Any house that honored Myrddin would have to be similarly mystifying. Was there any other student at the architecture college who understood that? Who knew his works back to front? Effy doubted it. The rest of them just wanted the prestige, the prize money, like the boy in the library. None of them cared that it was Myrddin. None of them believed in the old magic.
Her sleeping pills lay untouched on the dresser that night. Instead, Effy pulled out her sketchpad and drew until dawn.
Two
Storytelling is an art deserving of greatest reverence, and storytellers ought to be considered guardians of Llyrian cultural heritage. As such, the literature college will be the most exclusive of the university’s undergraduate programs, requiring the highest exam scores and fulfillment of the most stringent requirements. Pursuant to that, it would be inappropriate to admit women, who have not, as a sex, demonstrated great strength in the faculties of literary analysis or understanding.
From a missive by Sion Billows upon the founding of the University of Llyr, 680 BD
“So you’re really going,” Rhia said.
Effy nodded, swallowing a burning sip of coffee. All around them, other students had their heads bent over their books, pens gripped in ink-stained hands, lips bitten in concentration. There was the grind and hum of the coffee machine and the sound of dishes clinking as tarts and scones were served. The Drowsy Poet was the favorite café of students in Caer-Isel, and it was a mere block away from the Sleeper Museum.
“I’m not trying to rain on your parade—or, Saints forbid, sound like Maisie—but don’t you think it’s all a bit odd? I mean, why would they pick a first-year architecture student for such an enormous project?”
Effy reached down into her purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Maneuvering around her coffee cup and Rhia’s half-eaten pastry, she smoothed it flat on the table, then waited as Rhia craned her neck to read what was written in neat, dark ink.
Dear Ms. Sayre,
I am writing to congratulate you on the selection of your proposal for the design of Hiraeth Manor. I received a great many submissions, but yours was far and away the one I felt best honored my father’s legacy.
I happily invite you to Saltney, to speak with you in person about your design. By the end of your stay, I would hope to have a set of finalized blueprints so we can break ground on the project swiftly.
To get to Hiraeth, please board the earliest train from Caer-Isel to Laleston, and then switch to the train bound for Saltney. I apologize in advance for the long and arduous journey. I will have my barrister, Mr. Wetherell, pick you up at the station.
With greatest enthusiasm,
Ianto Myrddin
As soon as Rhia looked up from the letter, Effy said in a rush, “I’ve already shown it to Dean Fogg. He’s allowing me the next six weeks to go to Saltney and work on the house. And he’s making Master Parri count it as my studio credit.” She tried to sound smug, though mostly she felt relieved. She wished she had been there to see Master Parri pinch his nose as Dean Fogg delivered the news.
“Well,” Rhia said after a moment, “I suppose that sounds legitimate enough. But the Bottom Hundred . . . it’s quite different from here, you know.”
“I know. I bought a new raincoat and a dozen new sweaters.”
“Not like that,” Rhia said, with a faint smile. “I mean—back home, every single person believes the Sleepers are what’s stopping Argant from just bombing all of Llyr to bits. Saints, my parents were convinced that there was going to be a second Drowning, before Myrddin was consecrated. Here no one believes in the Sleepers at all.”
But I do. Effy kept the thought to herself. Rhia was a Southerner, and often spoke with disdain about her tiny hometown and its deeply religious people. Effy didn’t feel right trying to debate her—and she didn’t want to confess her own beliefs, either. That sort of superstition didn’t suit a good Northern girl from a good Northern family at the second-most prestigious college in Llyr.
So Effy kept her true thoughts to herself, and instead said, “I understand. But I won’t be there for long. And I promise not to come back smelling of brine.”
“Oh, you’re going to come back half a fish,” Rhia said. “Trust me.”
“Which half?”
“The bottom half,” she said, after a moment’s consideration.
“Think of how much money I’ll save on shoes.”
The library was blessedly empty, probably due in part to the cold. Mist rolled down from Argant’s green hills and hung about Caer-Isel like a horde of ghosts. The university’s bell tower wore its fog as if it were a widow’s mourning veil. Students stopped smoking underneath the library portico because they were afraid of getting impaled by hanging icicles. Every morning the statue of the university’s founder, Sion Billows, was caulked in a layer of new frost.