Feeling more at ease, Effy took another sip of tea and tried to smile along. She even allowed herself to meet Ianto’s eyes. They were very unusual eyes, she realized, almost colorless, like water. No matter how his expression changed, no matter whether he was smiling or frowning, his eyes seemed not to shift at all. It was like looking into one of the tide pools, the Fairy King’s false mirrors.
Very abruptly, Ianto stood up. “You know,” he said, “this is hardly the right atmosphere to have a lively conversation. Did you have a chance to visit the pub while you were in town yesterday? I’m sure you’d like another chance to return to civilization, such as it is in the Bottom Hundred.”
And that was how Effy ended up back at the pub in Saltney, sitting across the table from Ianto Myrddin.
The windows of the pub were opaque with fog and rainwater left over from the earlier downpour, and the lights inside glowed sallowly. Ianto was smiling, making small talk with the bartender, who only looked as grim as ever.
Effy tried to order hot cider, but Ianto quickly procured two glasses of scotch instead. In an effort not to be rude, Effy feigned taking tiny sips and watched him over the rim of the glass. His damp hair brushed his shoulders, and his arm was braced over the back of the booth, as if to hold himself in his seat.
She set her glass down, fingers trembling slightly. She tried to look around the pub curiously, so as to give the impression that this was the first time she’d seen it.
“Thank you,” she said. “You were right. This is lovely.”
“It’s nice to be out of the house,” Ianto said.
His voice had taken on an odd tone, lower and raspier. Effy was sure she was just imagining it.
“I know it’s no comparison to the fare in Caer-Isel,” Ianto went on, his voice still slightly off pitch, “but the steak-and-kidney pie here is very good.”
Effy was planning to politely tell him she didn’t care for steak-and-kidney pie, thank you, but there was no use. When the bartender returned, he immediately ordered two of them.
Once she had shuffled away again, Effy cleared her throat. “So, about Hiraeth—”
“You said you’re a girl who likes a challenge,” Ianto cut in. “I can see why you threw your name in the hat for this project.”
Effy drew in a breath. Clearly getting the blueprints was going to be more difficult than she thought. “Yes,” she said. “And you know how much respect I have for your father’s work.”
It wasn’t technically a lie, but it felt like one, considering the agreement she’d just made with Preston. She said a quick, silent prayer to Saint Duessa, folding her hands in her lap. The patroness of deception with good cause （arguable） was getting a lot of her solicitation lately.
“Of course,” said Ianto. “But the task is monumental. I wouldn’t blame you if you had to find some unfortunate orphan to bleed out.”
Effy blinked, so taken aback that she was momentarily lost for words. “What?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard of that old myth?” Ianto looked pleased, but there was something eerie under his smile. “It’s a rite here in the South, dating back to the pre-Drowning days. Spilling the blood of a fatherless child on the foundation of a castle was supposed to ensure its structure was sound and strong. Blood sacrifice—I suppose you Northerners would think it very brutish.”
As a fatherless child herself, Effy found it both brutish and oddly fascinating. Luckily, their food arrived before she could choke out a reply.
The steak-and-kidney pies were steaming, the same golden brown color of varnished wood. Effy picked up her fork reluctantly. Preston was asking quite a lot of her, to feign enthusiasm for kidney.
But to her surprise, Ianto didn’t touch his food. He was looking at her intently. He said, “You’ve been spending time with the Argantian student lately.”
Effy’s heart stuttered. “Not really,” she managed. “Only this morning. He’s . . .” She fumbled for an innocuous descriptor, something that wouldn’t be a lie. “He has interesting things to say.”
“I don’t get a good feeling from him.” Ianto picked up his knife. The grease-marbled blade glinted. “He’s a bit twitchy, isn’t he? A strange, skittish young man. Perhaps it’s the Argantian blood.”
For some reason, Effy felt the need to defend Preston. “I think he’s just dedicated to his work. He doesn’t waste time on small talk or pleasantries.”