“Oh no,” said Effy.
“Oh yes,” said Rhia.
Effy set her trunk on the floor and hung up her coat. “And how are the spiders?”
Rhia let out a long, exhausted breath. “The war is at a stalemate, for now. Thank the Saints. Generations have lived and died in your absence.”
Effy laughed. She began the work of unpacking, as Rhia went on about all that she had missed. Effy rolled up her thick sweaters and woolen socks and stuffed them in the drawer, letting Rhia’s voice fade a little into the background. She touched her copy of Angharad, gently running her fingers over the well-worn spine.
Then she tucked it under her pillow. Old habits.
“Hey,” Effy said. “Can I invite someone to the party?”
Rhia’s brows shot up. “But of course. Who is it?”
“He’s someone you’ve never met before. I think you’ll like him, though.” Effy paused, considering. “He’s a bit smug, until you get to know him. Very pedantic. Very smart.”
“Well, you’re painting quite a picture.” Rhia flopped onto Effy’s bed, a scheming smile on her face. “I can’t wait to torment him.”
Effy could easily imagine it. “Be careful. He’s a very stubborn arguer.”
After that, it was another week before Effy and Preston were able to present their thesis to the dean. Effy had only met Dean Fogg once, when he’d given her permission to go to Hiraeth, and he had not changed at all in the weeks since. He was a narrow man with blindingly white hair and no smile lines. His expansive office had a sitting area with five armchairs gathered around a coffee table, and his assistant served them tea and biscuits in clinking silver dishes.
Master Gosse, Preston’s adviser, was also present. He was Dean Fogg’s opposite in many respects: short and broad where the dean was tall and thin, with an ebullient mustache and maniacally curling black hair. He stood rather than sat, and refused the tea and biscuits. His dark eyes were leaping swiftly from one thing to the next, like a kitten following a stuffed bird on a stick.
The first few moments progressed in silence. Dean Fogg sipped his tea. He held a copy of their thesis on his lap. Preston bounced his leg, an anxious tic, and Effy’s fingers curled and uncurled against her thigh. Master Gosse paced, a bit Preston-like. His brisk footsteps against the wood floor were the only sound in the room.
At last, Dean Fogg set down his teacup and said, “I think it’s rather good.”
Effy almost let out a highly inappropriate laugh of relief. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop it from coming out, while Preston said, “I know the theory and criticism sections could use some work. We could have cited more sources, delved deeper into alternative theories. But as a whole, do you think the argument is there?”
“Well, there’s certainly an argument. And, of course, you’ve furnished it with evidence that no other academic has any access to, presently . . . this diary and these letters. I suspect there’s quite a bit more than what made it into your paper. But it won’t mean much until they’re widely released.”
“What?” Effy managed. “What do you mean, ‘widely released’？”
“Any thesis needs to be vetted, my dear,” Master Gosse said. He had stopped pacing. “You can make an argument based on your interpretation of the evidence, but if no one else has read the evidence—well, it’s just mythmaking, at that point. No one has any reason to believe you.”
Preston nodded. “I know it seems a bit counterintuitive. But we’ll have to give everyone else a chance to read the letters and the diary before we can prove our thesis is correct.”
Effy glanced over at the chair beside her, the empty fifth seat in the office. It felt conspicuously empty. It felt as though it should have been occupied by Angharad. She remembered Angharad’s fixed determination when she had spoken of these potential inquiries. If she were here, she would say again: Let them come.
“So let’s say we do release it all,” Effy said slowly. “We’re going to war with every other academic, aren’t we?”
“Oh, not just academics,” Master Gosse said. “Tabloid journalists, the Sleeper Museum, the Myrddin estate, Greenebough Publishing . . . they all have a vested interest in preserving Myrddin’s legacy. The Southerners will riot, which will cause the Llyrian government to go into a panicked frenzy. Personally, I expect them to sue the university. They might even sue you.”
Preston made a nervous sound. Dean Fogg frowned. “The university has ample legal counsel,” he said. “But this mention of ‘we’ perturbs me, Euphemia. You are not, to be blunt, an academic. You are not a literary scholar. You are a first-year architecture student—”