Page 25 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
To come in second… that simply was not who he was. Not who his family required him to be. It wasn’t as if he was Harrington, who was so funny, so good-hearted that everyone loved him exactly as he was. No one cared that Harrington hadn’t opened a single book in his four years at Oxford. He made everyone around him happy just by being himself.
But it had been made clear to Edward from an early age that he was not like that. He was expected to be the best, to be a credit to his family.
And he had failed.
But no one could accuse him of having been a poor sport. He had put on a good enough front to pass in front of Robert Slocombe.
But he knew he couldn’t fool Elissa. Those sea-glass-green eyes already saw far more than he wanted her to. And even if he could never have her, even if he would probably never see her again after the contest, he wanted Elissa to think well of him. Which meant he did not want her to be sitting right next to him as he grappled with his innermost demons. The last thing he wanted was for her to discover that he was the kind of monster who couldn’t even be happy for good-hearted Robert Slocombe (or whoever won the bloody contest).
He glanced down, and sure enough, Elissa was studying him carefully. She gave a bleak chuckle. “You don’t look as if you think it’s wonderful.”
See? Already she discerns too much.He wiped all traces of expression away, but her face remained a portrait of skepticism. He sighed. “I’ll be honest. I don’t much relish the idea of competing against you.”
She laughed. “I don’t relish the idea either. I’ve read yourPrometheus Unboundand it’s brilliant.” She closed her eyes, a look of rapture settling across her features. “The final section, the one you composed, is probably the most beautiful Greek verse I’ve ever read.” She shook her head. “I love Aeschylus, but I must say, his lines suffer greatly in comparison to yours.”
He strove to make his tone light so she would not see how deeply uncomfortable he was. “Why Miss St. Cyr, I would not have thought to hear such blasphemy from you.”
She laughed. “I pray you won’t mention it to my father. But I will confess something. Your translation is what I reach for whenever I’m feeling low.” She pressed a hand to her heart as she quoted, “‘Day after day, I lay on this rock, bleeding, forgotten, in chains, and yet, I am still here. The king of the gods himself has not managed to destroy me. I have that one thought to cling to, and it is enough.’” She made an appreciative sound. “It lifts me up when nothing else will.” She smiled up at him, and he watched her gaze sharpen. “Wait—are youblushing?”
“Probably,” he said, noticing that his shoulders were hunched. He forced himself to straighten. “Could we discuss something else?”
“Of course, although I confess I am surprised. Most men like nothing better than to have praise lavished upon them.”
“Only when such praise is deserved.”
She tilted her head to the side, studying him. “I assure you it is.”
“I assure you it is not.”
She bit her lip. “Do you truly not understand how excellent it is? I am far from the only one who thinks so. Surely you read the reviews.”
He stared off into the darkness. “I think it is common enough for authors to see nothing but the flaws in their own work.”
“I cannot think of a single one,” she said softly. They lapsed into silence. After a moment, Elissa cleared her throat. “The point is, you’re going to be tough to beat.”
“You’re the one who will be tough to beat. You’re obviously brilliant.”
She gave a startled laugh. “Much as I hate to argue with a man who just called me brilliant, I’m not sure how you came to that conclusion. You haven’t read any of my verse since I was fourteen years old.” She glanced up at him, and the guilt must have shown on his face, because she froze. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it,” he said in a rush, “but the other day, it was your room your parents brought me to. To change out of my wet clothes. And I… I could not help but notice the project you had out upon your desk. The translation of Catullus,” he clarified.
“Oh!” A becoming flush stained her cheeks, and she seemed at a loss for words, which was no wonder considering he had just introduced the most inappropriate topic of conversation imaginable:when I was naked in your room.
His palms felt clammy inside his gloves. “I only glanced at the top sheet. But I should not have read even that much, and I apologize.”
“No, it’s all right. I daresay I would have read it, too. I’m only a bit embarrassed because it was still very rough.”
“It was excellent,” he hastened to reassure her. “You captured Catullus’s voice, and that is the hardest thing.”
“Th-thank you.” She still looked flustered, but also pleased.
He cast about for a change of subject. “May I ask how you came to the attention of the contest’s organizers?”
She blanched. He had known her only a short time, but he felt certain that in that moment, the emotion Elissa St. Cyr was feeling waspanic.
“Um,” she said after a moment. “Well, you know those poetry contests they used to run in the local Oxford papers?”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “I even entered a few of them when I was sixteen.”
