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.
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.”
The heat of his body bled through the blankets. Effy sat up and inched closer. She rested her chin on his shoulder very carefully, as if she were setting a glass down on a table and didn’t want it to make a discordant sound.
She felt him breathing slowly, shoulders rising and falling. He turned his head toward her.
He kissed her, or she kissed him—it mattered only as much as it mattered whether the house was sinking or the sea was rising. Once their lips touched, Effy could think of nothing else.
Preston took her face into his hands and, with exceptional gentleness, lowered her back down onto the pillows.
They broke apart for a moment, Preston half on top of her now, propping himself up on his elbows. A bit of water trickled down from the back of his neck, past his collarbone. He said, “Effy, are you sure?”
She nodded. She wanted to say yes, but somehow the word got tangled up in her throat. Instead she said, in a small voice, “I’ve never been with anyone before. I’ve kissed boys—and then there was Master Corbenic, but that was just . . .”
“This won’t be anything like that, Effy. I promise. I’ll be kind to you.”
She believed him. It almost made her want to cry. Carefully she began to work at the buttons on his shirt, baring his throat and then his chest, his abdomen and navel. She had never seen someone stripped down like this before and she was momentarily stunned by the vitality of him—the signs of life in every clench of muscle, every shift that made his bones move under his skin.
Effy couldn’t help but touch him all over, there and there and there, his rib cage and sternum and, finally, the triangle of skin above his belt buckle.
Preston shivered under her touch; she heard him swallow hard. His hands slid under her sweater. “Can I?”
“Yes,” she said, finding the word at last.
He took her sweater by the hem and pulled it over her head. She was bare then, and he kissed her again, softly dragging his mouth along her jawline, down her throat. Effy gave a quiet gasp as his fingers found her breast, but he only moved his hand over it and held it, as if to protect her from the coldness of the air.
Her own hands had stopped at his belt buckle, vexed by it, heart suddenly skipping beats. She felt him again through his trousers, stiff and urgent. It thrilled her and scared her in equal measure. She’d wanted him for so long, and now she knew—there was no doubt—that he wanted her back.
She managed at last to undo his belt and free him of his pants, and he lifted the covers and slid into the bed beside her.
The only thing remaining between them was his glasses. She plucked them off his face and laid them on the bedside table. He blinked at her, as though readjusting his eyes. Effy saw the two little nicks winging the bridge of his nose and ran her thumb over them, feeling where the small bits of metal had made his skin give way.
One corner of his mouth curved. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve always wondered if these hurt.”