A Study in Drowning(69)

Effy didn’t want to sit. Preston lowered himself into one of the armchairs, gaze dark as he regarded Marlowe.

Her fingers curled, nails digging into her palms. The armchair next to Preston’s was a muted shade of green. Her head started pounding and she felt herself slipping into that deep-water place. Preston’s eyes darted up at her with concern, and when the silence had stretched too long, she finally sat down. Her face was still burning.

“Thank you for entertaining us,” Preston said, but his voice was stiff. Cold. There was no effort at friendliness, and Effy was afraid that even in his less-than-lucid state, Marlowe would be able to tell. “We’re doing a project on Emrys Myrddin, and we would like to get the perspective of his publisher. Specifically on the process of publishing Angharad.”

“I inherited the company several years ago from my father,” Marlowe said. “I had nothing to do with publishing Angharad. But it’s our most profitable work to this day—you could buy seven versions of Penrhos with the annual royalties, isn’t that right, Blackmar?”

Blackmar looked distinctly uncomfortable. “That’s right.”

“And after you published The Youthful Knight,” Preston went on, “did you solicit another book from Myrddin immediately?”

Marlowe picked up his glass again. “As far as I know from my father’s stories, it was a great effort to publish. They say it takes a village—well, that’s about a child, isn’t it?” His gaze was faraway. “But a book is much the same.”

“So it was a joint effort?” Preston arched a brow. Effy felt her heart skip. “Interesting, given that Angharad famously has no dedication, no acknowledgments.”

Marlowe shrugged. “Myrddin was an odd fellow. Perhaps it was my father’s decision. He liked to sell authors just as much as he liked to sell books. The author is part of the story, you know. It helped that Myrddin was from some backwater hovel in the Bottom Hundred. He writes rather well for an illiterate fisherman’s son.”

Even now, even after everything, Effy felt anger flare in her chest. She dug her fingernails deeper into her palm and, fighting to keep her voice level, asked, “When did Myrddin present the first draft to Greenebough?”

“Sometime earlier that year, I imagine.” Marlowe yawned and made a show of appearing very bored. “These are awfully mundane questions, you know.”

“Sorry,” Preston said unconvincingly. “When your father did receive the draft of Angharad, was it postmarked from Myrddin’s estate in Saltney?”

Now Marlowe seemed irritated. “How on earth am I supposed to know something like that? I was barely out of the womb myself then, and Blackmar here still had most of his teeth.” Blackmar gave a forced laugh, his wizened brow beading with sweat. “Saints, I don’t want to spend my evening discussing the history of a book that was published half a damn century ago.”

Effy’s palms were slick. She rubbed them against her bent knee, the silk of her dress bunching under her palms. She could feel the danger that spread from Marlowe like a mist, the same cold, paralyzing mist that had come over her when Master Corbenic had slid his hand up her thigh for the first time.

She drew a breath and gritted her teeth. She had not come this far only to be thwarted by her own memories, her own weakness. She moved farther forward to the edge of her seat and said, “Did you ever meet Mr. Blackmar’s eldest daughter?”

Blackmar spoke up at last, voice sharp: “Enough now, Euphemia. It’s a party, after all. Let the man breathe. You have all night to discuss our dear old friend Myrddin.”

Marlowe’s gaze grew suddenly clear and bright. Just like Ianto’s, it had a hard, broken-glass glint. He, too, shifted forward in his seat.

“I’ll tell you what, love,” he said to Effy, voice low. “Have a dance with me, and I promise—I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”

No. The word rose in her mind like a steep and powerful wave, one that darkened the whole shoreline. But it crashed against an invisible seawall, a barrier as stubborn and unrelenting as the face of a cliff.

The world was lost to her entirely, swept up in the snarling riptide. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she swore she could see the shape of the Fairy King over Marlowe’s shoulder. His cold white fingers curled, reaching for her—

And then, inexplicably, Preston took her hand. His touch wrenched her out of the black water, and the Fairy King vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

“My apologies if it wasn’t clear to you, Mr. Marlowe,” Preston said icily. He lifted their joined hands and gave a thin smile.

Marlowe leaned back, huffing in surprise. “Well. I didn’t expect . . . I mean, you don’t quite look the type—never mind. You ought to take the lady to dance, then. That’s what women want, isn’t it? Dancing and idle chatter. I’m sure she’s had enough of this men’s talk.”

“I will,” Preston bit out. “Effy, come on.”

He helped her to her feet and led her through the crowd into the middle of the room, amid the other swaying couples. She blinked furiously, still trying to make sense of it all. Her lost voice, the Fairy King. Through it all she grasped onto Preston like an anchor, her head held just above the foaming water, the drowning place.

Somehow, in that time, her other hand had found its way to Preston’s shoulder, and his had found its way to her waist.