Effy heard Preston’s breathing quicken, but he didn’t say a word.
“So all was decided,” Angharad said, “by these three stern men in armchairs. Emrys could have me. Greenebough could have the manuscript. And Emrys could have the glory, but in exchange, my father would receive all the royalties. ‘Consider it a dowry,’ Marlowe said.”
Now Effy understood the opulence of Penrhos, the obvious discomfort Blackmar had displayed when they had questioned him about Angharad. “So Emrys never earned anything from the book at all?”
“Not a penny. He, my father, and Marlowe had all done their leering calculations and figured out the worth of my book and the worth of my life. And what did I get in return? I was not turned out of my father’s house, disinherited for being a loose woman. A disgrace to the Blackmar name.”
“That’s unbelievable.” Preston huffed and shook his head. And then, realizing his error, hurriedly added, “I don’t mean to say I don’t believe you. Just that it’s so egregiously unfair.”
Angharad arched a brow and turned further toward the fire. The firelight pooled in all the crevices of her face, her crow’s-feet and smile lines, the marks of passing time. Her hair, dry now, feathered lightly over her shoulders. Pure silver, save for a few enduring strands of gold.
“I never named the narrator, you know,” she said. “The book is in the first person, as of course you’re aware, and she’s never referred to by name. The Fairy King only calls her—”
“‘My darling girl,’” Effy quoted. The same thing Myrddin had called Angharad in his letters. The words felt terribly heavy.
“So the omission of the main character’s name was intentional?” Preston shifted forward eagerly. “I always thought it was meant to reflect the universality of Angharad’s experience, how her story reflected the stories of thousands of other girls and—sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I just have so many questions.”
“I know.” Angharad drew her knees to her chest, and she did look almost like a girl then, very small in her white dress. “I’ll answer them. Eventually. But it’s so much to remember. The weight of a memory is one thing. You get very used to swimming with it dragging you down. Once it’s loosed, you hardly know what to do with your body. You don’t understand its lightness.”
A memory sparked in Effy’s mind. “In Myrddin’s letters,” she said, “he mentions that Blackmar was bringing Angharad to his house. We thought he was talking about the manuscript. But really he must have meant you.”
Angharad nodded. “My father delivered me to Emrys like a horse that had been bought and sold. We were married in a matter of weeks. The book came out not long after that. Marlowe decided the title.”
“I thought it was just cheekiness on Myrddin’s part, calling the book she and her.” Preston flushed. “And I thought, initially, that Blackmar wrote it. I thought that was the conspiracy we were trying to uncover.”
“The letters.” Effy blinked, as if newly prodded from slumber. “Preston, remember? There were some strange letters, allegedly from Myrddin, only his name was spelled wrong. It’s what made you think at first that they might be forgeries.”
“Oh,” Angharad said. “About a decade after the book was published, some intrepid reporters began sniffing around. In a fit of paranoia, Emrys burned all of his letters and ripped pages from his diary. Marlowe was even more paranoid, so he drafted some letters that would be proof of Emrys’s authorship, if it ever came to that. It never did, of course. No one cared to look further. Until . . .”
“Until me.” Preston swallowed, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “And it still took far too long. I’m sorry. Now it feels obvious, like I should have known.”
“Well, you came to the answer in the end,” Angharad said. “Even with the world against you—Marlowe and my father and my son, who was far too much like his father. I must sound as innocent as a child now. But for all my life, those three were my whole world.”
Effy’s voice wavered when she asked, “What about the Fairy King?”
“The Fairy King was all of them,” said Angharad. “Every wanting man has that same wound he can use to slip in. It wasn’t until we were back in the Bottom Hundred, in Hiraeth, that the Fairy King’s hold over Emrys became unshakable. His power was at its peak here. Still, there were years of wondering—would the man entering the threshold be my husband, imperfect as he was, or would he be the Fairy King, cruel down to his marrow? It was almost easier when the Fairy King took him over entirely. Then I knew to expect his viciousness, and I had my little mortal tricks.”