Effy would have been afraid, but she was too busy concentrating on not freezing to death.
Layered under two coats—hers and Preston’s—she staggered through the mud, holding tight to Preston’s arm. In his other arm, he held the metal box.
Effy was trembling all over, her vision blurring in the half-light, the shadows oily and slick between the trees. For a moment she thought she saw him again, wet black hair flashing, bone crown shining, but when she blinked it was gone. She felt no fear. Whatever was inside the box was the truth, and it would vanquish the Fairy King for good. It would evict him from her mind. It would chain him in the world of myth and magic, where he belonged.
Her own hair was stuck to her forehead and cheeks, freezing there like seaweed in slushy water. Her numb legs trembled under her, and she was afraid that her knees might give out.
Somehow, without her speaking, Preston knew to hold on tighter. He hauled her up to the threshold of the guesthouse.
As he rammed open the stone-and-iron door, a deadly tangle of branches blew by them.
Preston shut the door, muffling the horrible sound of the wind. He took out his lighter and went around lighting the oil lamps and candles, while Effy stood there, clothes dripping onto the floor. Everything felt very heavy, dreamlike.
She looked at the box, which Preston had set down on top of the desk, reading that word, that name, over and over again. Angharad Angharad Angharad Angharad Angharad.
“I’m sorry,” Preston said, jolting her from her reverie. “There’s not much wood in the fireplace, and I don’t think I can get more, since it’s so wet outside . . .”
He trailed off, looking despairing. Effy just blinked at him and said tonelessly, “It’s all right.”
“You should, um, take off your clothes.”
That, at last, made Effy’s heartbeat quicken, cheeks flooding with heat. Preston flushed, too, and quickly added, “Not like that—I just mean, you’re soaking wet.”
“I know,” she said. She slipped out of his coat, then hers, letting them puddle on the floor.
Preston turned around, facing the wall, as she took off her wet top and wet skirt and wet stockings. She dug through her trunk for the warmest sweater she could find and pulled it on. Then she walked over and got under the covers, pulling the green duvet up to her chin.
Preston turned back around, face still pink. “That’s better.”
Yet still she felt so cold. She felt like she might never be warm again, even under the covers, even with the four solid walls around her. She wanted to feel safe, anchored. She wanted to live in a world where there were no antlered creatures outside, where there was no need for iron on the door.
Was this the unreal world, or the real one? It all felt muddled now, like there was no longer a rigid border between them. There was black water rising and she could barely keep her head above the surface.
“The storm,” she managed. And then Effy could not think of what to say. Her mind was a knotted sea net and foaming waves.
“It’ll be all right,” Preston said. His glasses were speckled with rainwater. “We can still make it down to Saltney. You just need to get warm first.” He paused, lips quivering. “But you did it, Effy. You really did it.”
She made a choked sound that she hoped sounded enough like a laugh. “Even if I lose a few more fingers.”
Preston just ducked his head, as if he wanted to scold her but couldn’t. Preston, who had delicately picked all the rocks from her wounded knees and washed away the blood, back when they both still barely trusted each other. A surge of sudden, desperate affection swelled in her chest.
“I should go back to the house,” he said. “We—”
“No,” Effy cut in, heart pounding. “Don’t.”
He frowned at her. “We still need to get the letters and the photographs.”
“Please,” she said. “Please don’t leave. I think I’ll die if you leave.”
She really meant it, right then and there, with the wind trying to tear through the door and no way of knowing what was real and what wasn’t. He was the only thing that felt solid, stable, and true. Without him she would slip under and never resurface.
Preston let out a soft breath. For a moment she thought he might leave anyway, and her heart tumbled into the pit of her stomach.
But instead he moved toward her slowly, and sat down on the edge of the bed. His clothes were wet, too. His shirt stuck to his skin, translucent with rainwater.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll stay.”