The door to the next room was closed. Ianto pushed it open, and Preston immediately pressed forward, lodging himself in the threshold.
“This is the study,” he said. “I’ve been keeping my things in here.”
What could he possibly have to hide? Maybe he was examining Myrddin’s coffee rings after all. Maybe he had dug up Myrddin’s dentures. Another wave of nausea washed over her.
“I’d really like to see it,” Effy said. Sick as she felt, she didn’t want to miss an opportunity to goad him. And his caginess had made her curious.
Preston eyed her with immense disdain, lips going thin. But as it turned out, there was nothing incriminating or embarrassing in the study: there was a ripped chaise, a blanket tossed over its back, that he had clearly been sleeping on, and a desk scattered with papers. Cigarette butts lined the windowsill.
It was neater than every other room in the house by miles, but it was still not as immaculate as she’d expected from the smug, pedantic P. Héloury.
As they left the study, the floor groaned deafeningly under them, and Effy lurched for the nearest wall. Momentarily she was certain the wood was going to collapse under her, just like the rock had on the cliffs.
Ianto gave her a sympathetic grimace, and she righted herself, cheeks hot. Her mother’s voice thrummed in her mind. Bad decision after bad decision.
They came to a door at the end of the hallway, and Ianto said, “I would show you the bedrooms, but my mother doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
Myrddin’s widow. Effy didn’t even know her name; didn’t know a single thing about her other than that she’d ordered Ianto to have her stay in the guest cottage. But she’d allowed Preston inside the house. Effy couldn’t help but think the widow did not want her here.
She could feel the beginnings of panic buzzing in the tips of her fingers and toes, her vision whitening at the edges. She wished she had her pink pills, but in her rush she’d left them behind on the nightstand. Preston’s fault, she decided, but she couldn’t even imbue the thought with the malice she wanted.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ve seen enough.”
All three of them went downstairs again, Effy gripping the moist, slippery banister all the way. She wanted nothing more than to leave this terrible house and its thick, briny air. But as Ianto led her back toward the kitchen, insisting upon scones and kippers, Effy’s eyes landed on something she hadn’t noticed before: a small door, its frame badly slanted and the wood at its base speckled with tiny white barnacles. Looking at it, she swore she could hear the waves more clearly, like an enormous pulse of blood from the heart of the house itself.
“Where does that door lead?” she asked.
Ianto didn’t reply, but reached below the collar of his black sweater and produced a key, strung around his neck on a thin piece of leather. He fitted the key into the lock and the door swung open.
“Be careful,” he said. He moved aside so Effy could see through the opening “Don’t fall down.”
The door opened onto a set of stairs, half submerged in murky water. Only the first few steps were visible. Salt smell curled into her nose, along with the peculiar scents of old leather and wet paper.
“Those were my father’s archives, in the basement,” Ianto said. “But several years ago, the sea level rose too high and flooded the whole floor. We haven’t managed to get anyone to come all the way down here and try to drain it.”
“Aren’t there very valuable documents in there?” Effy was surprised at herself for asking such a question. It sounded prying, opportunistic, like something Preston might say. Maybe he already had.
“Of course,” said Ianto. “My father was very protective of his personal and professional affairs. Whatever papers are down there, I’m sure they’re properly sealed away, but they’re impossible to reach, unless you fancy a very cold, very dark swim.”
Effy watched the water ripple, bunching and then flattening like black silk. “Shouldn’t the water have drained on its own? When the tide went down?”
Ianto gave her the same pitying look that Wetherell had given her in the car. “The cliffside here is sinking. The very foundation of the house is waterlogged. The whole Bay of Nine Bells, in fact. We are closer to drowning every year.”
Effy hadn’t realized how literal talk of the second Drowning was, more than mere Southern superstition. She felt ashamed for dismissing it now.
Above the stairs was another archway. The stone was wet and draped with moss, words etched on its surface between carvings of waves.