Page 64 of A Study in Drowning

“The party,” Blackmar repeated impatiently, “that I am hosting tonight. I did tell you, didn’t I—that’s why Greenebough’s editor in chief is coming. For the party.”

“No,” Effy said. She tried to swallow the rest of her tart without him noticing. “You didn’t say anything about a party.”

“Well, I do hope you’ll join us, after coming all this way. It will be your opportunity to speak with someone from Greenebough. I believe he’ll be able to give you better insight than I can. Like I said, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“But we don’t have formal clothes,” Effy said, gesturing to her trousers and oversize sweater.

“Nonsense.” Blackmar waved a hand. The woman mopping behind him flinched, as if he’d cracked a whip that had struck her. “My daughter left behind plenty of things in her wardrobe. You two look about the same size. And Preston can borrow one of my suits. I have several I can spare.”

And so it was settled. Blackmar sped off (as fast as anyone his age could get anywhere) and Preston and Effy trudged back to their chambers. She could not stop thinking about the letters, the last one in particular. It was swirling in her mind like dark water. Halfway up the stairs, her knees quivered so terribly that she fell forward, catching herself on the railing.

“Effy?” Preston turned around. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she managed. “It’s just that last line. That last letter. ‘I will love you to ruination . . .’”

She trailed off, fingers curling white-knuckled around the wood. Preston just looked at her in bewilderment.

“For all we know, it’s something Blackmar’s daughter read in one of her father’s poems,” he said. “I could look through them again and see if anything stands out to me. It’s the beginning of something, isn’t it? More evidence that Myrddin isn’t as ingenious as he’s supposed. More evidence tying Angharad to Blackmar—”

“No,” she said quickly, surprising herself with the vehemence of her voice. “That’s not what I mean. You don’t . . . you don’t need to attribute everything to Blackmar, necessarily. Maybe Angharad was a joint effort between the two of them.” Preston opened his mouth to reply, and Effy hurriedly added, “This isn’t me trying to defend Myrddin, just because I’m a fan. I don’t even know if I am, anymore.”

She pressed her lips together, eyes brimming. Preston just blinked at her.

“I wasn’t going to accuse you of that,” he said softly. “I think you have a point. We don’t know exactly how this all shook out, and Blackmar refuses to speak the word Angharad, so we aren’t going to get any answers from him. Tonight we’ll probe Greenebough’s editor as best we can.”

Effy nodded, very slowly. She continued up the stairs, but her nausea didn’t subside.

Blackmar’s guests began arriving in the late afternoon, just before dusk, the waning orange-gold light pooling on the sleek hoods of their cars. They went up the circular driveway and parked in neat columns, like an arrangement of insects under an entomologist’s glass. Effy watched from the window, counting the guests as they exited their cars, women trailing gossamer shrugs and men frowning under their mustaches.

There were at least thirty of them, and Effy wondered if that was better or worse for their purposes. Such a large affair might make it more difficult to get the editor from Greenebough alone, but a more intimate one would make her and Preston appear like awkward interlopers. Already their ages would make them stick out from the crowd: none of the arriving guests were younger than Effy’s mother. It made her uneasy, and she drew the curtains shut.

She and Preston had found nothing about the affair in Myrddin’s diary. In fact, every entry that should have appeared between April 189 and March 190 had been torn out right from the spine of the book. Preston looked more dejected than Effy had ever seen him.

Hoping to cheer him a bit, Effy said, “Even proving that Myrddin had a secret affair—that’s something, isn’t it? Was he already married at the time?”

“I’m not sure,” Preston said. “There are almost no records of his personal life, no marriage certificates that I could find. A secret affair is something. But it isn’t enough. Those letters are worth a salacious newspaper exposé, and maybe a paragraph or two of a thesis, but they don’t constitute a thesis in and of themselves. We need more context, and we need more proof.”

I don’t want more proof. But Effy couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Trying to put it out of her mind, Effy went to the wardrobe to choose something to wear for the party. She flipped through the dresses like they were catalog cards at the library, silk hissing between her fingers. She stopped when she found a dress of deep emerald green, with a corseted back, a low bustline, and cap sleeves made of shimmery tulle.

A memory invaded her with such intensity and suddenness that she felt almost blown backward by it. The photographs of the girl on the chaise longue, her empty eyes, her naked breasts—all of it came rushing back to Effy with the force of water thrashing against the cliffside.

“Preston,” she said. “Do you remember those photographs?”

He frowned at her. “The ones in Myrddin’s lockbox? You don’t think—”

“I think that was Blackmar’s daughter. It must have been. The writing on the back, that line—‘I will love you to ruination.’”

“That certainly explains why Myrddin felt the need to hide them.” Preston kept his tone subdued, but his eyes had grown bright.

“That’s proof, isn’t it? I mean, maybe it’s not incontrovertible, but it’s significant. Proof of the affair, and proof that Myrddin owed something to Blackmar. The photos were found in Myrddin’s own house, tucked into his diary. What if—”

Effy stopped herself, drawing in a sudden breath. She had almost said something naive and fanciful, something that sounded as childish as believing in the Fairy King. Preston looked at her oddly.

“What if what?” he prompted.

“Nothing,” she said. “Never mind.”