Page 62 of A Study in Drowning

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.