A Study in Drowning(37)

As a fatherless child herself, Effy found it both brutish and oddly fascinating. Luckily, their food arrived before she could choke out a reply.

The steak-and-kidney pies were steaming, the same golden brown color of varnished wood. Effy picked up her fork reluctantly. Preston was asking quite a lot of her, to feign enthusiasm for kidney.

But to her surprise, Ianto didn’t touch his food. He was looking at her intently. He said, “You’ve been spending time with the Argantian student lately.”

Effy’s heart stuttered. “Not really,” she managed. “Only this morning. He’s . . .” She fumbled for an innocuous descriptor, something that wouldn’t be a lie. “He has interesting things to say.”

“I don’t get a good feeling from him.” Ianto picked up his knife. The grease-marbled blade glinted. “He’s a bit twitchy, isn’t he? A strange, skittish young man. Perhaps it’s the Argantian blood.”

For some reason, Effy felt the need to defend Preston. “I think he’s just dedicated to his work. He doesn’t waste time on small talk or pleasantries.”

“I suppose he’s very much like my father, in that way.” Ianto pointed his knife at her. “Go on, then. Eat.”

Effy’s heart skipped another beat. She sliced through the flaky exterior of the pie, steam wafting from the cut like a spirit escaping its vessel.

Ianto watched her without blinking, his watery, colorless eyes unreadable. When she was mid-bite, he said, “You’re a very pretty girl.”

The food on her tongue burned too much to swallow. She wanted to spit it out into her napkin but she couldn’t bring herself to; she could scarcely bring herself to move. Her eyes welled, and Ianto just kept looking at her, gaze inscrutable and relentless.

She didn’t think she looked pretty. At least, she had no idea whether she did or not. She was wearing stockings and a plaid skirt, with a white woolen sweater over it. It was the sort of outfit she’d worn during her first week at university. Before Master Corbenic. She regretted it now. The damp air had turned her normally wavy hair to curls and the curls to untended frizz. Because there was no mirror in the guesthouse, she hadn’t been able to put on any makeup, or even check to see how large the circles under her eyes were.

It hurt so much to hold the steaming food on her tongue, but eventually it cooled down enough to swallow. Effy put her hand to her mouth. The tip of her nose was starting to get hot, the way it did when she was about to cry.

Ianto didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were unyielding—and, she noticed, they looked clearer. Sharper.

“Your eyes. Your hair,” he said. “Beautiful.”

Effy dug her fingernails into her palm. She regretted coming here at all. But she didn’t want to fail at her task. As much as it shocked her to realize it, she didn’t want to fail Preston. So she met Ianto’s gaze and gathered up as much of a response to the insipid flattery as she could muster.

“Thank you,” she said. Her blush, at least, was not feigned. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

The door to the pub clattered open and three fishermen stomped in, carrying with them the salt smell of the sea. Even as the wind blew through the doorway, Ianto’s black hair lay flat.

Effy had brought several of the hag stones in the pocket of her coat. Still holding her fork with one hand, she touched the stones with the other. Did she dare to take one out in front of him? Would her obvious terror ruin everything?

She couldn’t wait any longer; she would only grow more afraid. So she blurted out, “I wanted to ask if you had blueprints for the house. That would really help me out a lot.”

This, at last, unlatched his gaze from hers. Surprise flittered briefly across his face and then vanished, like a bird hitting a window and then fluttering crookedly off again. Unexpectedly, Ianto reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper.

“There you are,” he said.

Eager, Effy reached out to take it. Her fingers had only brushed the edges of the paper when Ianto suddenly grabbed her hand. His grasp was painfully tight, and she let out a small, shocked whimper.

“Ianto—” she started.

His face was as pale as the cliff stone and his eyes held no color at all. And then, as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he released her again, leaving Effy holding the papers. He rose from his seat with such abruptness that it was almost violent. His knife clattered onto the table.

“Let’s go,” he said. His voice came out through gritted teeth. When Effy only stood there staring, open-mouthed, he repeated in a snarl, “Let’s go!”

Numbly, Effy got to her feet. She tucked the blueprints into her purse and hurried after him.



Back in the car, Ianto’s gaze was trained unblinkingly at the road ahead, his enormous hands wrapped around the steering wheel.

Effy was afraid to shatter the heavy, constricting silence, afraid to imperil her precarious victory, afraid to provoke Ianto. She looked out the window instead, eyes tracing the path of raindrops sliding down the glass. Her fingers still throbbed where he had grabbed them.

The sea frothed angrily at the rocks, tongues of foam bathing the edge of the road. The water had a greenish hue today, like a witch’s brew.

Still staring straight ahead, Ianto barked out, “Did you enjoy your meal?”

“Yes,” Effy replied. The bites of steak-and-kidney pie sat queasily in her belly. Each bump in the road made her stomach churn further.