“I don’t know what brought this up,” Preston said slowly, “but if you really want to know what I believe—I believe in the human mind’s ability to rationalize and externalize its fear.”
“Fear?” Effy raised a brow. “Not all ghost stories are scary. Some are comforting.”
“Fine, then.” Preston’s voice was tight, his gaze fixed stubbornly on some point above her head. “I believe in the emotions—grief, terror, desire, hope, or otherwise—that might conjure one.”
It was not the dismissive answer Effy thought she might get. He hadn’t laughed at her, like she’d been afraid he would. He hadn’t told her she was childish or stupid. But she could tell from the way he’d spoken, how his whole body had tensed when she’d said the word ghost, that it was something he very much did not want to discuss. It was like she’d gotten too close to picking open a wound.
She found that she didn’t want to hurt him, and so she resolved not to bring up what she had seen. What she had heard. Instead, Effy asked, “Blackmar is alive, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Preston looked relieved that she’d changed the subject. “Ancient, but alive.”
“Then let’s go see him,” she said. “He’s the only one who can answer our questions.”
Preston hesitated. They had both felt it too dangerous to keep the lights on in the study, so they were working by moonlight and candlelight, keeping their voices low. Right then the left side of his face was doused in orange, the right side in white.
“As it happens, I wrote to Blackmar already,” he said at last. “His name crops up quite a lot in Myrddin’s letters as well. I thought he might give me some insight into Myrddin’s character, since Ianto won’t talk about his father at all.”
“Well?” Effy prompted.
“The letter came back marked ‘return to sender,’” Preston said. “But I know he opened it and read it, because the seal was broken and replaced with one of his own.”
“Can I see the letter?”
Somewhat reluctantly, Preston produced it. Effy flattened the paper against the table, squinted in the candlelight, and read.
Dear Mr. Blackmar,
I am a literature student at the university in Caer-Isel, and my thesis concerns some of the works of Emrys Myrddin. I’ve recently become aware that the two of you maintained correspondence, and I hoped I might make a scholarly inquiry into the nature of your relationship, if you are amenable to answering some of my questions. I am happy to make the journey to Penrhos if you find face-to-face conversation preferable to written correspondence.
Sincerely,
Preston Héloury
Effy blinked up at him. “This is the worst letter I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you mean?” Preston looked affronted. “It’s brisk and professional. I didn’t want to waste his time.”
“He has to be in his nineties now, Blackmar. He has plenty of time on his hands. Where’s the flattery? The beseeching? You could’ve at least pretended to be a fan of his work.”
“I told you, I don’t like lying.”
“This is for a good cause. Isn’t it worth lying a little bit, if it helps get to the truth?”
“Interesting paradox. Llyr doesn’t have a patron saint of blessed liars for nothing. Do parents ever name their children after Saint Duessa?”
Effy’s skin prickled. She didn’t want to go down this dark road. “Some, I guess. But stop changing the subject. I’m making fun of your terrible letter.”
Preston let out a breath. “Fine. Why don’t you write one, then?”
“I will,” she said with resolve.
That night, Effy wrote her letter, beseeching and full of flattery. They couldn’t risk putting it in Hiraeth’s postbox, since Ianto could easily check it, so Preston drove down to Saltney to send it.
“There’s nothing to do now except wait,” Preston said. “And I’ll keep looking through the diary.”
Effy found her mind lingering on a different mystery, the one she still didn’t have the courage to tell Preston about. The Fairy King, the ghost, Ianto’s strange conversation. The thoughts haunted her both sleeping and waking, and she found herself fleeing Hiraeth as quickly as she could at night, barreling toward the safety of the guesthouse.
It was almost a relief to not think about Myrddin for a while. She didn’t want to remember the photographs, the diary entry where he’d called women frivolous. A part of her wished she’d never seen any of it at all.