There was something scrawled on the other side, in hasty but delicate script.
Preston read it aloud, his voice wavering slightly. “‘I will love you to ruination.’”
It was what the Fairy King had said to Angharad, the first night they had lain together in their marriage bed. His long black hair had spilled out over the pillow, tangling with her pale gold.
The handwriting was not Ianto’s.
There was a thump from downstairs, followed by the scrape of a door opening, and they both jumped. Effy felt her stupor lift. She put the box down on the floor and closed it, dented as it was, while Preston tucked the diary into his jacket pocket. They hurried out of the small room and shoved the bookcase back into place.
They left the photographs inside the box. Effy never wanted to see them again. She had no way of knowing, but she felt very certain that the girl in the pictures was dead.
By the time they made it back to the study, Effy was breathless. Her nose was itching with dust, her blood pulsing and hot, and when Preston removed the diary from his pocket, his hands were shaking.
He unwrapped the twine, long fingers working dexterously, and Effy watched, oddly hypnotized. They were both huddled over the desk, close enough that their shoulders were nearly touching. She could feel the heat of his body next to hers and the frenetic hum of energy that radiated from him.
Behind his glasses, his brow was furrowed with consummate focus. The twine drifted to the ground.
Effy couldn’t help herself; she reached forward and opened the notebook to the first page. In doing so, she brushed against Preston’s hand, the nub of her missing ring finger grazing his thumb. He looked down for a moment, his attention briefly diverted, and then turned his gaze back to the diary.
The first page was dense with Myrddin’s vexing, spidery scrawl. Both Effy and Preston bowed their heads, squinted, and read.
10 March 188
Visited Blackmar at Penrhos. He gave me some notes on The Youthful Knight, which were good. He also offered to introduce me to his publisher, some Mister Marlowe, in Caer-Isel. Blackmar seemed to think the head of Greenebough Books would be charmed by my impoverished upbringing—what he called, a bit too self-importantly, my “rough edges.” Three of his daughters were there as well. The wife, I assume, banished.
That was the end of the first page. Preston lifted his gaze from the book and up to Effy. It was the first time she had seen him completely slack-jawed.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “This is Myrddin’s actual diary. Part of me hoped, of course, I could find some of his unpublished work, but I didn’t even dare to imagine it would be a full journal. Do you know how valuable this is, Effy? Even if we don’t discover any evidence of a hoax, this diary . . . well. Gosse is going to have a stroke—honestly, I think every academic at the literature college would amputate his left arm for it. As a museum artifact, it would be worth thousands. Maybe millions.”
“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Effy said. But her voice was weak, heart spluttering. “Ianto must not have known it was there. Or else he would’ve tried to sell it himself.”
“Or,” Preston said, his face darkening, “there’s something in it he didn’t want anyone to know.”
They read on.
30 January 189
The Youthful Knight will be published. Greenebough appears cautiously optimistic, but I do not expect much success. The youths themselves may read it, but I think it is too dry a tome. What do youths these days care for chivalry and modesty? Not very much, as far as I can tell. When I visited Penrhos I saw Blackmar’s daughters again. The eldest is very fair, and took an interest in my work. But a woman’s mind is too frivolous, and though she was an unusually sober example of her sex, I could tell she was more preoccupied with dance halls and boys. She has written a few poems of her own.
Effy stared and stared at the line a woman’s mind is too frivolous. It stung her like a snakebite, a sudden whiplash of pain. Angharad was anything but frivolous. She was shrewd and daring, her mind always scheming, imagining, conjuring new worlds. She was strong. She had defeated the Fairy King.
If Myrddin really thought so little of women, why had he written Angharad at all?
“The Youthful Knight was Myrddin’s first effort,” Preston said, “but it was released to relative silence. Emrys Myrddin wasn’t a household name until—”
“Until Angharad,” Effy finished. Her chest hurt.
“Let’s see what Myrddin had to say about that.”