“It wasn’t a whim. And maybe architecture is your life’s passion, maybe it’s not. We all have our reasons for doing what we do.”
Another flare of anger. “I don’t see any reason for studying literature unless you care about the stories you’re reading and writing.”
“Well, I study theory, mostly. I’m not a writer.”
That crushed her like something caught in the tight, relentless snarl of a riptide. How could he be satisfied only studying literature, never writing a word of his own? Never getting to put to paper the things he imagined? Meanwhile, the banal reality of her own life made her miserable: sketching plans for things she didn’t know how to build, drawing houses other people would call home. It was enough to make her want to cry, but she dug her fingernails into her palm to keep the tears from pricking her eyes.
“Well,” she said at last, trying to match the cool flatness of his tone, “I can’t imagine what an Argantian would learn from reading Llyrian fairy tales, anyway. Myrddin’s our national author. You wouldn’t understand his stories unless you grew up hearing your mother read them.”
“I told you,” he said slowly, “my mother is Llyrian.”
“But you grew up in Argant.”
“Obviously.”
That earned her a scowl—it was the first time Effy had seen him appear chastened, defensive. But the small victory tasted less sweet than she had thought it would. Of course Preston was aware of his accent and his unmistakably Argantian surname. She remembered her conversation with the literature student in the library, who had echoed her question: I mean, how many Argantians want to study Llyrian literature?
Underneath it was a second, unspoken question: What gives them the right?
She didn’t want to be like that boy, didn’t want to be like those Llyrians, small-minded and bigoted, believing all the absurd superstitions and stereotypes about their enemies. No matter how much she disliked Preston, it wasn’t his fault for being born Argantian, any more than it was her fault for being born a woman.
And Effy remembered the reverence in his tone when he’d recited those lines from “The Mariner’s Demise.” We all have our reasons for doing what we do.
Maybe there was a reason he’d attached himself to Myrddin. Maybe it wasn’t just shameless opportunism. Suddenly, and against all odds, she actually felt sorry for goading him.
Preston lifted his glass and downed it in a single swig, without even grimacing. When he was finished, he glanced toward her untouched gin and tonic. “Are you going to drink that?”
Effy looked down at her glass, the ice melting, tonic water fizzing. She thought of her mother’s bloodshot eyes after a night of drinking and felt vaguely nauseous. “No.”
“Then let’s go.”
“What?”
“I’ll drive you back to Hiraeth.”
“I thought you were going to work here,” she said. “What about Ianto breathing down your neck?”
“At the house it’s Ianto, here it will be you.” Preston caught the beginnings of an objection on her lips, and hurriedly went on: “It’s not your fault. You just won’t have anything to do in town except drink gin and stare at me while I work. I’m not happy to be the most interesting thing in Saltney, but regrettably I can assure you that that is the case.”
“I don’t know about that.” Effy thought of the shepherd, the stones in her pocket. She decided not to mention any of that. Instead she said, “Not to wound your ego, but I saw some very interesting sheep dung on my way over here.”
Preston actually laughed. It was a short, surprised little huff of air, but there was no malice in it, only genuine amusement. And Effy found—regrettably—that she liked the sound of it.
She returned her still-full glass to the bartender and followed Preston out into the street. It had started to drizzle again, and the water caught in his hair like tiny bright beads of morning dew.
Effy licked a drop of rain off her lips as Preston reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it one-handed, the other hand braced on the driver’s-side door. His long, thin fingers wrapped around the handle entirely.
“Can I have one?” she asked.
She wasn’t exactly sure why she said it. Maybe she wanted to prove something to him, to make up for the glass of gin she’d left melting on the bar.
Maybe she was just distracted by the way his lips rounded gently when he smoked them. Effy shook her head, trying to dispel the unwelcome thought.