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No one had given her a number to call.
Modern
a telephone booth.
“In the Bottom Hundred.”
I guess its sutherland
what in the name of all Saints are you doing there?” At that, a strange hollow opened up in Effy’s chest. She shouldn’t have called.
What kind of vrelationship dobthey have where this cwasnt mentioned in passing
i guess they arent on speaking terms
It was only then that she realized Hiraeth Manor would not be in Saltney at all.
Unprepared
“The deer in the South have developed some peculiar adaptations. Webbed feet and scaled bellies. Biologists have speculated that it’s evolutionary preparation for the second Drowning.”
Not how evoloution works
She could not allow herself to cry. Today’s pill had already been swallowed.
Just then, all of it seemed preferable to staying in Hiraeth.
Reasonable this cottage is mega creepy
Effy knelt over her trunk and took out her copy of Angharad, flipping to the page where she’d underlined that passage in black pen. This was Myrddin protecting her, giving her a sign. Keeping her safe.
the information is useful because its literal. An instruction manual
A Meditation on Water and Femininity in the Works of Emrys Myrddin
Lol someones doing actual analysis
“Wetherell sent me to make sure you were up.” Already Wetherell appeared to have very little confidence in her.
Merited. Shes not up
“Do you work for the Myrddin estate?” “No,” he said, and did not elaborate further. He looked her up and down with a raised brow. “Aren’t you going to bring anything? I thought you were here to design a house.” Effy froze. Without another word, she turned on her heel and hurried back into the cottage. She knelt beside the trunk and yanked out her sketchpad
This dynamic is super annoying
The unexpected display of chivalry vexed her. Rather than saying thank you, she shot him a sulky glare.
went to the library and the librarian told me they had all been checked out.” “Well, they’re not your books. That’s the entire premise of a library.”
He never returned them either tho what a weirdly aggressive answe
“What are you even doing here?” she bit out. “Pawing through a dead man’s things so you can steal what you need for some . . . for some scholarly article?
Wut
“I don’t know why you care about Myrddin at all,” she said. Unexpectedly, her throat tightened, on the verge of tears. “He’s our national author. Not yours.
Wut
now they were arguing and he was winning.
Calling this an argument is a stretch
“Besides, I’m not pushing any particular agenda. I’m just here for the truth.”
What’s the point in studying literature if you don’t want to tell stories? She wanted to ask him,
Wut
how do you know he doesnt
He was middle-aged, around forty. The same age as Master Corbenic.
Lol
“Your father—he was my favorite author.” It was an understatement, but she figured there would be plenty of time for gushing praise.
going back to the house,” Preston said. “I have work to get done.” “Yes, there’s a stack of my father’s letters waiting for you,” Ianto said.
They sem pretty chill with his project
I’m sorry you have to endure the guest cottage, but my mother insisted. She’s very elderly. Fragile.”
Wait preston gets to stay in the house but Effy is in the creepy rape cottage what gives. What threat is she to an old lady
“I’ve wasted enough of the morning already.” Effy knew that was a hidden gibe at her,
Thats not hidden
Effy took one sip, but the coffee tasted as sour as the air. Preston held his own mug but didn’t drink from it.
Gwtting lots of crimson peak vibes
had no aristocratic pedigree and therefore no ancestral heirlooms. Emrys had been the son of a fisherman. No, these were paintings of characters and scenes from Myrddin’s books.
Saint Eupheme was the patron of storytellers, and Saint Marinell the ruler of the sea and the patron of fathers.
He didn’t leave this house until the Sleeper Museum came to load his corpse into their car.
my father never sought to humanize or pardon the Fairy King in any way.”
Surely there was nothing more human than that. “I would suggest the opposite, actually.” Preston spoke up unexpectedly, his tone cool. “Stripped down to his essence, as he is in the end when Angharad shows him his own reflection in the mirror, the Fairy King represents the very epitome of humanity,
Almost a literary discussion of theme and style and intent
“Aren’t there very valuable documents in there?” Effy was surprised at herself for asking such a question. It sounded prying, opportunistic, like something Preston might say.
Wut
“The cliffside here is sinking. The very foundation of the house is waterlogged.
this was why Ianto had sought out a student. No seasoned architect would try to build a house on the edge of a sinking cliff,
It’s beyond you, Master Corbenic had said, and he was right. He was like a splinter she couldn’t get out from under her nail. The memory of him stung at the oddest times,
She had never thought Myrddin would set a task so cruel. But she did not know this man, the one who had kept his own family trapped in a sinking, fetid house, the one who had let everything around him fall to ruin. The man she had spent her whole life idolizing had been strange and reclusive, but he had not been coldhearted.
Lol a little never meet your idols
Yet Angharad is grudgingly accepted, even by his detractors,
Sounds like he based it on a person
relatability of his work, the universalism, is intentional, reflecting a keen understanding of the human condition.
Yeah that's not what universalism means. Also i think most relatable books are relatable by intentoion not by accident like cwhy is that notable
She tried the rusted taps above the tub,
Crimson peak
seeing Hiraeth had ruined her childish fantasy, ruined the version of Myrddin she had constructed in her mind, one where he was benevolent and wise and had written a book meant to save girls like her.
Ianto saying, My father was always his own greatest admirer.
her mother nursed her gin headaches or stayed in bed for days under a gloom of exhaustion.
Sounds like thats where effy gets the mental illness from just sayin
His sheep bobbed after him like buoys on the water.
old sepia-toned photographs.
The wood on the booths was shinier, newer, clearly an effort at modernizing.
The record she’d heard earlier was still turning,
No radio
supine-voiced woman
Wut
To religious Northerners, the fairies were demons, underworld beings, the sworn enemies of their Saints. To smarmy, agnostic scientists and naturalists, the Fair Folk were as fictitious as any other stories told in church. But to Southerners, fairies were a mere fact of life, like hurricanes or adders in your garden.
How could he be satisfied only studying literature, never writing a word of his own? Never getting to put to paper the things he imagined?
Effy hadnt written banything
salient
The next morning
When is she gonna eat or work
