A Study in Drowning

by Ava Reid

“It’s not one of Myrddin’s well-known works. I’m surprised you recognized it.” “I told you. He’s my favorite author.” “The scholarly consensus is that Myrddin’s poetry is generally middling.” Effy’s face heated, anger curdling her stomach. “Why bother studying something you clearly find beneath you?”

Effy’s doing that thing some do, taking it personally when a thing they like is criticized. As if, because they like it, that criticism of the thing is criticism of them. No Effs. I like "poor quality" things and I know me liking them says nothing about my quality as a person. (Another example of Effy's immaturity.)

that was the scholarly consensus, not my personal opinion.” Which of course he wasn’t going to share. He was much better than Effy at keeping his cards close to the vest. His glasses had slipped a bit down the bridge of his nose; he pushed them up again. “And anyway, you don’t have to love something in order to devote yourself to it.”

So many people don't understand this about analyzing literature !

“But what’s the point otherwise?” she managed. “You scored high enough on your exams to study whatever you want, and you chose literature on a whim?” “It wasn’t a whim. And maybe architecture is your life’s passion, maybe it’s not. We all have our reasons for doing what we do.”

“I don’t see any reason for studying literature unless you care about the stories you’re reading and writing.” “Well, I study theory, mostly. I’m not a writer.”

Wow, Effy really doesn't understand academia.

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?

He *is* writing. It's non-fiction rather than a fictional narrative. Oof, she is not very smart. And anyway— Has Effy ever written a story? Does *she* write ? Why is she criticizing him for not doing it himself?

“Well,” she said at last, trying to match the cool flatness of his tone, “I can’t imagine what an Argantian would learn from reading Llyrian fairy tales, anyway. Myrddin’s our national author. You wouldn’t understand his stories unless you grew up hearing your mother read them.” “I told you,” he said slowly, “my mother is Llyrian.” “But you grew up in Argant.” “Obviously.”

Damn, this is getting annoying. She keeps lashing out at him, taking her frustration of the world and her place in it out on this poor dude.

She remembered her conversation with the literature student in the library, who had echoed her question: I mean, how many Argantians want to study Llyrian literature? Underneath it was a second, unspoken question: What gives them the right? She didn’t want to be like that boy, didn’t want to be like those Llyrians, small-minded and bigoted, believing all the absurd superstitions and stereotypes about their enemies. No matter how much she disliked Preston, it wasn’t his fault for being born Argantian, any more than it was her fault for being born a woman.

Some growth? 🌱

Effy remembered the reverence in his tone when he’d recited those lines from “The Mariner’s Demise.” We all have our reasons for doing what we do. Maybe there was a reason he’d attached himself to Myrddin. Maybe it wasn’t just shameless opportunism. Suddenly, and against all odds, she actually felt sorry for goading him. Preston lifted his glass and downed it in a single swig, without even grimacing. When he was finished, he glanced toward her untouched gin and tonic. “Are you going to drink that?”

“felt sorry for goading him” / Maybe say that *to him*, then? Say "I'm sorry" because it's the right thing to do, and also so he doesn't think you're stewing in xenophobic hate??? Also, I'd need to drink heavily to deal with this prejudiced and agressively ignorant person, too.

He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it one-handed, the other hand braced on the driver’s-side door. His long, thin fingers wrapped around the handle entirely. “Can I have one?” she asked. She wasn’t exactly sure why she said it. Maybe she wanted to prove something to him, to make up for the glass of gin she’d left melting on the bar. Maybe she was just distracted by the way his lips rounded gently when he smoked them. Effy shook her head, trying to dispel the unwelcome thought.

Smoking to try to seem grown up? This poor naive girl 🙈

The car wound up the hillside, cigarette smoke curling in the quiet air, the sea thrumming its ceaseless rhythm against the rocks. Perhaps it was the cigarette, perhaps the oddly comforting smell of Preston’s car, but Effy felt a sort of numbing calm come over her.

You don’t have to love something in order to devote yourself to it, Preston had said. In the moment she had chafed at his condescension, but now she realized—with some reluctance—that it was actually good advice.

It wasn’t condescending? Effy just thinks the worst of him for no reason.

Effy was no great designer, but she was an excellent escape artist. She was always chipping away at the architecture of her life until there was a crack big enough to slip through. Whenever she was faced with danger, her mind manifested a secret doorway, a hole in the floorboards, somewhere she could hide or run to.

This is a good use of figurative language to describe disassociation.

“You’re a Northern girl through and through, I can tell. But I’m glad to see you looking less green.” She didn’t know whether he was commenting on her appearance or her attitude, until he added, “Your skin is a lovely color.”

These. Men. 😬

A soft-bellied Northerner might have seen the danger coming, but the Southerners practically had scales and fins themselves. The sea took and took and took, thousands of little deaths, and they endured it all because they knew nothing else. They didn’t think to fear the Drowning until the water was lapping at their door.

“But the story of the Drowning lives in the minds of every child who is born in the Bottom Hundred. Our mothers whisper it to us in our cradles. Our fathers teach us to swim before we can walk. The first game we play with our friends is to see how long we can hold our breath underwater. It’s the fear we have to learn. The fear keeps the sea from taking us.”

Fear could make a believer of anybody. Strangely, she found herself thinking of Master Corbenic. When he had first placed his hand over her knee, she had thought he was being warm, fatherly. She hadn’t known to be afraid. Even now, she didn’t know if she was allowed to be.

She wanted so badly to do something valuable for once, to make something beautiful, something that was hers. She wanted this to be more than just an escape, wanted to be more than a scared little girl running away from imaginary monsters. She couldn’t write a thesis or a newspaper article or even a fairy tale of her own—the university had made damn sure she knew that. This was her only chance to make something that would last, so she would take it, no matter how insurmountable the task seemed.

"or even a fairy tale of her own—the university had made damn sure she knew that" / Are women not allowed to publish books commercially? Or does Effy think you need to go to school to be able to submit a book for publication? 😅

Effy hated that she couldn’t tell right from wrong, safe from unsafe. Her fear had transfigured the entire world. Looking at anything was like trying to glimpse a reflection in a broken mirror, all of it warped and shattered and strange.

Effy held the paper against her chest. “You think he was a fraud?” “I’m just trying to get at the truth. The truth doesn’t have an agenda.” When she only stared back at him stonily, Preston went on. “‘Fraud’ has certain connotations I’m not comfortable with. But no, I don’t think he’s the sole author of the majority of his works.”

"The truth doesn't have an agenda" 💯

“What’s your end goal, anyway? Just to humiliate Myrddin’s fans?

She is so self-centered and easily offended ! 😅

Something truly terrible occurred to her. “Is this a grand Argantian plot to weaken Llyr?”

GIRL. Are you kidding me? *More* xenophobic nonsense? Losing my patience with this prejudiced dimwit. 😬

Her fingers curled into a fist around Preston’s crumpled paper. Of course he wouldn’t believe in Sleeper magic, being a heathen Argantian and an academic to boot.

HEATHEN? We're supposed to *want* to see these two get together when she thinks such rancidly bullshit things about him???

“So you’re a saboteur.” He scoffed. “Now you’re being truly ridiculous. This isn’t about politics, not in the slightest. This is about scholarship.” “And you think scholarship is completely removed from politics?” To his credit, Preston seemed to genuinely consider this, fixing his gaze on some obscure point on the far wall for a moment. When he looked back at her, he said, “No. But ideally it would be. Scholarship should be the effort to seek out objective truth.” Effy made a scathing noise in the back of her throat. “I think you’re deluded in even believing there’s such a thing as objective truth.” “Well.” Preston folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose we fundamentally disagree, then.”

So… What is she getting at here? Does she think because we can never truly know the absolute truth that we shouldn’t try our best? What is the point of scholarship to her? What does she think people are *doing* in school? Truly, this is one of the stupidest characters I think I’ve read.

At first she thought she had misheard him. If he had meant to fluster her, it had worked. When she recovered herself, Effy asked, incredulously, “Help you? Why would I ever help you?”

“If you went to them with a truly groundbreaking literary thesis, they wouldn’t be able to come up with an excuse not to let you in.” Effy almost rolled her eyes—who called their own work groundbreaking? But she allowed herself, briefly, to imagine a new future. One where she went back to the university with her name beside Preston’s on a groundbreaking thesis (maybe even before his, if Preston wanted to play fair and put their names in alphabetical order). One where the literature college broke with its outmoded tradition. She would never have to draw another cross section.

She snorted, but she couldn’t deny the idea was appealing. “You really care more about the truth than you do about being right?” “Of course I do.” There was not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

“But I have faith in this project,” Preston went on. His voice was softer now. “I have faith in you—in both of us.” He stammered a little bit at the end, as if embarrassed by what he had said. Effy had never heard him trip over his words before, and for some reason it made her want to trust him more.

He hadn’t spelled it out precisely, but Effy knew what he meant: that truth and magic were two different things, irreconcilable. It was precisely what Effy had been told all her life—by the physicians who had treated her, by the mother who had despaired of her, by the schoolteachers and priests and professors who had never, ever believed her. Effy had put her faith in magic. Preston held nothing more sacred than truth. Theirs was not a natural alliance. And yet she found herself unable to refuse.

“Don’t you think some of them will ask why a person with the name Héloury is so intent on destroying the legacy of a Llyrian national author?” “All the more reason to have a blue-blooded Llyrian name like Effy Sayre on the cover sheet next to mine.” Preston’s gaze held a bit of amusement. “Consider it an armistice.” Effy couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. “Is that really why you want my help?” “Not just that. Ianto is shutting me out. He doesn’t trust me. But he trusts you.”

Ok, so I was wondering why he’d put up with an idiotic asshole like Effy—it’s because he needs her help! 😆

“Do Argantians have a patron saint of truth?” she asked. “Not exactly,” said Preston. “But I’ll swear by your Saint Una if it makes you happy.”

Why did he say “your”. It's *his* Saint Una too. He’s half Llyrian.

“I swear by Saint Una I won’t betray you,” said Preston. “And I’ll fight for you. I promise your name will be there on the cover sheet, right next to mine.”

When she closed her eyes, she could see Preston’s page of notes, blue ink against white. It was her name he’d scrawled aimlessly in the margins, repeating all the way down the page: Effy Effy Effy Effy Effy.

Why? Like for what reason is he obsessed with her? Because she memorized Myrddin’s work word for word after reading it over and over again for years? Because *she’s pretty*? She’s been prejudiced against him the whole time and said just generally stupid things that were not in the spirit of an academic. I legit don’t understand why he would be drawn to her over anything but her looks.

“You really do know it cover to cover,” Preston said, and this time, Effy was certain—there was admiration in his voice.

🙄 How is this impressive? It’s her favorite book, that she has read ever year since thirteen, keeping it permanently on her nightstand. Of course, she was going to memorize it. What about her take on the story? What about the observations and analysis she can offer about the text? *That* is what’s important.

“Oh, it’s gone now,” Preston said. “Several of the older homes in Saltney, the ones closer to the water, have already fallen into the sea. I almost don’t blame the locals for their superstitions about the second Drowning.”

Effy chewed her lip. “Then who is the audience for Myrddin’s supposed lie?” “You said it yourself.” The corner of Preston’s mouth turned up into a thin half smile. “Superstitious Southerners who want to believe one of their own could transcend his common origins and write books that make even Northern girls swoon.”

“But there are other people who stand to profit from the lie. Myrddin’s publisher, for example—Greenebough makes a killing from royalties, even now. Half of Myrddin’s appeal was this compelling backstory: the impoverished provincial poet who turns out to be a genius. There’s a lot of money to be made off that myth.”

“You’re condescending,” she said. “Not all Southerners are backwards peasants, and not all Northerners are snobs. I bet you hate it when people paint Argantians in such broad strokes. You know, most Llyrians think Argantians are cold, leering little weasels who believe in nothing but mining rights and profit margins. I can’t say you’re doing much to dispel those beliefs.” Even as she spoke, Effy regretted indulging the same old stereotypes. Mostly, she was frustrated with herself for failing to come up with a better argument against him. “I don’t see it as my duty to refute Llyrian clichés.” Preston’s voice was cold now.

She is awful. 😬

it’s a fact that the South is economically deprived compared to the North, and that deprivation is felt most acutely in the Bottom Hundred. It’s also a fact that Llyrian political and cultural institutions are dominated by Northerners, and have been throughout history. That’s the legacy of imperialism—the North reaps while the South sows.” “I didn’t ask you to educate me about my own country,” Effy snapped. “Statistics don’t tell the whole story. Besides, Argantians did the same thing. Cut up your northern mountain villages into mining towns and coal tunnels, only you let your myths and magic fade into obscurity instead of celebrating them. At least Llyr doesn’t try to hide its past.”

How is what she’s saying a response to him? It's "whataboutism" that ignores the point he's trying to make — which is honestly a very good one when combined with the evidence they have of Myrddin's documents. Effy is insufferable. 🙈

Preston looked weary. “Some might call it celebrating; others would call it flouting a colonial legacy—oh, never mind. We can argue about this until the entire house falls into the sea. I’m not asking you to buy my narrative wholesale. But you did agree to help, so can you at least try not to fight me at every turn?”

Yeah, I’d be tired too. Effy’s ignorance and stupidity are exhausting.

She had agreed, but she was finding it harder than she anticipated, what with Preston’s snooty attitude.

Ok, so without the evidence he presented, I'd say he was being snooty, too— but it has been established that Preston is a character who is most concerned with finding the truth, and he has compelling evidence that the theory he is investigating is not unfounded. Effy just can't separate herself from Angharad, step back, and view the situation from a healthy distance. She has made the book such an integral part of her identity that its sacredness will not allow her to accept someone else might have written it.

“All right,” she said at last, scowling. “But you have to promise to be fifteen percent less patronizing.” Preston drew a breath. “Ten.” “And you think I’m the stubborn one?” “Fine,” he relented. “Fifteen, and you don’t swear at me again.” “I only did that once.” She was still convinced he’d earned it. But he was right; there was no use arguing with every breath.

First off, he’s funny. 😂 Second, he is so infinitely patient with her. Like saintly patience, lol

She had abandoned her principles to get what she wanted, to improve her standing at the university, to earn some academic honors. To escape the sneers in the hallway, the whispers, and that green chair. What did that make her? No better than Preston, in the end. At least he was committed to the vaguely noble principle of truth.

“No better than Preston”? There is nothing even that wrong with him! Dear fucking Lord. “Vaguely noble”?! Seeking the truth *is* a noble endeavor! Effy is gonna have to get the hugest most satisfying arc to turn around her micro-aggression-ing, small-minded, ignorant, and generally petty bullshit.

“Romantic epics are typically written in the third person, and always narrated by men. Heroes and knights whose goals are to rescue damsels and slay monsters. But the Fairy King is both lover and monster, and Angharad is both heroine and damsel.” “And of course you can’t simply credit that to Myrddin being a creative visionary,” Effy said, scowling.

Has Effy read many other books? Has she read anything in depth that wasn't assigned in school or by Myrddin? She should know the things Preston is talking about if she actually reads, but either she is just being petty or she doesn't actually know what he's talking about. Which 1.) Only reading books by one author is so weird to me. You don't like reading and literature at that point, you just like reading this one person. 2. ) How is she fit to attend university for literature when not only has she never engaged with it in a real way, but doesn't even feel the desire to engage with it?

Now Preston was flushed. “I would keep him at an arm’s length. Don’t be too . . . obliging.” Effy couldn’t tell if he was trying to admonish her or warn her. Was it her he didn’t trust, or Ianto? It made her skin prickle. Surely he didn’t think she was so incompetent.

It's obvious that Preston just doesn't trust Ianto. He’s worried for Effy, not that he thinks she's incompetent. (But *I* do. 😐) But Effy is so used to being underestimated and demeaned that she is quick to see the worst in his behavior.

“I don’t get a good feeling from him.” Ianto picked up his knife. The grease-marbled blade glinted. “He’s a bit twitchy, isn’t he? A strange, skittish young man. Perhaps it’s the Argantian blood.” For some reason, Effy felt the need to defend Preston. “I think he’s just dedicated to his work. He doesn’t waste time on small talk or pleasantries.”

Oh, so you’re the only one who gets to make xenophobic comments about him? 🤨

Ianto didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were unyielding—and, she noticed, they looked clearer. Sharper. “Your eyes. Your hair,” he said. “Beautiful.” Effy dug her fingernails into her palm. She regretted coming here at all. But she didn’t want to fail at her task. As much as it shocked her to realize it, she didn’t want to fail Preston.

Is she finally starting to think about Preston as a person rather than a stereotype and verbal punching bag?

She couldn’t wait any longer; she would only grow more afraid. So she blurted out, “I wanted to ask if you had blueprints for the house. That would really help me out a lot.” This, at last, unlatched his gaze from hers. Surprise flittered briefly across his face and then vanished, like a bird hitting a window and then fluttering crookedly off again. Unexpectedly, Ianto reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper.

He was just carrying them in his pocket ?? 🤨

Ianto barked out, “Did you enjoy your meal?” “Yes,” Effy replied. The bites of steak-and-kidney pie sat queasily in her belly. Each bump in the road made her stomach churn further. “Good. Not all girls are so grateful for chivalry, nor so humble about their own charms. In the cities up North, I’ve heard that women are starting to have very uncharitable views about men and marriage.” Effy swallowed hard. It was true that there were more women at the university than ever, and many of them left without wedding rings. Ten years ago, the only reason a girl went to college was to find a husband.

So how is Effy the only woman studying architecture? If women are going just for the education now, then it makes no sense Effy is the only one in architecture. And she doesn't even want to be! You're telling me there is no Llyrian women whose passion is architecture??

“Why did you really come here?” Ianto said at last. His voice was that same low, rasping snarl. “A beautiful girl like you doesn’t need this project to pad her résumé. Any hot-blooded professor would give you highest marks in a heartbeat.”

😑😑😑

The portrait of the Fairy King looked fuzzy and kaleidoscopic, the paint colors swirling into an unreadable blur. His face was a pale smudge, featureless.