The argument was pitiful; she knew it. Preston drew a breath as if about to argue, but then snapped his mouth shut. Perhaps he saw the look of misery on her face. They both stood there for a moment in silence, and Effy felt the pull of the chaise longue in the back of her mind. As if she might turn around and find the girl lying there, a corpse now, blue white and maggot ridden, buzzing with flies. The image made her want to retch.
“I like to hedge my bets,” Preston said at last, and Effy was grateful to him for breaking the silence, the spell those photographs had cast over her. “But seeing all this, if I had to make a gamble . . . I would bet on us, Effy.”
Behind his glasses, his eyes were clear. The determination in his gaze made Effy’s chest swell. She had never thought she’d feel anything close to camaraderie with Preston Héloury—loathsome literature scholar, untrustworthy Argantian. Yet even camaraderie did not feel quite like the right word.
Meeting his stare, she realized what she felt was closer to affection. Even—maybe—passion. And Effy couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same.
“There’s something here that someone has gone to great lengths to keep hidden,” Preston said. His gaze never left her. “It’s something others would—if I know my colleagues well enough—kill for. But if we’re careful, we can—”
He was interrupted by the door banging open. Effy hadn’t even heard any footsteps in the hall. But Ianto stood in the threshold, his clothes soaked, his black hair plastered to his scalp.
Preston’s reflexes were impressively quick. He thrust the diary behind his back and under a pile of scattered papers on his desk.
Effy let out a soft, choked gasp, but no one else heard it over the sound of water sluicing onto the floor. It was dripping off Ianto’s clothing and the barrel of the musket he held over his shoulder.
She was almost relieved to see him standing there, perfectly mortal even in his anger. Half of her had expected to see the Fairy King appear in the doorway.
“The storm started so suddenly,” Ianto said. “As soon as I returned from Saltney I began my weekly patrol around the property—Wetherell swears he saw the tracks of a wolf—he keeps telling me to hire a groundskeeper, but I do like the fresh morning air. The two of you look cozy.”
How had he found the time to traverse the grounds after returning from church? Surely they had not spent more than an hour looking for Myrddin’s diary. But his car had been gone, and she had seen that dead thing decaying in the driveway.
Or at least, she thought she had. She had taken her pink pills this morning, two, for good measure, but after last night—after the ghost—she no longer trusted the medication entirely. Maybe there had been no animal at all, no blood.
She pressed her lips shut, skin itching.
Preston’s face went very pale. “Effy was just, ah, telling me about her work. I have a passing interest in architecture. I was always curious about the differences between classical Argantian and Llyrian homes . . .”
He trailed off, and despite her dread, Effy was charmed to learn what an abysmal liar Preston was.
“We go to the same university in Caer-Isel,” she said smoothly. “As it turns out, we even have some mutual friends. Small world.”
The discrepancy in their narratives was obvious, but Preston hadn’t given her too much to work with. Did he really expect Ianto to believe he cared about the difference between a sash window and a casement? Preston’s fingers were curled tautly around the edge of the desk, his knuckles white.
Ianto just stared, as if neither of them had spoken at all. Very slowly he let the musket slide off his shoulder and hang parallel to the ground, its barrel pointed somewhere in the vague direction of Preston’s knees. Effy’s throat tightened.
“I believe,” he said, each syllable staccato and deliberate, “that I have been quite generous in allowing you both into my home, and very patient in allowing inquests into my father’s life and family history, things that are, of course, highly personal to me. If I were to learn that my patience and generosity were being exploited, for any reason—well. I suppose we would all rather not discover what might come to pass.”
“Right,” Preston said, too quickly, throat bobbing as he spoke. “Of course. Sorry.”
Effy resisted the urge to elbow him. He had to be the most guilty-looking person alive.
“It’s nothing like that,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “We were just having coffee and chatting before getting to work. Did you enjoy your trip to town?”