Fourteen
Water finds its way through the smallest spaces and the narrowest cracks. Where the
bone meets sinew, where the skin is split. It is treacherous¹ and loving. You can die as
easily of thirst as you can of drowning.
From Angharad by Emrys Myrddin, 191 AD
The rain had already begun the next morning, just a light spray of it, enough to cloud the windows
of the guesthouse with condensation². Outside, the green world had gotten greener: dripping with
rainwater, the leaves and the grass turned jewel-toned and the moss³ on the trees and rocks looked
richer. Well-fed. The wood had turned almost black, damp and breathing. The pieces of sky that
showed through the tree canopy⁴ were densely⁶ gray.
Effy walked up the path toward the house, wind tossing her hair every which way, the sea
churning and churning below. The rocks jutted⁷ through the slosh of foam⁸ like sharp teeth. She
squinted⁹ and peered down the side of the cliff, but the seabirds had all gone, their nests and eyries
abandoned.
Once Effy had read a book about the Drowning that said animals had sensed it coming. The
penned sheep had bleated¹⁰ in desperation in the days before the storm, the yoked¹¹ cattle straining
and straining against their binds¹². In the end, they had all perished, too. Her skin chilled.
That was when she saw it, the flutter of something dark like a piece of

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