Page 60 of A Study in Drowning

The bed was easily big enough for two, even if they were not touching. The next few moments unfolded in silence as well: Preston turned around, face to the wall, so that Effy could strip out of her sweater and trousers and into her nightgown, and slip under the wine-colored duvet.

Preston turned around again and sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed. Effy gave him an encouraging look, though her cheeks were still splotchy with heat, and he shifted to lie down beside her. Her beneath the covers, him atop them. Facing each other. Not touching.

She had never been so close to him before. His eyes were fascinating from this vantage point, light brown ringed with green, gold daubs around the irises. His freckles were pale, winter-faded. She suspected they would become more prominent when summer returned. His lips were stained just a little bit from the brandy.

While Effy looked at Preston, he looked at her. She wondered what he saw. Master Corbenic had seen green eyes and golden hair, something soft and white and pliable.

Sometimes she wanted to tell someone everything that had happened, and see what they had to say about it. She had already heard the version of the story in which she was a tramp, a slut, a whore. She had heard it so many times, it was like a water stain on velvet; it would never quite come out. She wondered if there was another version of the story. She didn’t even know her own.

Surely Preston couldn’t guess at all the things running through her mind. Unlike Effy, he looked very tired. Behind his glasses, his eyelids had begun to droop. That was something funny: his left eyelid seemed to droop slightly more than his right. From far away, she never would have noticed.

“Sleepy yet?” he asked, his words somewhat slurred.

“Not really,” she confessed.

“What else can I do?”

“Just . . . talk,” she said. She had to lower her gaze, embarrassed. “About anything, really.”

“I’ll try to think of the dullest topics I know.”

She smiled, biting her lip. “They don’t have to be dull. You could—you could tell me something new. Something you’ve never told me before.”

Preston fell silent, contemplating. “Well,” he said after a moment, “if you want to know why I remember ‘The Mariner’s Demise’ so well, it’s because there’s an old Argantian saying that’s eerily similar.”

“Oh?” Effy perked. “What is it?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise you won’t flinch at the sound of our heathen tongue.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Effy just laughed softly. “I promise.”

“Ar mor a lavar d’ar martolod: poagn ganin, me az pevo; diwall razon, me az peuzo.”

“Is that really Argantian?”

“Yes. Well, it’s the Northern tongue. It’s what grandmothers speak to their eye-rolling grandchildren.” Preston smiled faintly.

“What does it mean?”

“‘Says the sea to the sailor: strive with me and live; neglect me and drown.’”

“That does sound a lot like something Myrddin would write,” Effy said. It was the first time, she realized, that she’d heard Argantian spoken by a native. It was beautiful—or maybe just Preston’s voice was. “Say something else.”

“Hm.” Preston frowned, considering. Then he said, “Evit ar mor bezañ treitour, treitouroc’h ar merc’hed.”

“What’s that?”

Amusement crinkled his eyes. “‘The sea is treacherous, but women are even more treacherous.’”

Effy flushed. “That doesn’t sound like something your grandmother would say.”

“You’re right. She would clap me on the back of the head for that one.”

“Tell me another,” said Effy.

Preston pursed his lips, eyes glazing over for a moment as he thought. At last, he said, “Ar gwir garantez zo un tan; ha ne c'hall ket bevañ en e unan.”

“I like how that one sounds the best,” Effy said. “Tell me what it means.”