what defines a romance? all scholars seem to converge on a single point: it is a story
that must have a happy ending. and why is that? i say, it is because a romance is a belief in
the impossible: that anything ends happily. for the only true end is death—and in this way,
is romance not a rebuke of mortality? when love is here, i am not. when love is not, i am
gone. perhaps a romance is a story with no end at all; where the end is but a wardrobe with
a false back, leading to stranger and more merciful worlds.
from an epistemological theory of romance by dr. edmund huber, collected in
the llyrian journal of literary criticism, 199 ad
after spending so long at hiraeth, effy had almost forgotten what it was like to live in a regular
house. she bathed in blackmar’s perfectly proper and mundane claw- foot tub. she wrapped
herself in a borrowed silk robe.
all of it was very pleasant. the floorboards were not particularly cold, and the windows let in
no drafts of early winter wind. when she finished bathing, she went back into the bedroom, feeling
clean and bright-eyed, and flopped down on the unmade bed. she could hear the sounds of preston
running the water in the other room and felt, for some reason, suddenly flushed.
all that had happened the night before (though nothing had really happened—they hadn’t even
so much as brushed fingers) nearly distracted effy from her task. while preston bathed, she stood
up and began to pick her way around the room.
she opened desk drawers and found, disappointingly, nothing. someone had cleaned this room
thoroughly a long time ago, and let it lie fallow after that. she wondered whose room it had been.
there were a number of musty-smelling dresses in the wardrobe, but no false back, no secret
room behind it—effy even pulled it out from the wall to check. she peeked behind the opaque
black curtains. the immaculately manicured lawn of penrhos looked as untouched as an oil
painting.
it felt almost too silly to look under the bed, too facile and childish, but she dropped to her
knees anyway. instantly her nose itched. it was too dark to see beneath the bed frame, so effy
reached out her arm and felt around.
her fingers closed around something: a scrap of paper. two, three.
she snatched them up as quickly as she could, afraid for some reason that they might just
vanish, float away. effy held them to her chest, breathing hard. they felt like a secret, just the way
the diary had, just the way she had felt when she paged through those ancient books in the
university library. she was about to look at them when she heard the door open.
effy whipped around, but it was only preston, his hair damp and mussed from the bath,
wearing one of blackmar’s dressing gowns. it was too short on him, and effy felt, momentarily,
very lascivious for taking notice of that at all. what young girl of this century was left feverish by
the sight of a man’s calves? she was like one of those protagonists from a novel of manners,
swooning over a glimpse of their betrothed’s bare ankle.
“effy,” said preston, “what are you doing on the floor?”
“i found these,” she said, holding out the papers. “under the bed.”
she had been planning to stand up, but before she could, preston knelt on the floor beside her.
there was still water glistening on the sharp planes of his face, one damp strand of hair curling
down over his forehead. even wet, it appeared untidy. effy drew in a breath, now fully irritated at
herself for becoming attuned to these inane details.
the papers were very old; she could tell as much right away, without even looking at the dates
at the top. their edges were curling, ink slightly faded, and they seemed overall as if they had
been forgotten—as if someone running away had let them slip out of their grasp and lie gathering
dust under the bed, or a maid who came in to clean had simply been unable to reach them with her
broom.
effy held the first page out so that she and preston could both read it.
17 april 189
my sly and clever girl,
you must have gotten my address from papers in your father’s study, or else how would
you know where to write me? i shall not underestimate your shrewdness again, and
perhaps i shall even expect you, one day, to show up at my door. i would not protest it. i
might be very happy to see you scowling at me in the threshold.
the poems you sent me were, i think, rather good. i particularly enjoyed the one about
arethusa. i did not think that a girl of northern blood would have any interest in our myths
and legends, but i suppose your father did not give you a southern name for nothing.
please do send me more, should you feel so inclined. when i am at penrhos again, i would
very much like to discuss arethusa. she is generally seen as an aspect, or rather, an
equivalent, of saint acrasia, who, as you know, is the patroness of seductive love. a very
interesting subject for your poem.
yours,
e.m.
“arethusa,” effy said. her mind was still reeling with the effort of trying to understand all
she’d just read, but arethusa she knew. “she’s the fairy king’s consort, at the beginning of the
book.”
“yes,” preston said. “she’s initially presented purely as a foible for the protagonist—seductive
and active where angharad is submissive and passive. like your two-headed goddess, saints
acrasia and amoret. as myrddin mentioned in the letter. but eventually arethusa becomes an
ally. it’s a very clever subversion of the trope of the malevolent seductress.”
“he didn’t say who he was writing to.” effy stared down at the page again, just to be certain.
“he said she had a southern name . . . one of blackmar’s daughters. myrddin’s diary mentions
that blackmar’s eldest daughter showed him some of her poetry, remember?”
preston nodded. “and the dates line up—that entry was in january; this letter is from april.”
effy’s heart was pounding. it didn’t help that she was very close to preston, their shoulders
nearly touching, the heat of his body against her. she took a breath to steady herself.
“let’s look at the next one,” she said.
13 november 189
my foolish and lovely girl,
i fear your father has discovered us. he asked me, without euphemism or subterfuge,
whether i had imperiled his daughter’s purity, whether i had taken you to bed. i told him
truthfully that we had not lain together. i don’t know if you are a virgin, like your self-
styled protagonist. and i don’t know why your father has such a keen interest in his
daughter’s purity—you are a grown woman, for saints’ sakes.
best not to see each other for a while—at least until i can speak with your father about this
delicate matter. but if you do manage to slip away, i shall reward you lavishly.
yours,
e.m.
effy’s stomach lurched like a ship in the waves. she didn’t want to think about myrddin this
way. this was worse than the photographs. she had loved myrddin’s book so thoroughly that
she’d left tear marks on its pages, so thoroughly that its spine was cracked from a thousand
readings—she did not want to imagine him this way, ruminating on whether he should take some
young woman’s virginity.
her breath was coming in short, hot gasps. she looked up at preston, tears pricking the corners
of her eyes.
he looked back at her in concern, and then said in a tight voice, “let’s just read the last one.
it’s short.”
1 march 190
my beautiful and debauched girl,
you said something to me last night, as we lay together, that i shall not soon forget. i was
near to sleeping, but you pulled the covers over your naked breast and sat up. leaning
over me, you said, “i will love you to ruination.”
i sat up as if i’d been prodded, since neither of us had said those trite three words to the
other before, and answered somewhat groggily, “whose ruination? yours or mine?”
you did not answer, and i still wonder.
yours (in every conceivable fashion),
e.m.
“that’s the line,” effy whispered. “from angharad.”
preston swallowed. “‘i will love you to ruination, the fairy king said, brushing a strand of
golden hair from my cheek. yours or mine? i asked. the fairy king did not answer.’”
“from the first time they lie together.” effy’s voice was trembling. “on their wedding night.”
“spring of one-ninety,” said preston, and his voice was shaking a little, too. “that would have
been around the time that myrddin began writing angharad — or allegedly began writing
angharad. it all lines up.”
effy shook her head. her vision was crowding with blackness, panic surging up in her like a
wave. “i still don’t understand.”
“this is the connection to blackmar. not friendship or employment—myrddin had an affair
with blackmar’s daughter, and somehow angharad was born from it. no wonder blackmar was
so cagey when discussing it. i don’t know how greenebough factors in, or why the decision was
made to have the book published under myrddin’s name—if indeed it was blackmar’s work, of
course—but it’s conceivable that the daughter was somehow part of the . . . negotiation process.”
“you’re saying they bartered her, like a piece of livestock.” effy wished she could drift from
her own body, to slip out that secret door into the safe, submerged place. but her body seemed to
be holding on to her mind with all its might: blood hot, stomach churning, terrible signs of life.
“and if blackmar was so concerned about his daughter’s purity, and myrddin clearly took it, then
why would he let myrddin have angharad, too? that diary entry says blackmar delivered the
manuscript to him in august of one-ninety-one.”
she could hardly choke out the words. preston was looking at her with even greater concern
now.
“effy,” he said slowly, “are you all right?”
“that line.” her eyes were hot with unshed tears. “‘i will love you to ruination.’ that’s one of
angharad’s most famous lines, and myrddin didn’t even come up with it.”
preston hesitated. when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “writers take things from their
real lives all the time. it’s not as though the phrase is copyrighted.”
logically effy understood that. but it still felt wrong; all of it felt so wrong. “i wish we could
talk to her. blackmar’s daughter.”
“that would be the simplest solution,” preston conceded. “but we’ll have to make do with
speaking to greenebough’s editor.”
the sense of wrongness sat in her belly like a stone. she could not evict the image of myrddin
from her mind: lying in bed beside a young girl while she spoke aloud angharad’s most famous
line.
she wished she could return to that day in her dorm room, when she had stared at his author
photo in the back of her book, when this had been just a blank space upon which she could hurl
her desires like paint on a canvas. she didn’t want answers anymore. every new clue she
uncovered was like a blow to the back of the head: brisk, sudden, agonizing.
she and preston searched thoroughly under the bed in case there were more straggling letters,
but found nothing but dust.
right before they were about to give up and go down for breakfast, effy’s fingers closed
around something hard and cold. when she brought it out, her palm and fingers were covered in
tiny nicks. a knife.
it was as small as something you might use to cut fruit in the kitchen, but its handle was silver
and there was a faint rust around the blade. she and preston looked at each other as she gripped it
close to her chest. neither of them needed to speak to know that it was iron.
they dressed and went downstairs, effy still feeling queasy. there they discovered that an entire
buffet had been laid out in the dining room. the black-clad domestics looked even fancier and
even more resolute than the day before, skulking around like somber monks, dusting furniture
penitently. finding no traditional breakfast food (much to effy’s dismay, as she’d hoped for tea to
settle her stomach), they ate stuffed olives and tiny fruit tarts that dissolved in sugar on her tongue.
it was odd that blackmar had left a banquet for them, with only supper food, but after last
night’s unaccompanied brandy, effy supposed it was in character for the old man. she was
reaching for a second tart when blackmar himself strode in, wearing a suit with a sensible pocket
square.
“what are you doing?” he cried in dismay. “this food is for the party!”
preston choked on his pastry. “what party?”
“the party,” blackmar repeated impatiently, “that i am hosting tonight. i did tell you, didn’t i
—that’s why greenebough’s editor in chief is coming. for the party.”
“no,” effy said. she tried to swallow the rest of her tart without him noticing. “you didn’t say
anything about a party.”
“well, i do hope you’ll join us, after coming all this way. it will be your opportunity to speak
with someone from greenebough. i believe he’ll be able to give you better insight than i can. like
i said, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“but we don’t have formal clothes,” effy said, gesturing to her trousers and oversize sweater.
“nonsense.” blackmar waved a hand. the woman mopping behind him flinched, as if he’d
cracked a whip that had struck her. “my daughter left behind plenty of things in her wardrobe.
you two look about the same size. and preston can borrow one of my suits. i have several i can
spare.”
and so it was settled. blackmar sped off (as fast as anyone his age could get anywhere) and
preston and effy trudged back to their chambers. she could not stop thinking about the letters, the
last one in particular. it was swirling in her mind like dark water. halfway up the stairs, her knees
quivered so terribly that she fell forward, catching herself on the railing.
“effy?” preston turned around. “what’s wrong?”
“i don’t know,” she managed. “it’s just that last line. that last letter. ‘i will love you to
ruination . . .’”
she trailed off, fingers curling white-knuckled around the wood. preston just looked at her in
bewilderment.
“for all we know, it’s something blackmar’s daughter read in one of her father’s poems,” he
said. “i could look through them again and see if anything stands out to me. it’s the beginning of
something, isn’t it? more evidence that myrddin isn’t as ingenious as he’s supposed. more
evidence tying angharad to blackmar—”
“no,” she said quickly, surprising herself with the vehemence of her voice. “that’s not what i
mean. you don’t . . . you don’t need to attribute everything to blackmar, necessarily. maybe
angharad was a joint effort between the two of them.” preston opened his mouth to reply, and
effy hurriedly added, “this isn’t me trying to defend myrddin, just because i’m a fan. i don’t even
know if i am, anymore.”
she pressed her lips together, eyes brimming. preston just blinked at her.
“i wasn’t going to accuse you of that,” he said softly. “i think you have a point. we don’t
know exactly how this all shook out, and blackmar refuses to speak the word angharad, so we
aren’t going to get any answers from him. tonight we’ll probe greenebough’s editor as best we
can.”
effy nodded, very slowly. she continued up the stairs, but her nausea didn’t subside.
blackmar’s guests began arriving in the late afternoon, just before dusk, the waning orange-gold
light pooling on the sleek hoods of their cars. they went up the circular driveway and parked in
neat columns, like an arrangement of insects under an entomologist’s glass. effy watched from the
window, counting the guests as they exited their cars, women trailing gossamer shrugs and men
frowning under their mustaches.
there were at least thirty of them, and effy wondered if that was better or worse for their
purposes. such a large affair might make it more difficult to get the editor from greenebough
alone, but a more intimate one would make her and preston appear like awkward interlopers.
already their ages would make them stick out from the crowd: none of the arriving guests were
younger than effy’s mother. it made her uneasy, and she drew the curtains shut.
she and preston had found nothing about the affair in myrddin’s diary. in fact, every entry that
should have appeared between april 189 and march 190 had been torn out right from the spine of
the book. preston looked more dejected than effy had ever seen him.
hoping to cheer him a bit, effy said, “even proving that myrddin had a secret affair—that’s
something, isn’t it? was he already married at the time?”
“i’m not sure,” preston said. “there are almost no records of his personal life, no marriage
certificates that i could find. a secret affair is something. but it isn’t enough. those letters are
worth a salacious newspaper exposé, and maybe a paragraph or two of a thesis, but they don’t
constitute a thesis in and of themselves. we need more context, and we need more proof.”
i don’t want more proof. but effy couldn’t bring herself to say it.
trying to put it out of her mind, effy went to the wardrobe to choose something to wear for the
party. she flipped through the dresses like they were catalog cards at the library, silk hissing
between her fingers. she stopped when she found a dress of deep emerald green, with a corseted
back, a low bustline, and cap sleeves made of shimmery tulle.
a memory invaded her with such intensity and suddenness that she felt almost blown
backward by it. the photographs of the girl on the chaise longue, her empty eyes, her naked
breasts—all of it came rushing back to effy with the force of water thrashing against the cliffside.
“preston,” she said. “do you remember those photographs?”
he frowned at her. “the ones in myrddin’s lockbox? you don’t think—”
“i think that was blackmar’s daughter. it must have been. the writing on the back, that line
—‘i will love you to ruination.’”
“that certainly explains why myrddin felt the need to hide them.” preston kept his tone
subdued, but his eyes had grown bright.
“that’s proof, isn’t it? i mean, maybe it’s not incontrovertible, but it’s significant. proof of the
affair, and proof that myrddin owed something to blackmar. the photos were found in myrddin’s
own house, tucked into his diary. what if—”
effy stopped herself, drawing in a sudden breath. she had almost said something naive and
fanciful, something that sounded as childish as believing in the fairy king. preston looked at her
oddly.
“what if what?” he prompted.
“nothing,” she said. “never mind.”
“we have to go back for them,” preston said, voice urgent. “we’d need both the letters and the
photographs to prove the affair. it’s only one step after that to prove blackmar wrote the book, or
at least parts of it. we have to find them before ianto does—”
he cut off, seeing the look of panic on effy’s face. she was remembering the envy in ianto’s
eyes as he’d watched them leave. the idea of him finding the photographs was even more
horrifying to her.
“maybe we should leave now,” she said. “to hell with this stupid party—”
“no.” preston shook his head. “we have to get something from greenebough, whatever we
can. proving the affair is one thing, but proving it’s connected to angharad is another. we need
blackmar and the editor for that.”
he was right, of course. effy drew back, letting out her breath. she pulled the green dress out
of the closet and laid it flat on the bed so that it looked like a headless, limbless body.
“then i suppose we should get ready.”
the dining room was bleary with the light of at least a hundred candles, and glutted with guests.
the women moved about, graceful in their candy-colored dresses, taffeta skirts rustling like wind
through river rushes. their hands and forearms were consumed by long white gloves, graceful as
the necks of swans. they knit themselves to the men’s sides, their gloved arms curling through
their husbands’, which were blocky and stiff with black wool. when they laughed, they put their
white hands up decorously to cover their mouths.
effy had been to fancy parties like this before, with her grandparents, but only as a child in
white stockings and patent leather shoes, pouting on couches and picking at the unappealing adult
food. she felt equally out of place now, certain that every eye in the room would look at her and
see that she was too young, that she did not belong.
clouds of cigarette smoke ghosted through the air. the buffet table appeared refreshed; the
domestics had succeeded in making it appear as if it had not been picked over by two oblivious
guests earlier in the day. she looked for blackmar’s servants now and found them, still and silent,
in each of the four corners of the room, like out- of- date family heirlooms you felt guiltily
compelled to keep.
she was wearing the green dress. blackmar’s daughter’s dress. it fit her perfectly, its
sweetheart neckline dipping daringly low, cap sleeves tight against her shoulders without digging
into her skin. in this light the color was more muted—forest green rather than emerald, like moss
and earth and leaves.
she could have been one of the green men—not fairies, but something less sentient, more
primal—who drifted through the forests of the bottom hundred with waterweed braided in their
beards.
she could, effy thought with no small amount of alarm, have been angharad herself, dressed
in the fairy king’s adornments.
no, she told herself with resolve. the fairy king would not appear to her in this house.
penrhos was a place anchored firmly in the real world. the fairy king’s world was lying dormant,
like a fallow field. she had not seen him since she’d left hiraeth, and last night, sleeping beside
preston, she had not even dreamed of him. she had woken up feeling refreshed and safe, for the
first time that she could remember. she hadn’t needed the sleeping pills at all.
but the silk dress seemed like such a flimsy layer to put between her body and the world. she
sometimes felt like her skin had been rubbed raw; whenever she exposed herself to the air, it stung
and ached. and the dress, though lovely, was decades out of date. surely she would be noticed,
sneered at—effy began to shrink within the crowd, voices running around her like water, her heart
rising by increments into her throat.
preston ducked his head to whisper to her. “are you all right?”
he was wearing one of blackmar’s suits, again slightly too short in the arms and legs, but
otherwise well fitting. he had forgone a tie, leaving the collar of his shirt open, and effy was
fascinated by the two leaves of white linen that unfolded to bare his throat to her, pulse throbbing
in the candlelight.
there she was again: yearning miserably as if she were in some sort of romance novel, with a
capital r. something preston would probably also call pedestrian.
“yes,” she said finally, shaking the thoughts loose. “i’m fine.”
“good. then let’s find the man from greenebough and get out of here.”
blackmar found them first, shouldering his way through the crowd, occasionally prodding
someone rudely with his cane. he looked absurd in his expensive suit. it was as if someone had
put a tie and jacket on a rotting pumpkin.
“euphemia,” he said, grinning widely to show his gold teeth. “preston. i’m so glad you could
join us.”
“of course,” effy replied. she raised her voice over the sound of the record player and added,
“thank you for inviting us. we’re sorry about eating your food earlier. would you please
introduce us to greenebough’s editor in chief?”
she knew she was being a bit rude, but she didn’t care. the grandfather clock in the corner had
just ticked past six. they had to leave within the hour or they would never make it back to hiraeth
before midnight.
“in just a moment,” blackmar said. he looked her up and down, the wrinkled corners of his
eyes wrinkling further. “my daughter’s dress suits you well.”
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?”
now marlowe seemed irritated. “how on earth am i supposed to know something like that? i
was barely out of the womb myself then, and blackmar here still had most of his teeth.” blackmar
gave a forced laugh, his wizened brow beading with sweat. “saints, i don’t want to spend my
evening discussing the history of a book that was published half a damn century ago.”
effy’s palms were slick. she rubbed them against her bent knee, the silk of her dress bunching
under her palms. she could feel the danger that spread from marlowe like a mist, the same cold,
paralyzing mist that had come over her when master corbenic had slid his hand up her thigh for
the first time.
she drew a breath and gritted her teeth. she had not come this far only to be thwarted by her
own memories, her own weakness. she moved farther forward to the edge of her seat and said,
“did you ever meet mr. blackmar’s eldest daughter?”
blackmar spoke up at last, voice sharp: “enough now, euphemia. it’s a party, after all. let the
man breathe. you have all night to discuss our dear old friend myrddin.”
marlowe’s gaze grew suddenly clear and bright. just like ianto’s, it had a hard, broken-glass
glint. he, too, shifted forward in his seat.
“i’ll tell you what, love,” he said to effy, voice low. “have a dance with me, and i promise—
i’ll give you everything i’ve got.”
no. the word rose in her mind like a steep and powerful wave, one that darkened the whole
shoreline. but it crashed against an invisible seawall, a barrier as stubborn and unrelenting as the
face of a cliff.
the world was lost to her entirely, swept up in the snarling riptide. she closed her eyes, and
when she opened them again, she swore she could see the shape of the fairy king over marlowe’s
shoulder. his cold white fingers curled, reaching for her—
and then, inexplicably, preston took her hand. his touch wrenched her out of the black water,
and the fairy king vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
“my apologies if it wasn’t clear to you, mr. marlowe,” preston said icily. he lifted their joined
hands and gave a thin smile.
marlowe leaned back, huffing in surprise. “well. i didn’t expect . . . i mean, you don’t quite
look the type—never mind. you ought to take the lady to dance, then. that’s what women want,
isn’t it? dancing and idle chatter. i’m sure she’s had enough of this men’s talk.”
“i will,” preston bit out. “effy, come on.”
he helped her to her feet and led her through the crowd into the middle of the room, amid the
other swaying couples. she blinked furiously, still trying to make sense of it all. her lost voice, the
fairy king. through it all she grasped onto preston like an anchor, her head held just above the
foaming water, the drowning place.
somehow, in that time, her other hand had found its way to preston’s shoulder, and his had
found its way to her waist.
“i’m sorry,” preston said in a low voice. “i couldn’t think of another way to get marlowe off of
you. men like him don’t seem to respect anything besides another man’s claim on a woman, and
sometimes not even that.” his voice grew coarser, angrier. “he wasn’t going to give us a single
goddamned answer anyway. he’s sloshed and useless.”
effy managed a shaky laugh. “i’ve never heard you swear before.”
“well, sometimes the situation warrants it.” the anger in his voice began to ebb, slowly. “i
can’t believe we came all this way—forget it. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to force you out here. just
one song and then i think we can slip away without blackmar noticing.”
“just one song,” effy echoed. for some reason, it felt like a very sad thing to say.
she became acutely aware, in that moment, of preston’s grip on her waist. the warmth of his
palm through her dress. the silk was very thin and very tight; she was certain he could feel the
curves of her body under it.
her own hand could feel the taut muscles of his shoulder through his jacket, the sudden jut of
bone. their faces were close, closer than they had been even last night, lying chastely in bed
together.
the song was slow, achingly so, the singer’s voice almost mournful. effy knew it would end
soon. she didn’t want it to.
she realized right then and there that she did not want preston to let her go. if anything, she
wanted him to pull her closer. she wanted to loosen the buttons on his shirt. she wanted to feel the
pulse at his throat against her lips.
miserably, and against her will, effy realized that she was in a romance after all. pedestrian as
it might be. she wished desperately that it wasn’t so—because what would a man like preston
héloury want with a frivolous, flighty, untethered thing like her?—but this was the story she had
found herself in, the narrative built up around her like the walls of a great house.
the song, of course, did end. but preston didn’t let go. he allowed his arm to drop from her
waist, yet he held on to her hand. he kept his gaze trained on her, unblinking. it wasn’t until effy
remembered the clock, ticking closer and closer to midnight, that she reluctantly slipped her
fingers from his.
together they hurried out of the dining room, down the hallway, and through the door, out into
the cold, damp night. they had already packed their trunks, with the letters and diary safely inside.
effy never even felt the chill prickle her bare arms; she was all adrenaline and heat as she opened
the passenger-side door and fastened her seat belt.
the gates of penrhos creaked open, and preston sped them away down the gravel road.
