Effy reached for the hag stone in her pocket.
In another moment, all the ferocity in him fizzled. He shrank back, as if tacitly apologizing for daring to approach her like that, and Effy’s hand slid from her pocket. Preston did not make a very convincing Fairy King. Too stiff. Too scrawny.
“Listen,” he said. “I know you’re a devotee of Myrddin, but this isn’t meant to disrespect his legacy.”
Effy held the paper against her chest. “You think he was a fraud?”
“I’m just trying to get at the truth. The truth doesn’t have an agenda.” When she only stared back at him stonily, Preston went on. “‘Fraud’ has certain connotations I’m not comfortable with. But no, I don’t think he’s the sole author of the majority of his works.”
Gritting her teeth, Effy wished he would just speak plainly for once. She struggled to keep her voice even as she replied, “Myrddin was a strange man, a hermit, a recluse—but that doesn’t make him a fraud. Why would you believe something like that? How could you believe something like that?”
It was Myrddin they were talking about, Emrys Myrddin, the seventh and most recently consecrated Sleeper, the most celebrated author in Llyrian history. It was absurd. Impossible.
“It’s complicated.” Preston put down his coffee mug and ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “For starters, Myrddin was the son of a fisherman. It’s not clear whether his parents were even literate, and from what I can find out, he had stopped attending school by age twelve. The idea that someone of his limited education could produce such works is—well, it’s a romantic notion, but it’s highly improbable.”
Effy’s blood pulsed in her ears. By now, even the tips of her fingers had gone numb with fury. “You’re nothing more than a typical elitist twat,” she bit out. “I suppose that only the spectacle-wearing university-educated among us can write anything meaningful?”
“Why are you so interested in defending him?” Preston challenged. His gaze was cold, and even in her rage, Effy supposed it was deserved. “You’re a Northern girl. Sayre isn’t exactly a Southern peasant name.”
How much time had he spent thinking about her surname? For some reason it made her stomach flutter.
“Just because I’m not a Southerner doesn’t mean I’m a snob,” she said. “And that just proves how stupid your theory is. Myrddin’s work isn’t just for superstitious fisherfolk for the Bottom Hundred. Everyone who reads it loves it. Well, everyone who isn’t an elitist—”
“Don’t call me a twat again,” Preston said peevishly. “I’m far from the only one to question his authorship. It’s a very common theory in the literature college, but so far, no one has done enough work to prove it. My adviser, Master Gosse, is leading the charge. He sent me here under the pretense of collecting Myrddin’s documents and letters. I am here with the university’s permission—that part wasn’t a lie.”
The thought of a bunch of stuffy, pinch-nosed literature scholars sitting around in leather armchairs and coldly discussing ways to discredit Myrddin made Effy feel angrier than ever. Angier than when she’d confronted Preston on the cliffside, angrier than when she’d seen his name written in the library’s logbook.
“What’s your end goal, anyway? Just to humiliate Myrddin’s fans? They would remove him from the Sleeper Museum, they would . . .” Something truly terrible occurred to her. “Is this a grand Argantian plot to weaken Llyr?”
Preston’s expression darkened. “Don’t tell me you actually believe the stories about Sleeper magic.”
Effy’s stomach shriveled. Her fingers curled into a fist around Preston’s crumpled paper. Of course he wouldn’t believe in Sleeper magic, being a heathen Argantian and an academic to boot. She felt embarrassed to have mentioned it.
“I didn’t say that,” she snapped. “But it would be massively humiliating for Llyr, losing our most prestigious Sleeper. It would affect the morale of our soldiers, at the very least.”
“Llyr is winning this war, in case you weren’t aware.” Preston spoke aloofly, but a shadow passed over his face. “They’re even thinking about reinstating a draft in Argant—all men eighteen to twenty-five. It’s not my aim at all, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Llyrian soldiers were to suffer a loss of morale.”
Effy could hardly imagine anyone less suited to military life than Preston Héloury. “So you’re a saboteur.”