She was just sitting up in bed, gagging, when light cleaved through the open door. Her whole body tensed, half expecting to see wet black hair, a yellow curve of bone. But it was just a boy standing on the threshold, his dark brown hair wind tossed and untidy, though not remotely wet.
Decidedly not the Fairy King, but an intruder nonetheless.
“Hey!” She gasped, yanking the covers up to her throat. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t even have the decency to look scandalized. He just backed up halfway out of the doorway, turning away from her with his hand still on the knob, and said, “Wetherell sent me to make sure you were up.”
Already Wetherell appeared to have very little confidence in her. Effy swallowed, still holding the duvet to her chin, squinting at the boy, who stared determinedly outside. He wore thin-framed round glasses, slightly misted by the dewy morning air.
“Well?” Effy demanded, scowling. “I’m not going to change with you in here.”
That, at last, appeared to offend him. His face turned pink, and without another word, he stepped outside and shut the door after him, more firmly than seemed necessary.
Still glowering, Effy got up and pawed through her trunk. Even her clothes felt somehow damp. She put on a pair of woolen trousers, a black turtleneck, and the thickest socks she owned. She tied her hair back with its ribbon. There was no mirror in the guesthouse, so she would have to hope her face wasn’t too puffy and her eyes weren’t too red. So far, she was zero for two on first impressions.
She shrugged on her coat and pushed through the door. The boy—university age, surely not much older than she—was leaning against the side of the cottage, a small leather-bound notebook in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. He had a face that seemed both soft and angular at once, his glasses perched on a narrow, delicate nose.
If Effy had been in a more charitable mood, she would have called him handsome.
When he saw her, he put his cigarettes back into his pocket. He was still flushing a little bit, and resolutely made no eye contact. “Let’s go.”
Effy nodded, but his rudeness turned her stomach sour. The morning light, even through the trees, was bright enough to make her head throb behind her temples. Ungenerously, she shot back, “You aren’t even going to ask my name?”
“I know your name. You haven’t asked mine.”
He was wearing a blue coat, flapping open at the front, that seemed, to her, too thin for the weather, and a white button-down shirt under it. His boots showed some scuffing. All of it made Effy think he’d been at Hiraeth for some time now. But he was not a Southerner; she could tell. His complexion was not quite pale enough, and he picked his way through the forest with a hedging delicacy that bordered on distaste.
Effy relented, her curiosity getting the better of her. “What’s your name?”
“Preston,” he replied.
A stuffy, prim sort of name common in Northern Llyr. The name suited him. “Do you work for the Myrddin estate?”
“No,” he said, and did not elaborate further. He looked her up and down with a raised brow. “Aren’t you going to bring anything? I thought you were here to design a house.”
Effy froze. Without another word, she turned on her heel and hurried back into the cottage. She knelt beside the trunk and yanked out her sketchpad and the first pen she could find, then stomped out again. She no longer felt cold. Her cheeks were burning.
Preston had already continued down the path. She took three comically large steps to catch up with him, trying to account for the difference in the length of their legs. Though he had a slight, almost waifish frame, Preston had to be a head taller than her.
They went on in silence for a few moments, Effy’s eyes still adjusting to the light. In the morning, the forest was less terrifying but even stranger. Everything was too green: the moss growing over every stone and up the trunks of the trees and the long, soft grass under their feet. Overhead the leaves rustled with a sound like the nickering of horses, and the morning dew on the leaves turned crystalline in the sunlight. For some reason, the way the light trickled in reminded Effy of being in a chapel. Memories of dusty pews and prayer books made her nose itch.
The path curled upward, leading them over fallen branches and broken rocks. Effy’s legs were already aching when the trees began to thin. Preston ducked under a low-hanging branch, heavy with moss, and held it up so she could go through after him. The unexpected display of chivalry vexed her. Rather than saying thank you, she shot him a sulky glare.