A Study in Drowning(31)

Preston folded his arms across his chest. “No one else in the literature college can do that. Quote Angharad word for word at the drop of a hat. And that poem, ‘The Mariner’s Demise’? Myrddin isn’t known for his poetry, and that’s a very obscure one.”

“What’s your point?”

“You clearly want to be in the literature college, Effy. And you deserve to be.”

Effy could only stare at him. She had to remember to breathe, to blink. “You can’t be serious. I have a good memory—”

“It’s more than that,” he said. “What do you think the other literature students have that you don’t?”

Now he had to be toying with her. Hot, indignant tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Just stop it,” she bit out. “You know the reason. You know women aren’t allowed in the literature college. You don’t need to play some cruel, silly game—”

“It’s an absurd, outdated tradition,” Preston cut in sharply.

Effy was surprised at his vehemence. He could have repeated the same platitudes that all the university professors did, about how women’s minds were too insipid, how they could only write frivolous, feminine things, nothing that would transcend time or place, nothing that would last.

“I didn’t think you’d care so much about a rule that doesn’t affect you at all,” she said.

“You should know by now that I’m not a fan of doing things just because that’s the way they’ve always been done.” Preston set his jaw. “Or preserving things just because they’ve always been preserved.”

Of course. Effy’s cheeks warmed. “So, what? I would get a paragraph in your acknowledgments?”

“No,” he said. “I would make you coauthor.”

That was even more unexpected. Effy’s breath caught, her heart skipping its beats. “I don’t—I’ve never written a literary paper before. I wouldn’t know how.”

“It’s not hard. You already know Myrddin’s works back to front. I would write all the theory and criticism parts.” Preston looked at her intently. “If you went to them with a truly groundbreaking literary thesis, they wouldn’t be able to come up with an excuse not to let you in.”

Effy almost rolled her eyes—who called their own work groundbreaking? But she allowed herself, briefly, to imagine a new future. One where she went back to the university with her name beside Preston’s on a groundbreaking thesis (maybe even before his, if Preston wanted to play fair and put their names in alphabetical order). One where the literature college broke with its outmoded tradition. She would never have to draw another cross section.

She would never have to see Master Corbenic again.

There was hope, blooming like a tender little flower bud. Master Corbenic, the other students—they couldn’t win if she quit their game and started playing another.

But it would mean betraying Myrddin. Betraying everything she had believed her whole life, the words and stories she had followed like the point of a compass. Angharad had always been her true north.

“I can’t,” Effy said at last. She couldn’t bring herself to elaborate further.

Preston exhaled. “Aren’t you at least a little bit curious about Myrddin’s legacy? Don’t you want to find out the truth for yourself? He’s your favorite author, after all. You could end up proving me wrong.”

She snorted, but she couldn’t deny the idea was appealing. “You really care more about the truth than you do about being right?”

“Of course I do.” There was not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

His intensity made her falter. As if sensing her will had wavered, Preston pressed on. “I can’t tell you it won’t be difficult, getting the department to change their minds. But I’ll fight for you, Effy. I promise.”

He met her eyes, and there was no subterfuge in his gaze. No artifice. He meant it sincerely. Effy swallowed hard.

“I did try, you know,” she managed. “When I first got my exam score. I wrote a letter to your adviser, Master Gosse. I suggested thesis topics. I told him how much Myrddin’s work meant to me.”

Preston drew a gentle breath. “And what did he say?”

“He never replied.”

Effy had never told anyone that, not even her mother. She looked down at her hands, still curled around the crumpled piece of paper. They were trembling just a little bit.

“I’m sorry,” Preston said. And then he hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I—that’s terrible and cruel.”

She said nothing, trying to ignore the tears pricking at her eyes.

“But I have faith in this project,” Preston went on. His voice was softer now. “I have faith in you—in both of us.” He stammered a little bit at the end, as if embarrassed by what he had said. Effy had never heard him trip over his words before, and for some reason it made her want to trust him more.

“But what about the Sleepers?” she asked, risking the possibility that Preston would just scoff at her again. “I know everyone at the university is a snooty agnostic who thinks they’re too clever for myths and magic, but not everyone in Llyr feels the same. Especially in the South. They think that Myrddin’s consecration is the only thing preventing a second Drowning.”