A Study in Drowning(35)

Preston hesitated. Effy could almost see him turning over their agreement in his mind, calculating how to moderate his tone by around fifteen percent. “Romantic epics are typically written in the third person, and always narrated by men. Heroes and knights whose goals are to rescue damsels and slay monsters. But the Fairy King is both lover and monster, and Angharad is both heroine and damsel.”

“And of course you can’t simply credit that to Myrddin being a creative visionary,” Effy said, scowling.

“There are just too many inconsistencies,” Preston said, “too much that doesn’t sit quite right. And Ianto is so cagey about it. It only makes me more suspicious.”

Effy looked down at the scattered papers again. “Don’t tell me this is all you’ve managed to find out.”

“I said I needed your help,” he said, and he didn’t manage to not sound miserable about it. “Ianto is keeping me in the dark. Wetherell was the one who gave me these letters. He asked around for them from some of Myrddin’s correspondents, his publisher and friends. But there have to be more.”

“More letters?”

“Letters. Diary entries. Rough drafts of bad poems. Half-finished novels. Shopping lists, for Saints’ sakes. Something. It’s like the man has been erased from his own home.”

“He has been dead for six months,” Effy pointed out. She thought again of what Ianto had said: My father was always his own greatest admirer. She’d heard a hint of resentment there.

“Still,” Preston said, “I’m convinced Ianto is hiding something. This is an old, confusing house. There has to be—I don’t know, a secret room somewhere. An attic, a storage area. Something he’s not showing me. Ianto swears there’s not, but I don’t believe him.”

Effy thought of the door with the pulse of the tide behind it. “What about the basement?”

Preston turned pale. “I don’t see any use in asking about that,” he said quickly. “It’s flooded. And besides, Ianto guards that key with his life. I wouldn’t even bother.”

She detected a note of fear in his voice. She had never heard him sound even remotely afraid before, and she decided not to press him on it. For now. Besides, something else had occurred to her.

“The widow,” she said. “You told me she invited you here.”

“I’ve never seen her,” Preston replied, looking slightly less pale and relieved to have changed topics. “Ianto told me she’s ailing and prefers to keep to herself.”

Effy couldn’t help but wonder about her. Myrddin had been eighty-four when he died; surely the widow was not much younger. Perhaps ailing was a euphemism for mad. Men liked to keep mad women locked up where everyone could comfortably forget they ever existed. But Ianto hadn’t seemed to harbor any malice toward his mother. Effy shook her head, as if to banish the thought.

“All right,” she said. “But what do you want from me?”

Preston hesitated, and didn’t meet her gaze. “Blueprints for the house,” he said after a beat. “I’m sure they exist somewhere. Maybe Ianto showed them to you already.”

“He didn’t.” And Effy hadn’t even thought to ask, which was a bit embarrassing. “It would be a very reasonable thing for me to request, though. I can ask.”

“Right. Ianto wouldn’t suspect a thing.” Preston’s eyes flickered behind his glasses, but his expression was unreadable. “Just be careful. Don’t—”

Effy sighed. “I’ll be perfectly polite, if that’s what you mean.”

“I meant the opposite, really.” Now Preston was flushed. “I would keep him at an arm’s length. Don’t be too . . . obliging.”

Effy couldn’t tell if he was trying to admonish her or warn her. Was it her he didn’t trust, or Ianto? It made her skin prickle. Surely he didn’t think she was so incompetent.

Preston looked so flustered that she knew there had to be something else he wanted to say, but couldn’t. Effy kept her gaze on him to see if she could determine it, but she only succeeded in flushing, too. In the end, she merely replied, “I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” he said, straightening up, his tone cool and clipped again. “And, of course, I’ll be discreet. I take all my notes in Argantian so Ianto can’t read them.”

“Except for one,” Effy said. She had spent all last night thinking about seeing her name scrawled down the margins of that page in Preston’s precise, tidy script. Effy Effy Effy Effy Effy. Maybe it was just meaningless marginalia. Maybe it was something else. She didn’t want to embarrass him, but she didn’t think she could stand not knowing the truth. “Why not that note, too?”

“Most of what I write doesn’t really matter.” Preston’s gaze was on her, unflinching, though his flush had not entirely faded. “It’s just whatever errant idea goes through my head. I know I’ll just throw them away later, so I don’t have to bother translating them from Argantian into Llyrian. I suppose I thought that one was important.”



It took Effy the rest of the morning to work up the courage to talk to Ianto. Over and over again, her mind replayed that moment where he’d laid his hand on her shoulder. She had slipped so quickly into that deep-water place. She paced the upper landing and shook her head, trying to cut the memory loose. He’s always been kind to you, a voice said. Eventually she convinced herself that the gesture had been fatherly and nothing more.