“We could only have days,” Preston said. “We have to focus on Blackmar now.”
Effy knew nothing about Blackmar other than her memories of that one terrible poem, which she had a clear vision of reciting while wearing an itchy school sweater.
“He’s about as patriotic a writer as you can imagine,” Preston said. “Openly nationalist. There’s a reason every Llyrian child has to learn ‘The Dreams of a Sleeping King.’ And the king is venerated because he slaughtered hundreds of Argantians.”
Preston’s voice tipped up at the end; he always sounded uncharacteristically nervous when he spoke of Argant, and his normally subtle accent became more pronounced.
“I bet the Llyrian government wishes they could put him in the Sleeper Museum too,” Effy said. That was one thing all the Sleepers had in common: they had to be from the South.
“Oh, Blackmar is probably pitying himself that he had the misfortune to have been born north of Laleston. I suppose he could make up some story about how he was an orphan child, taken in by nobility, but with Southern blood running true in his veins. There you go—Sleeper Museum, eternal veneration, magic.”
Preston’s tone dripped with irony, and Effy rolled her eyes. “It must be immensely frustrating for you, to put up with all our Llyrian superstitions. Just because it’s an archaic belief doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“Argant has plenty of its own superstitions, let me assure you. But I think magic is just the truth that people believe. For most people, that truth is whatever helps them sleep at night, whatever makes their lives easier. It’s different from objective truth.”
Effy laughed shortly. “No wonder you’re such a terrible liar.”
It did charm her to know that despite all his monologuing about good lies requiring a willing audience, he still flushed and stammered over his falsehoods.
“I don’t like lying.” Preston folded his arms over his chest. “I know it’s not realistic, but the world would be a better place if everyone just told the truth.”
It was a strangely naive thing to say. Effy had never thought much about the lies she told—she didn’t feel good about them, but they didn’t rend her apart with guilt, either. Lying was a form of survival, a way out of whatever trap had been set. Some animals chewed off their own limbs to escape. Effy just tucked away truth after truth, until even she wasn’t sure if there was a real person left at all, under all those desperate, urgent lies.
But it had been a long time since she’d even tried telling anyone the truth. She just assumed no one would believe her. Preston especially, with his pretentiousness and disdain for anything that couldn’t be proven. Yet even though he held to his principles, he wasn’t as close-minded as she’d initially imagined him to be. He truly considered all the things she said, all the new information presented to him—and he’d even told her he was perfectly willing to be proven wrong.
Somehow, Effy found herself blurting out, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Preston blinked at her. “Where did that come from?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Effy had surprised herself with the words. “I’m just curious. I know you don’t believe in Sleeper magic, but ghosts are different, aren’t they?”
Preston’s expression suddenly became very hard. “There’s no proof that ghosts are real. No scientific evidence to support it.”
“But there’s nothing to prove they aren’t real, is there?”
“I suppose not.”
She expected Preston to say more, but his mouth had snapped shut and he wasn’t meeting her eyes. It was uncharacteristic of him to be so withdrawn. Usually it took very little coaxing to get him to wax poetic on practically any subject.
“And there are so many ghost stories,” Effy pressed. “So many sightings—I bet in a room full of people, half of them would claim they’ve seen a ghost. Every culture has ghost stories. That seems significant.”
“I don’t know what brought this up,” Preston said slowly, “but if you really want to know what I believe—I believe in the human mind’s ability to rationalize and externalize its fear.”
“Fear?” Effy raised a brow. “Not all ghost stories are scary. Some are comforting.”
“Fine, then.” Preston’s voice was tight, his gaze fixed stubbornly on some point above her head. “I believe in the emotions—grief, terror, desire, hope, or otherwise—that might conjure one.”
It was not the dismissive answer Effy thought she might get. He hadn’t laughed at her, like she’d been afraid he would. He hadn’t told her she was childish or stupid. But she could tell from the way he’d spoken, how his whole body had tensed when she’d said the word ghost, that it was something he very much did not want to discuss. It was like she’d gotten too close to picking open a wound.
She found that she didn’t want to hurt him, and so she resolved not to bring up what she had seen. What she had heard. Instead, Effy asked, “Blackmar is alive, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Preston looked relieved that she’d changed the subject. “Ancient, but alive.”
“Then let’s go see him,” she said. “He’s the only one who can answer our questions.”
Preston hesitated. They had both felt it too dangerous to keep the lights on in the study, so they were working by moonlight and candlelight, keeping their voices low. Right then the left side of his face was doused in orange, the right side in white.
“As it happens, I wrote to Blackmar already,” he said at last. “His name crops up quite a lot in Myrddin’s letters as well. I thought he might give me some insight into Myrddin’s character, since Ianto won’t talk about his father at all.”
“Well?” Effy prompted.
“The letter came back marked ‘return to sender,’” Preston said. “But I know he opened it and read it, because the seal was broken and replaced with one of his own.”
“Can I see the letter?”
Somewhat reluctantly, Preston produced it. Effy flattened the paper against the table, squinted in the candlelight, and read.
Dear Mr. Blackmar,
I am a literature student at the university in Caer-Isel, and my thesis concerns some of the works of Emrys Myrddin. I’ve recently become aware that the two of you maintained correspondence, and I hoped I might make a scholarly inquiry into the nature of your relationship, if you are amenable to answering some of my questions. I am happy to make the journey to Penrhos if you find face-to-face conversation preferable to written correspondence.
Sincerely,
Preston Héloury
Effy blinked up at him. “This is the worst letter I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you mean?” Preston looked affronted. “It’s brisk and professional. I didn’t want to waste his time.”
“He has to be in his nineties now, Blackmar. He has plenty of time on his hands. Where’s the flattery? The beseeching? You could’ve at least pretended to be a fan of his work.”
“I told you, I don’t like lying.”
“This is for a good cause. Isn’t it worth lying a little bit, if it helps get to the truth?”
“Interesting paradox. Llyr doesn’t have a patron saint of blessed liars for nothing. Do parents ever name their children after Saint Duessa?”
Effy’s skin prickled. She didn’t want to go down this dark road. “Some, I guess. But stop changing the subject. I’m making fun of your terrible letter.”
Preston let out a breath. “Fine. Why don’t you write one, then?”
“I will,” she said with resolve.
That night, Effy wrote her letter, beseeching and full of flattery. They couldn’t risk putting it in Hiraeth’s postbox, since Ianto could easily check it, so Preston drove down to Saltney to send it.
“There’s nothing to do now except wait,” Preston said. “And I’ll keep looking through the diary.”