The next morning was cloud-dense and sunless, and Effy rose in a pale, rheumy gray light. She had not returned to Hiraeth yesterday, even at Ianto’s urging, and had instead sat in the guesthouse, her mind running dismally through her few and narrowing options.
She tried the rusted taps above the tub, twisting them back and forth until her fingers ached and her palms were gritty with rust. At last she managed to get a slow drip from one of them, and cupped her hands under the trickling stream. It took the better part of an hour to scrub herself clean and wash her hair, but she refused to go into town filthy. She had that much dignity left.
When she was finished, Effy put her pill bottle in her purse and slid on her coat. She left her trunk ajar and abandoned. What did she need that couldn’t be replaced? She considered it as she began her stumbling walk down the cliffs toward Saltney. Some clothes, her drafting linens, a cheap set of protractors and compasses. She would not miss any of it.
Effy had finally settled on a plan late last night, lying under the green duvet, waiting for her sleeping pill to do its work. As rancid water dripped onto the pillow beside her, she decided she couldn’t afford to wait, or plead with Wetherell for a ride. She would leave Saltney first thing in the morning, and she would walk herself, the sea be damned.
The dark-haired creature be damned, too. She knew the stories, and she knew her own mind. The Fairy King did not show his face in the light of day. But she took one of her pink pills, for good measure.
Her plan had seemed sound enough until it started drizzling. Effy went on stubbornly, her boots scrabbling against the loose rocks, as the road turned steeper and steeper. The sprinkle of rain was enough to turn the packed dirt into mud, and soon every step was a labor, the muck sucking at her shoes. Water trickled down her face.
Her vision blurring, Effy stared determinedly ahead, trying to gauge how much of her journey was left. There was a sharp bend in the road, and the cliffs rose jaggedly above it, blocking her view of Saltney. She could see no smoke chuffing from chimneys in the distance, no thatched roofs along the horizon.
She rubbed at her cheeks. To her left the sea was lapping at the edge of the road, in broad tongues of salt and foam. A wave crested over the rock and washed the toe of her boot.
Panic was rising in her chest when Effy heard the rumble of a car engine behind her. A black car was clattering down the road, its windows speckled with raindrops, its hood sleek and wet.
Effy stepped aside to let it pass, but instead it slowed to a halt beside her. The driver’s-side window rolled down.
Preston stared at her in silence for several moments, his arms braced on the steering wheel. His hair looked as untidy as it had yesterday, and his eyes were unblinking behind his glasses. At last, he said, “Effy, get in.”
“I don’t want to,” she said mulishly.
Of course the rain chose that precise moment to pick up, the fat droplets catching on her lashes. Preston’s gaze was flat with skepticism. “The road is all but washed away down there,” he said. Then, in complete deadpan, he added, “Are you planning to swim?”
She glanced down the muddy road, glowering, and said, “Is this how you entice all the girls into your car?”
“Most girls don’t give me the chance, since they’re sensible enough not to try and saunter down cliffs in the rain.”
Her face turned magnificently warm. She stomped around the other side of the car, cheeks flaming. In one furious motion, she jerked open the car door and plunked into the passenger seat.
She looked stubbornly forward as she said, “I object to the word saunter.”
“Your objection is noted.” His gaze didn’t shift from her. “Put your seat belt on.”
He was trying to humiliate her, to treat her like a child. “My mother doesn’t even make me wear my seat belt,” she scoffed.
“I don’t suppose your mother spends a lot of time driving you down half-sunken roads.”
She couldn’t think of a clever reply to that. Preston had his seat belt on, and she was too cold and wet to argue. As she buckled herself in, she thought, You are so insufferable. She almost said it out loud.
They drove on in silence for several moments, the wheels of the car spinning hard against the muck. Every time the rain picked up, Effy’s mood turned fouler. It was like the weather was mocking her, reminding her how stupid and helpless she’d been, and how Preston, dryly logical, had come to her rescue. She sank down in her seat, scowling.
The inside of Preston’s car smelled like cigarettes and leather. It was not, as much as she loathed to admit it, entirely unpleasant. There was something almost comforting about it. She stole a glance at him, but his eyes were fixed determinedly on the road as the car wound down the cliffside.