Effy’s stomach turned. “Thank you. If you don’t mind me asking, where is your daughter now?”
Blackmar just stared at her, for so long that Effy’s blood began to turn cold. Preston cleared his throat, as if that might break Blackmar from his stupor.
At last Blackmar blinked, and then, as if he had never heard her—as if she had never even spoken at all—said, “I’ll introduce you to Mr. Marlowe. He’s Greenebough’s editor in chief.”
Without another word, he began to march back through the crowd. Perhaps there was some strangeness to Penrhos after all. Blackmar had behaved, temporarily, as if he’d been under an odd spell.
Effy and Preston followed bewilderedly behind him. For a moment Effy convinced herself she had just imagined asking the question. But no—she knew she had. And she knew Blackmar had rebuffed her in the most peculiar and awkward manner possible.
She looked up at Preston, who gave her a grim look in return. They needed answers, and quickly.
Mr. Marlowe turned out to be a man around forty, with a very thin black moustache. He wore a garish red tie and did not rise from the chaise longue when he saw them approach.
Instead, he swirled the gin in his glass and said, in a languid voice, “Blackmar, you scoundrel, I asked for dessert and you brought me a tart draped in silk?”
Effy’s face turned scorching hot. She was too flustered and embarrassed to say even a word in her own defense. Preston made a choked sound, his brow furrowed with indignation—no, anger. She had never seen his expression transform so quickly. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Blackmar dropped into the chaise beside Marlowe and said scoldingly, “My friend, it’s not yet six. You’ve got to slow down if you don’t want to end up strewn all over my carpet again.”
“I’ll end up wherever I please,” Marlowe said in a petulant tone, though he did put down his glass. He looked between Effy and Preston, eyes cloudy and vague. “I suppose you’re the university students, then. Come on, sit down and ask your questions.”
Effy didn’t want to sit. Preston lowered himself into one of the armchairs, gaze dark as he regarded Marlowe.
Her fingers curled, nails digging into her palms. The armchair next to Preston’s was a muted shade of green. Her head started pounding and she felt herself slipping into that deep-water place. Preston’s eyes darted up at her with concern, and when the silence had stretched too long, she finally sat down. Her face was still burning.
“Thank you for entertaining us,” Preston said, but his voice was stiff. Cold. There was no effort at friendliness, and Effy was afraid that even in his less-than-lucid state, Marlowe would be able to tell. “We’re doing a project on Emrys Myrddin, and we would like to get the perspective of his publisher. Specifically on the process of publishing Angharad.”
“I inherited the company several years ago from my father,” Marlowe said. “I had nothing to do with publishing Angharad. But it’s our most profitable work to this day—you could buy seven versions of Penrhos with the annual royalties, isn’t that right, Blackmar?”
Blackmar looked distinctly uncomfortable. “That’s right.”
“And after you published The Youthful Knight,” Preston went on, “did you solicit another book from Myrddin immediately?”
Marlowe picked up his glass again. “As far as I know from my father’s stories, it was a great effort to publish. They say it takes a village—well, that’s about a child, isn’t it?” His gaze was faraway. “But a book is much the same.”
“So it was a joint effort?” Preston arched a brow. Effy felt her heart skip. “Interesting, given that Angharad famously has no dedication, no acknowledgments.”
Marlowe shrugged. “Myrddin was an odd fellow. Perhaps it was my father’s decision. He liked to sell authors just as much as he liked to sell books. The author is part of the story, you know. It helped that Myrddin was from some backwater hovel in the Bottom Hundred. He writes rather well for an illiterate fisherman’s son.”
Even now, even after everything, Effy felt anger flare in her chest. She dug her fingernails deeper into her palm and, fighting to keep her voice level, asked, “When did Myrddin present the first draft to Greenebough?”
“Sometime earlier that year, I imagine.” Marlowe yawned and made a show of appearing very bored. “These are awfully mundane questions, you know.”
“Sorry,” Preston said unconvincingly. “When your father did receive the draft of Angharad, was it postmarked from Myrddin’s estate in Saltney?”