She detected a note of fear in his voice. She had never heard him sound even remotely afraid before, and she decided not to press him on it. For now. Besides, something else had occurred to her.
“The widow,” she said. “You told me she invited you here.”
“I’ve never seen her,” Preston replied, looking slightly less pale and relieved to have changed topics. “Ianto told me she’s ailing and prefers to keep to herself.”
Effy couldn’t help but wonder about her. Myrddin had been eighty-four when he died; surely the widow was not much younger. Perhaps ailing was a euphemism for mad. Men liked to keep mad women locked up where everyone could comfortably forget they ever existed. But Ianto hadn’t seemed to harbor any malice toward his mother. Effy shook her head, as if to banish the thought.
“All right,” she said. “But what do you want from me?”
Preston hesitated, and didn’t meet her gaze. “Blueprints for the house,” he said after a beat. “I’m sure they exist somewhere. Maybe Ianto showed them to you already.”
“He didn’t.” And Effy hadn’t even thought to ask, which was a bit embarrassing. “It would be a very reasonable thing for me to request, though. I can ask.”
“Right. Ianto wouldn’t suspect a thing.” Preston’s eyes flickered behind his glasses, but his expression was unreadable. “Just be careful. Don’t—”
Effy sighed. “I’ll be perfectly polite, if that’s what you mean.”
“I meant the opposite, really.” Now Preston was flushed. “I would keep him at an arm’s length. Don’t be too . . . obliging.”
Effy couldn’t tell if he was trying to admonish her or warn her. Was it her he didn’t trust, or Ianto? It made her skin prickle. Surely he didn’t think she was so incompetent.
Preston looked so flustered that she knew there had to be something else he wanted to say, but couldn’t. Effy kept her gaze on him to see if she could determine it, but she only succeeded in flushing, too. In the end, she merely replied, “I’ll be careful.”
“Good,” he said, straightening up, his tone cool and clipped again. “And, of course, I’ll be discreet. I take all my notes in Argantian so Ianto can’t read them.”
“Except for one,” Effy said. She had spent all last night thinking about seeing her name scrawled down the margins of that page in Preston’s precise, tidy script. Effy Effy Effy Effy Effy. Maybe it was just meaningless marginalia. Maybe it was something else. She didn’t want to embarrass him, but she didn’t think she could stand not knowing the truth. “Why not that note, too?”
“Most of what I write doesn’t really matter.” Preston’s gaze was on her, unflinching, though his flush had not entirely faded. “It’s just whatever errant idea goes through my head. I know I’ll just throw them away later, so I don’t have to bother translating them from Argantian into Llyrian. I suppose I thought that one was important.”
It took Effy the rest of the morning to work up the courage to talk to Ianto. Over and over again, her mind replayed that moment where he’d laid his hand on her shoulder. She had slipped so quickly into that deep-water place. She paced the upper landing and shook her head, trying to cut the memory loose. He’s always been kind to you, a voice said. Eventually she convinced herself that the gesture had been fatherly and nothing more.
Ianto was taking his tea in the dining room, under that perilously dangling chandelier. Cobwebs stuck to the empty candleholders like spun sugar, and the glass shards seemed to ripple, even absent of wind. When he saw her, he immediately rose to his feet and said, “Effy! Please sit. Can I get you some tea?”
She held the back of a chair in both hands. Instinctively she wanted to refuse, but she had come there with a purpose. Slowly, with her belly roiling, Effy slid into the seat.
“Sure,” she said. “Tea sounds lovely.”
“Excellent,” Ianto said. He hurried off to the kitchen and Effy sat there, palms slick, trying to keep her mind from slipping away from her. Trying not to think of how heavy his touch had felt.
Ianto returned several moments later, carrying a chipped porcelain cup. He set it down before her. She took a small, experimental sip; immediately, unmixed sugar gathered like grit on her tongue. She put the cup down again.
“I was just wondering—” she began, but Ianto held up his hand to stop her.
“I feel I know so little about you, Effy,” he said. “You’re an architect, you’re a fan of my father’s, but surely there’s more to you than that.”
“Oh, I’m not very interesting,” she said, with a short, uncomfortable laugh.
Ianto captured her gaze and held it. “You’re very interesting to me. Are you originally from Caer-Isel?”
“Draefen.” Effy rubbed the heel of her hand against her stockings. “I came to Caer-Isel to study at the university.”
“A Northern girl through and through,” Ianto said with a smile. “I could have guessed as much by your name.” He squinted at her for a moment, as if trying to remember something. “You don’t happen to be related to the banking Sayres of Draefen.”
Effy felt her muscles relax slightly. These were easy questions to answer. “Yes. My grandfather is the bank manager. My mother is one of his secretaries.”
“Clearly architecture doesn’t run in the family. What inspired you to study it?”
Effy considered how to reply. She didn’t want to express her true lack of enthusiasm for the subject, so she merely said, “I like a challenge.”
Ianto gave a delighted chortle. “Well, you’ve taken up the right project, then.”
Feeling more at ease, Effy took another sip of tea and tried to smile along. She even allowed herself to meet Ianto’s eyes. They were very unusual eyes, she realized, almost colorless, like water. No matter how his expression changed, no matter whether he was smiling or frowning, his eyes seemed not to shift at all. It was like looking into one of the tide pools, the Fairy King’s false mirrors.
Very abruptly, Ianto stood up. “You know,” he said, “this is hardly the right atmosphere to have a lively conversation. Did you have a chance to visit the pub while you were in town yesterday? I’m sure you’d like another chance to return to civilization, such as it is in the Bottom Hundred.”
And that was how Effy ended up back at the pub in Saltney, sitting across the table from Ianto Myrddin.
The windows of the pub were opaque with fog and rainwater left over from the earlier downpour, and the lights inside glowed sallowly. Ianto was smiling, making small talk with the bartender, who only looked as grim as ever.
Effy tried to order hot cider, but Ianto quickly procured two glasses of scotch instead. In an effort not to be rude, Effy feigned taking tiny sips and watched him over the rim of the glass. His damp hair brushed his shoulders, and his arm was braced over the back of the booth, as if to hold himself in his seat.
She set her glass down, fingers trembling slightly. She tried to look around the pub curiously, so as to give the impression that this was the first time she’d seen it.
“Thank you,” she said. “You were right. This is lovely.”
“It’s nice to be out of the house,” Ianto said.
His voice had taken on an odd tone, lower and raspier. Effy was sure she was just imagining it.
“I know it’s no comparison to the fare in Caer-Isel,” Ianto went on, his voice still slightly off pitch, “but the steak-and-kidney pie here is very good.”
Effy was planning to politely tell him she didn’t care for steak-and-kidney pie, thank you, but there was no use. When the bartender returned, he immediately ordered two of them.
Once she had shuffled away again, Effy cleared her throat. “So, about Hiraeth—”
“You said you’re a girl who likes a challenge,” Ianto cut in. “I can see why you threw your name in the hat for this project.”