A Study in Drowning(24)
Effy clutched her cold glass, flushing. As soon as the bartender went back to wiping the counter, she scurried away.
Once she was out of sight of the bartender, she considered her options. She could sit at one of the tables, in full view of the leering fishermen, or she could take the booth right next to Preston’s and—what? Sip her drink in silence, while Preston worked on the other side, both acutely aware of the other’s presence with only the thin glossy wood between them like a church confessional?
Effy could scarcely imagine anything more awkward. And after the episode in the car, she felt as if she needed to reclaim some of her lost dignity. Before she could lose her nerve, she marched toward Preston’s booth and sat down across from him.
He startled at once, slamming his book shut. With the flush painting his cheeks and his darting eyes, he looked like a guilty schoolboy. She supposed that was what he was, only she didn’t know what he had to feel guilty about.
“I guess you finished your phone call,” he said.
“Yes,” Effy replied. By Preston’s elbow was a glass of scotch, half full, which made her feel less foolish for ordering a drink at nine in the morning. She still hadn’t decided if she was actually going to take a sip, but she was glad she had it—it made her feel more like Preston’s equal.
He slid his book back into his satchel, but not before Effy saw the title on the spine: The Poetical Works of Emrys Myrddin, 196–208 AD.
He caught her looking and gave a defiant look back. “One of your library books,” he said. “I didn’t mean to salt the wound.”
She decided not to let him fluster her. “You must have just been reading it, then. ‘The Mariner’s Demise.’”
“It’s not one of Myrddin’s well-known works. I’m surprised you recognized it.”
“I told you. He’s my favorite author.”
“The scholarly consensus is that Myrddin’s poetry is generally middling.”
Effy’s face heated, anger curdling her stomach. “Why bother studying something you clearly find beneath you?”
“I said that was the scholarly consensus, not my personal opinion.” Which of course he wasn’t going to share. He was much better than Effy at keeping his cards close to the vest. His glasses had slipped a bit down the bridge of his nose; he pushed them up again. “And anyway, you don’t have to love something in order to devote yourself to it.”
He said it so offhandedly, she knew he hadn’t meant to rile her, but that only made it worse—that he had to do so little to wound her so much. “But what’s the point otherwise?” she managed. “You scored high enough on your exams to study whatever you want, and you chose literature on a whim?”
“It wasn’t a whim. And maybe architecture is your life’s passion, maybe it’s not. We all have our reasons for doing what we do.”
Another flare of anger. “I don’t see any reason for studying literature unless you care about the stories you’re reading and writing.”
“Well, I study theory, mostly. I’m not a writer.”
That crushed her like something caught in the tight, relentless snarl of a riptide. How could he be satisfied only studying literature, never writing a word of his own? Never getting to put to paper the things he imagined? Meanwhile, the banal reality of her own life made her miserable: sketching plans for things she didn’t know how to build, drawing houses other people would call home. It was enough to make her want to cry, but she dug her fingernails into her palm to keep the tears from pricking her eyes.
“Well,” she said at last, trying to match the cool flatness of his tone, “I can’t imagine what an Argantian would learn from reading Llyrian fairy tales, anyway. Myrddin’s our national author. You wouldn’t understand his stories unless you grew up hearing your mother read them.”
“I told you,” he said slowly, “my mother is Llyrian.”
“But you grew up in Argant.”
“Obviously.”
That earned her a scowl—it was the first time Effy had seen him appear chastened, defensive. But the small victory tasted less sweet than she had thought it would. Of course Preston was aware of his accent and his unmistakably Argantian surname. She remembered her conversation with the literature student in the library, who had echoed her question: I mean, how many Argantians want to study Llyrian literature?
Underneath it was a second, unspoken question: What gives them the right?
She didn’t want to be like that boy, didn’t want to be like those Llyrians, small-minded and bigoted, believing all the absurd superstitions and stereotypes about their enemies. No matter how much she disliked Preston, it wasn’t his fault for being born Argantian, any more than it was her fault for being born a woman.
And Effy remembered the reverence in his tone when he’d recited those lines from “The Mariner’s Demise.” We all have our reasons for doing what we do.
Maybe there was a reason he’d attached himself to Myrddin. Maybe it wasn’t just shameless opportunism. Suddenly, and against all odds, she actually felt sorry for goading him.
Preston lifted his glass and downed it in a single swig, without even grimacing. When he was finished, he glanced toward her untouched gin and tonic. “Are you going to drink that?”
Effy looked down at her glass, the ice melting, tonic water fizzing. She thought of her mother’s bloodshot eyes after a night of drinking and felt vaguely nauseous. “No.”