you as a student of the literature college? There’s no other way to justify68 it, the name of
some obscure architecture student on the title page.”
Effy’s breath caught a little bit in her throat, but after a moment she was able to answer. “Yes,”
she said. “I’ll be the first woman in the literature college, but not the last.”
Dean Fogg nearly choked on his tea, but Master Gosse gave a delighted chortle. “Oh, I like
this,” he said. “The university will finally be catching69 up to the times . . . and it will make a good
story, won’t it? A story in which the university is a beacon31 of progressivism, and its dean a fierce
but benevolent70 advocate for the rights of women.”
Yet something stuck in Effy like a splinter. Her mouth had gone dry, and she had to swallow
hard before she could manage to speak.
“You can’t tell the story unless you fire him,” she said, voice wavering.
“Fire who?” Dean Fogg demanded.
She drew a breath. “Master Corbenic.”
And then Dean Fogg laughed, a hacking71 sound of disbelief. “Now, you listen to me,
Euphemia,” he said. “Master Corbenic is a tenured professor. He’s esteemed72 in his field, and a
personal friend of mine. If you think we’re going to fire him at your behest, because of some
schoolgirl’s grudge—”
“‘Some schoolgirl’?” Effy’s voice suddenly became hard, her blood running hot in her veins73.
She had just interrupted the dean of the whole university, but she didn’t even care. “That’s all
Angharad was, too. A girl. Unless you fire him, you’ll never see a page of these letters.”
There was a long silence, during which Effy’s heart pounded so loudly she could scarcely hear
anything else, and during which Master Gosse looked quickly and eagerly between the two of
them, as if waiting to see who would flinch74 first.
Preston’s jaw75 was set, his hand moving to grip the edge of her armchair.
It was too late to save Angharad. Perhaps it was too late to save herself. But it was not too late
for another girl who might wander into Master Corbenic’s office and sit down obliviously76 in that
green chair.
“I will consider it,” Dean Fogg said at last, every word wrenched77 out through gritted78 teeth.
“We have a great deal more to discuss, as it is. If it puts your mind at ease, once you are officially
enrolled79 at the literature college, you will never have to see Master Corbenic again.”
Once upon a time, she would have taken that as enough of a victory. She would have left,
escaped that awful stuffy80 room and just hoped that she would never have to catch a glimpse of
Master Corbenic in the halls. But that could not be guaranteed, and she was not going to enter any
more slippery, slanted81 bargains with men who believed themselves to be beyond burden or blame.
Effy got to her feet. She had done enough sitting.
“No,” she said. “It’s not enough. And I’m not bluffing82. If you don’t fire him, I’ll tell the whole
country. I’ll tell the whole world.”
Dean Fogg just stared at her, his eyes turned to angry slits83. A mere84 month ago she would have
shrunk under his gaze, her mind slipping out of her and her body following, fleeing the room as
quickly as she could.
But she had faced down the Fairy King in all his eldritch power. She had made him crumble85
into a handful of dust. This battle was easy by comparison.
“All right,” he said. His voice was a low snarl86. “I’ll acquiesce87 to your terms, ludicrous as they
are.”
Master Gosse chuckled88. “I enjoy this girl, Fogg. I look forward to instructing her.”
Preston stood then, too. “We’ll have to speak about a publication schedule, make revisions.
And of course sign the papers to transfer Effy from architecture to literature.”
“Of course,” Dean Fogg said sourly. “My office will be in touch. Now, both of you, get out of
my sight.”
Effy kept her lips pressed shut until they had left the dean’s office, gone down the hallway, and
burst from the building into the cool afternoon. Everything was bright, drenched89 in sunlight,
making Preston squint90 behind his glasses as he looked at her.
There was a wonderful tightness building in her chest, and at last it bubbled out in a laugh.
“We did it,” she said. “We really did it.”
The promise he had made to her all those weeks ago, that they would write a paper that gained
her admittance to the literature college, that he would stare down Dean Fogg and fight for her, had
finally been fulfilled. It was the foundation upon which Effy could build a new life.
And then, unexpectedly, Preston pulled her into an embrace and lifted her into the air. He spun91
her around for a brief moment before putting her down again, his cheeks flushed, looking bashful.
Effy laughed again. “I thought you weren’t a romantic.”
“I wasn’t,” Preston said, cheeks still pink. “Until you.”
Now he was making her blush. Effy cupped his face. “I think we should celebrate.”
When they arrived back at Effy’s dormitory, she realized Rhia had been underselling herself. For a
last-minute party, there was an impressive selection of liquor, an impressive number of guests, and
even a hand-lettered WELCOME HOME sign that had been stuck to the wall using hairpins92 and a
bit of thread.
Rhia dragged Effy and Preston into the center of the kitchen and immediately barraged93 him
with questions. Effy could only watch in quiet amusement as he stumbled to answer them. This
was not the kind of test that any amount of studying or natural intellect could help him pass.
Rhia had borrowed (stolen, she confessed, after two rounds of drinks) a record player from the
music faculty94. It turned on and on, needle wearing very gently against the vinyl. When a slow
song came on, Preston took Effy’s hand. They danced (which was mostly just swaying, as Preston,
too, was several drinks deep), her head on his shoulder. When the song ended, she felt only a
twinge of grief.
Then Preston encountered a fellow literature student, and Effy saw him truly in his element for
the first time. He was more patient than she remembered him being, when they’d met that day on
the cliffs. Even as the other student argued that “The Dreams of a Sleeping King” was unfairly
maligned95, Preston listened, and made his counterarguments without a trace of smugness.
All around her Effy could feel walls coming up, rising out of the earth like a tree from its roots.
But they didn’t feel stifling96. The architecture of her new life was taking shape, and there were
windows and doors. She did not need to slip through cracks in order to escape. If she wanted to
leave, she could. If she wanted to stay, there were repairs that could be made. The foundation
would be strong. Effy was sure of that.
After several hours, Preston brought her back to his dorm room.
As soon as they arrived, he fell into bed without even taking his shoes off. Effy lay beside him,
eyelids97 heavy. Moonlight was streaming through the window, as clear and bright as the beacon of
a lighthouse.
Nighttime was still scary. Ordinarily it was when the Fairy King would appear as a vague, dark
shape in the corner of her room, his pale hands reaching, his bone crown gleaming. If she did
manage to sleep, Master Corbenic waited for her there: the glint of his gold watch and the
enormity of his hands. And now her dreams were lurid98 with images of drowning houses, of the
thrashing, uncaring sea.
And the Fairy King, always the Fairy King, in Ianto’s body or his own. She had defeated him
in Hiraeth, but would he ever be gone for good? When she closed her eyes, she could still see him.
His ghost lingered—or at least, the grief and fear did.
Preston shifted in his sleep, arms circling her waist. His heart thudded softly against her back,
with a rhythm as constant as the tide. The walls here were strong. They would hold against
anything. There was no need for iron, for rowan berries, for mountain ash.
The danger was real. Effy and Angharad had both proven that, with their wits and their
mirrors. The danger lived with her; perhaps it had been born with her, if the rest of the stories
about changeling children were to be believed. The danger was as ancient as the world. But if
fairies and monsters were real, so were the women who defeated them.
Effy did not have her copy of Angharad under the pillow, but she thought of its last lines,
which she knew by heart.
I know you think I am a little girl, and what could a little girl know about eternity99? But I do
know this: whether you survive the ocean or you don’t, whether you are lost or whether the
waves deliver you back to the shore—every story is told in the language of water, in
tongues of salt and foam100. And the sea, the sea, it whispers the secret of how all things end.
At first the morning was a bit miserable101, both of them groggy102 and Preston nursing a headache. The
sun was too bright on their faces. Effy pulled a pillow over her head and groaned103 as Preston tried
to urge her out of bed.
“Coffee,” he reminded her in a lofty, plying104 voice, and at last she threw off the covers, blond
hair plastered to the side of her face.
Coffee was a necessity. They went to the Drowsy105 Poet and got paper cups, holding them in
two hands as they walked down the street along Lake Bala, breath coming in white clouds. It was
very cold that morning, but the sunlight was strong, and some of the ice on the lake had melted,
veins of blue water showing between the cracks.
Effy tugged106 her gray coat around herself, the wind raking through her hair. She had forgotten
her ribbon, or perhaps it had gotten lost somewhere over the course of the night. They paused at
one of the lookouts107, leaning over the railing to watch the sluggish108 tide moving ice along the
surface of the lake.
Behind them, the white stone buildings of the university cast broad shadows, as huge as the
Argantian mountains on the other side.
Looking at Preston’s homeland across the water made her think of something. “Have you told
your mother everything?”
“I called her yesterday, before we went out. She was happy for me, of course, but I think
secretly she was a bit glum109. She was a fan of Myrddin, too. Even though she lives in Argant, she’s
still Llyrian at heart.”
Right when they’d gotten back to Caer-Isel, Effy had gone to the Sleeper Museum. She told no
one about it, not even Preston. She took one of the brochures and walked around the crypt, passing
by the other Sleepers110, wizened111 men whose alleged112 magic kept their bodies from decaying.
At last she had come to Myrddin’s glass coffin113, and stared at his slumbering114 face.
It was the first time she had seen it. It was a long and slender face, rather unremarkable,
marred115 by wrinkles and age spots. When their thesis went to print, Effy had wondered, would the
magic vanish with it? Would the museum close off the exhibit in shame, would the curators meet
in their smoke-filled rooms and decide, grimacing116, to remove his body?
Even after everything, the thought had filled her with grief. The truth was very costly117 at times.
How terrible, to navigate118 the world without a story to comfort you.
But Effy had learned. Or at least, she was trying to. Better to pen a story of your own. Better to
build your own house, with a foundation that was strong, with windows that let in plenty of light.
At least some people, she figured, would always be convinced that Emrys Myrddin had written
Angharad. Effy had left the crypt behind, slipping out within a crowd of other visitors, and threw
the brochure in a rubbish bin29 outside.
Now, Effy blinked into the wind, the memory leaving her as Preston’s face came back into
focus.
“I still think his poetry has some merit,” she said. “‘The Mariner’s Demise,’ at least.”
“Oh, certainly,” Preston said. “He wasn’t a terrible writer, even after all this. I don’t know
exactly what his legacy will be. Maybe when we’re dead, some other scholars will come along and
rehabilitate119 his image.”
Rehabilitate meant literally120 to make something livable again. As if Myrddin’s legacy were an
old house that they were trying to tear down.
They hadn’t gone to look at the ruin of Hiraeth, but Effy could imagine it as easily as she had
once imagined the beautiful manor121 it could have been. The wreck122 of wood and stone along the
cliffside, the furniture smashed against the rocks, the gabled roof rent in two, its shingles123 flung off
into the distance. And, of course, the sea, swallowing everything it could reach.
“I can’t decide if I want that.” Effy chewed her lip. “I don’t know if I want him to be forgotten
in obscure shame, or for his works to still be appreciated for what they were. The real ones, that is.
A part of me still loves him, I think. The idea of him.”
Preston gave her a small smile. “That’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to know. For what
it’s worth, I’ve stopped believing in objective truth.”
Effy laughed softly. “So all this has left its mark on you, too.”
“Of course it has. You have.” The wind tousled his already tousled hair, and as he pushed his
glasses up the bridge of his nose, Effy was suddenly overwhelmed by affection. A sign of life:
tender, almost anguished124, but real. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
Just as suddenly, her stomach lurched. “What is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing important,” he said quickly. “Don’t look like that. For a while I didn’t know
if it was worth mentioning at all . . . it’s the strangest thing, really. Maybe just my imagination.
When we were at Hiraeth, and I was sleeping in Myrddin’s study, some mornings I would wake
up to the sound of bells outside the window. They sounded like church bells, but of course the
nearest church is miles away, in Saltney. Once or twice I even went outside to investigate, but I
never saw anything. The sound was coming from down the cliffs, which is impossible, I know. But
I just wanted to ask, to be sure. Did you ever hear them, too?”
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1
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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2
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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grudgingly
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omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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5
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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6
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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7
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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8
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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tabloid
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| adj.轰动性的，庸俗的；n.小报，文摘 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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18
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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burgeoning
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| adj.迅速成长的，迅速发展的v.发芽，抽枝( burgeon的现在分词 )；迅速发展；发（芽），抽（枝） | |
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23
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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25
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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26
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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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28
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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29
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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30
beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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31
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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32
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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33
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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34
mimed
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| v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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36
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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37
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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38
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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39
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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40
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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41
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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42
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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43
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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44
ebullient
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| adj.兴高采烈的，奔放的 | |
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45
maniacally
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46
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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48
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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49
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
vetted
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| v.审查（某人过去的记录、资格等）( vet的过去式和过去分词 )；调查；检查；诊疗 | |
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51
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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52
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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53
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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54
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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55
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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56
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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57
perturbs
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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59
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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60
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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61
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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62
bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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64
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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65
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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66
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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67
incrementally
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| adv.逐渐地 | |
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68
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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69
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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70
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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71
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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72
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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73
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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74
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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75
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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76
obliviously
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77
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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78
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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79
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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80
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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81
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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82
bluffing
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| n. 威吓，唬人 动词bluff的现在分词形式 | |
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83
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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84
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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85
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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86
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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87
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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88
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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90
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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91
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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92
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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93
barraged
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| v.火力攻击（或阻击）( barrage的过去式和过去分词 )；以密集火力攻击（或阻击） | |
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94
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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95
maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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96
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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97
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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98
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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99
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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100
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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101
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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102
groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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103
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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104
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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105
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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106
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
lookouts
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| n.寻找（ 某人/某物）( lookout的名词复数 )；是某人（自己）的问题；警戒；瞭望台 | |
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108
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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109
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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110
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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111
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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112
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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113
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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114
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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115
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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116
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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117
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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118
navigate
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| v.航行，飞行；导航，领航 | |
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119
rehabilitate
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| vt.改造(罪犯)，修复；vi.复兴，(罪犯)经受改造 | |
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120
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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121
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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122
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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123
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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