“I’m fine,” she managed at last. “I saw something—I touched it. I don’t know what it is, but I need to get to it. I know that I can . . .”
Her teeth were chattering, but she didn’t even feel the cold. Adrenaline had cloaked her in a haze of numbness, all her blood pulsing and hot. Preston kept his grip tight on her wrist.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, and with every passing second, she felt more certain. The beam of the flashlight flickered against the stone walls, against the water, dappling the black surface with gold.
Effy slipped away from Preston, and for a moment she saw herself through his eyes, drowning in increments as she retreated back down the steps, vanishing like a selkie beneath the waves.
It was nothing like swimming at the natatorium, where the water was clear and chemically blue. This was a dense and exquisite darkness. Her body, too, was heavier now. She no longer had the lightness of a child, all spindly limbs and easy faith. Her arms and legs felt so burdensome now.
Effy pressed her left hand to the wall and kicked, the black shape materializing slowly, like something moving under ice. She reached out and touched it again, trying to get a sense of its size. Rotted, ancient wood fell away under her hand.
There was a low noise, a thrumming sound that seemed to come from the water itself, and Effy remembered, suddenly, all the fairy tales that warned children away from the edges of oceans and lakes. Kelpies, selkies, fairy women wrapped in seaweed who took you to the water and strangled you with their long hair. Arethusa, the consort of the Fairy King, who seduced men with her beauty and then drowned them while singing to cover up the sounds of their desperate, doomed thrashing.
A tense and terrible fear gripped her. She brushed her hand along the wood, quite sure now that it was a shelf. She was as much a fool as the mariner in Myrddin’s poem—if it really was Myrddin’s poem at all—who believed the only thing he had to fear was the might of the sea itself. There were a thousand dark creatures in it. There were a thousand ways to drown.
Effy had once read, in one of those ancient tomes on the sixth floor of the library, about a method of torture practiced in the south, in the pre-Drowning days. The victims were strapped down and forced to drink and drink and drink, until their stomachs burst, until their bodies gave out from the weight of it all. The water cure, it was called. For days after she could not stop imagining all those swollen bodies. Sometimes, she had read, the victim was forced to vomit up all the water and then drink it down again.
Effy’s lungs were starting to burn.
Her fingers found the edge of something, something with a handle she could grasp. She tried to pull but it was too heavy, and her chest felt close to bursting.
Yet somehow she knew that if she broke for the surface now, she would never have the courage to return. So she let her left hand leave the wall, and used both hands to grasp the heavy metal thing and pull.
She tried to swim for the surface, but the thing in her hands—feeling it now, she knew it was a box—weighed her down. Panic loosed itself from her chest. She felt the cold, and the fear, the awful fear that stilled her and pulled her down even farther. Her vision grew black at its edges.
Yet Preston had been wrong about her, in a way. Perhaps she realized it only now. Even though she was afraid of living, she didn’t want to die. Effy was no architect, and she might never be a storyteller, either, no heir to magic and myths and legends, but one thing she knew was survival.
Effy escaped the water and surfaced into a world of stubborn light.
Her eyes were still filmy with blackness, so she couldn’t see Preston. But she felt him as he grabbed her around the middle and hauled her up the stairs, both of them gasping and coughing, and Effy spitting the fetid water out of her mouth.
They lay there for a moment, Effy clutching the box to her chest and Preston clutching her. The water lapped tamely at their feet.
“I—I did it,” she stammered, voice hoarse. “I told you I could.”
“Effy,” Preston whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “Look.”
For a moment she wasn’t sure what he meant; her brain still felt waterlogged, churning like surf break. Her numb fingers curled and uncurled around the edges of the rusted metal box that now felt as if it was a part of her, a fifth limb.
A great daunting padlock jangled as she shifted. But printed at the top of the box, in steadfast black letters, was one word. A name.
Angharad.
The rain was falling in thick sheets as they stumbled down the path toward the guesthouse. Wetherell’s car was gone, frantic tire tracks gouged in the deep mud of the driveway. All around them, as the wind howled, there were the terrible twisting, wrenching sounds of branches being stripped from trees, of leaves being blown away in great swirling gusts.