“It’s not hard. You already know Myrddin’s works back to front. I would write all the theory and criticism parts.” Preston looked at her intently. “If you went to them with a truly groundbreaking literary thesis, they wouldn’t be able to come up with an excuse not to let you in.”
Effy almost rolled her eyes—who called their own work groundbreaking? But she allowed herself, briefly, to imagine a new future. One where she went back to the university with her name beside Preston’s on a groundbreaking thesis （maybe even before his, if Preston wanted to play fair and put their names in alphabetical order）。 One where the literature college broke with its outmoded tradition. She would never have to draw another cross section.
She would never have to see Master Corbenic again.
There was hope, blooming like a tender little flower bud. Master Corbenic, the other students—they couldn’t win if she quit their game and started playing another.
But it would mean betraying Myrddin. Betraying everything she had believed her whole life, the words and stories she had followed like the point of a compass. Angharad had always been her true north.
“I can’t,” Effy said at last. She couldn’t bring herself to elaborate further.
Preston exhaled. “Aren’t you at least a little bit curious about Myrddin’s legacy? Don’t you want to find out the truth for yourself? He’s your favorite author, after all. You could end up proving me wrong.”
She snorted, but she couldn’t deny the idea was appealing. “You really care more about the truth than you do about being right?”
“Of course I do.” There was not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.
His intensity made her falter. As if sensing her will had wavered, Preston pressed on. “I can’t tell you it won’t be difficult, getting the department to change their minds. But I’ll fight for you, Effy. I promise.”
He met her eyes, and there was no subterfuge in his gaze. No artifice. He meant it sincerely. Effy swallowed hard.
“I did try, you know,” she managed. “When I first got my exam score. I wrote a letter to your adviser, Master Gosse. I suggested thesis topics. I told him how much Myrddin’s work meant to me.”
Preston drew a gentle breath. “And what did he say?”
“He never replied.”
Effy had never told anyone that, not even her mother. She looked down at her hands, still curled around the crumpled piece of paper. They were trembling just a little bit.
“I’m sorry,” Preston said. And then he hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I—that’s terrible and cruel.”
She said nothing, trying to ignore the tears pricking at her eyes.
“But I have faith in this project,” Preston went on. His voice was softer now. “I have faith in you—in both of us.” He stammered a little bit at the end, as if embarrassed by what he had said. Effy had never heard him trip over his words before, and for some reason it made her want to trust him more.
“But what about the Sleepers?” she asked, risking the possibility that Preston would just scoff at her again. “I know everyone at the university is a snooty agnostic who thinks they’re too clever for myths and magic, but not everyone in Llyr feels the same. Especially in the South. They think that Myrddin’s consecration is the only thing preventing a second Drowning.”
“A single paper isn’t enough to destroy a myth in one fell swoop,” Preston said. “Especially not one that’s had centuries to build. The Sleeper Museum isn’t going to evict Myrddin the moment we step off the train in Caer-Isel with our thesis in hand.”
He hadn’t spelled it out precisely, but Effy knew what he meant: that truth and magic were two different things, irreconcilable. It was precisely what Effy had been told all her life—by the physicians who had treated her, by the mother who had despaired of her, by the schoolteachers and priests and professors who had never, ever believed her.
Effy had put her faith in magic. Preston held nothing more sacred than truth. Theirs was not a natural alliance.
And yet she found herself unable to refuse.
“Don’t you think they’ll have the same apprehensions I did?” It was her last line of defense. “Don’t you think some of them will ask why a person with the name Héloury is so intent on destroying the legacy of a Llyrian national author?”
“All the more reason to have a blue-blooded Llyrian name like Effy Sayre on the cover sheet next to mine.” Preston’s gaze held a bit of amusement. “Consider it an armistice.”