Right when they’d gotten back to Caer-Isel, Effy had gone to the Sleeper Museum. She told no one about it, not even Preston. She took one of the brochures and walked around the crypt, passing by the other Sleepers, wizened men whose alleged magic kept their bodies from decaying.
At last she had come to Myrddin’s glass coffin, and stared at his slumbering face.
It was the first time she had seen it. It was a long and slender face, rather unremarkable, marred by wrinkles and age spots. When their thesis went to print, Effy had wondered, would the magic vanish with it? Would the museum close off the exhibit in shame, would the curators meet in their smoke-filled rooms and decide, grimacing, to remove his body?
Even after everything, the thought had filled her with grief. The truth was very costly at times. How terrible, to navigate the world without a story to comfort you.
But Effy had learned. Or at least, she was trying to. Better to pen a story of your own. Better to build your own house, with a foundation that was strong, with windows that let in plenty of light.
At least some people, she figured, would always be convinced that Emrys Myrddin had written Angharad. Effy had left the crypt behind, slipping out within a crowd of other visitors, and threw the brochure in a rubbish bin outside.
Now, Effy blinked into the wind, the memory leaving her as Preston’s face came back into focus.
“I still think his poetry has some merit,” she said. “‘The Mariner’s Demise,’ at least.”
“Oh, certainly,” Preston said. “He wasn’t a terrible writer, even after all this. I don’t know exactly what his legacy will be. Maybe when we’re dead, some other scholars will come along and rehabilitate his image.”
Rehabilitate meant literally to make something livable again. As if Myrddin’s legacy were an old house that they were trying to tear down.
They hadn’t gone to look at the ruin of Hiraeth, but Effy could imagine it as easily as she had once imagined the beautiful manor it could have been. The wreck of wood and stone along the cliffside, the furniture smashed against the rocks, the gabled roof rent in two, its shingles flung off into the distance. And, of course, the sea, swallowing everything it could reach.
“I can’t decide if I want that.” Effy chewed her lip. “I don’t know if I want him to be forgotten in obscure shame, or for his works to still be appreciated for what they were. The real ones, that is. A part of me still loves him, I think. The idea of him.”
Preston gave her a small smile. “That’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to know. For what it’s worth, I’ve stopped believing in objective truth.”
Effy laughed softly. “So all this has left its mark on you, too.”
“Of course it has. You have.” The wind tousled his already tousled hair, and as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Effy was suddenly overwhelmed by affection. A sign of life: tender, almost anguished, but real. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
Just as suddenly, her stomach lurched. “What is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing important,” he said quickly. “Don’t look like that. For a while I didn’t know if it was worth mentioning at all . . . it’s the strangest thing, really. Maybe just my imagination. When we were at Hiraeth, and I was sleeping in Myrddin’s study, some mornings I would wake up to the sound of bells outside the window. They sounded like church bells, but of course the nearest church is miles away, in Saltney. Once or twice I even went outside to investigate, but I never saw anything. The sound was coming from down the cliffs, which is impossible, I know. But I just wanted to ask, to be sure. Did you ever hear them, too?”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my lifesaving, miracle-performing agent, Sarah Landis: every step I’ve taken on this journey has been lighter with you by my side. Thank you to my brilliant, insightful, and compassionate editor, Stephanie Stein: you have helped me tell the best version of this story. Thank you to Sam Bradbury, my fairy godmother across the pond: three down and hopefully many more to come.
Thank you to Sophie Schmidt, editorial assistant extraordinaire, and to the rest of the team at Harper for helping to bring this book into the world. Thank you to Katie Boni, Sabrina Abballe, Julia Tyler, James Neel, Erin DeSalvatore, Mark Rifkin, and Chloe Bollentin. Thank you to everyone at Del Rey UK for yet another one. I’m incredibly lucky to be surrounded by some of the best people in the industry.
As always, to my GSJ, Allison Saft and Rachel Morris: I could not have dreamed up more wonderful friends. The hive mind is real. Thank you for filling my life with humor and unconditional love.
To Manning Sparrow and Sophie Cohen: every day I’m grateful that, by some propitious internet algorithms, we were able to find each other. Manning, thank you for more than ten years (!) of loving, funny, through-and-through friendship. Sophie, thank you for coming into my life at just the right time and holding my hand through some of my bleakest moments.
Thank you to Grace Li, one of the brightest things under the California sun—here’s to a million more coffee dates. Thank you to Courtney Gould for always being a shoulder to lean on and a reason to smile.
To all the absurdly talented authors who have held my hand and shared their wisdom with me throughout this journey: I’m still pinching myself that I get to count you as colleagues and friends. Melissa Albert, Rory Power, Kendare Blake, Erin A. Craig, Vaishnavi Patel, Rachel Griffin, Isabel Iba?ez, Sasha Peyton Smith, Alix E. Harrow, and Rebecca Ross: thank you for reading, blurbing, and loving.
Thank you to the booksellers, bloggers, and influencers for sharing their enthusiasm and helping this book reach its audience. I’m forever grateful especially to Joseline Diaz, Kalie Barnes-Young, Brittany Smith, and Bridey Morris.
To James. Thank you for not being afraid to love me, for always believing me, for reminding me what’s real. I don’t know how to begin unraveling everything my head thinks and my heart feels. Hopefully this book is a good start. I love you.
And to Zelda: I remember you. I believe you.
About the Author
Photo courtesy of Ava Reid
AVA REID is the author of the critically acclaimed adult fantasies The Wolf and the Woodsman and Juniper & Thorn. After graduating from Barnard College with a degree in political science, she moved to Palo Alto, California, where she continues to haunt university libraries. A Study in Drowning is her young adult debut.
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