Effy took a long, savoring sip. “What’s the point of drinking coffee that doesn’t taste good?”
“Well, I would argue that black coffee does taste good.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that someone who drinks scotch straight would think that black coffee tastes good,” Effy said, making a face. “Or else you’re secretly a masochist.”
Preston turned the key in the ignition. “Masochism has nothing to do with it. You can learn to like anything if you drink it enough.”
The car rolled gently back onto the road. For a while they sipped their coffee and chewed their sausage rolls in silence. Effy’s mind was stuck on the memory of Preston swallowing that scotch without flinching. He didn’t strike her as the partying type, staying out until dawn at pubs or dance halls, stumbling back into his room and sleeping through morning classes. Those types of people milled around her at the university, but she’d never been one of them, never really known any of them—not even Rhia was so careless.
She looked at Preston, the golden light gathering on his profile, turning his brown eyes almost hazel. Every time he took a sip of coffee, Effy watched his throat bob as he swallowed, and let her gaze linger on the bit of moisture that clung to his lips.
She blurted out, suddenly, “Do you have a girlfriend? Back in Caer-Isel?”
Preston’s face turned red. He had been mid-sip of coffee, and at her question he coughed, struggling to swallow before replying. “What put that on your mind?”
“Nothing in particular,” Effy lied, because she certainly was not going to confess that she had been wondering about this since her conversation with Ianto—or admit how intently she’d been staring at him. “It’s just that we go to the same university, but we didn’t know each other there. I just wondered what sort of things you did . . .”
She was flushing profusely, too, gaze trained firmly on the coffee cup cradled in her lap. She heard Preston draw a breath.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I mean, I don’t. Sometimes, you know, there are girls you meet, and—well. But it’s never more than a night, maybe coffee the next morning . . . never mind. Sorry.”
He was phenomenally red at this point, staring with stubborn attention at the road, though for a brief moment his eyes flickered to her, as if to gauge her reaction. Effy pressed her lips together, overcome by the inexplicable urge to smile.
She liked when she flustered him. It seemed to be happening more and more of late.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I know what you mean. What a charmer you are after all, Preston Héloury.”
He laughed, cheeks still flushed. “Not in the slightest.”
“I don’t know about that. I find you very charming, underneath all the smugness.”
“You think I’m smug?”
Effy had to laugh at that. “You aren’t exactly the most approachable person I’ve ever met. But I suppose that’s because you’re also the smartest, most eloquent person I’ve ever met.”
Preston just shook his head. He was silent for a moment, staring through the window as the scenery passed by slowly. At last, he said, “There’s a lot to compensate for, when you’re the only Argantian in Llyr’s most prestigious literary program.”
All at once Effy was suffused with sympathy—and with guilt. She remembered how she had berated him on the cliffside, and then again in the pub, pricking at him, questioning his loyalties. “I’m sorry if people have treated you cruelly. I’m sorry for the things I said, when we first met.”
“It’s really all right,” he said, turning to look at her. “It’s just whispers and looks in the hall, mostly. I’m sure you’ve gotten your fair share as the only woman in the architecture college.”
Effy tensed. She realized that, unintentionally, she’d created the perfect opportunity for him to ask about Master Corbenic. She still didn’t know if that particular piece of gossip had reached the literature college.
“It’s not so bad,” she said. A lie. “I knew what I was signing up for.”
Preston inhaled, and it seemed as though he wanted to say something more. In the end, though, he just snapped his mouth shut and turned back toward the road. They lapsed into a slightly uneasy silence as the green hills rolled past, looking as huge as waves at high tide.
Penrhos, Blackmar’s estate, was not technically in the Bottom Hundred. It was still south of Laleston, and the nearest landmark was a busy market town, Syfaddon, where the lamplight pooled on damp cobblestones and storefront awnings flapped in the wind like dresses hung on clotheslines.