Page 55 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
Now it was Edward’s mouth that fell open. When he spoke, his voice was clipped. “Is this how little you value our future together? That you would… would throw it all away so you can enter some stupid contest?”
“Throw it all away?” What on earth was going on? When had the conversation taken such a drastic turn? “Who said anything about throwing it away? Of course I want a future with you, Edward!”
“You have a strange way of showing it!”
“I’m not the one talking about calling off our marriage over something so trivial! If anyone is throwing it away, it’s you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I just asked you to marry me!”
Elissa’s hands curled into fists. “And in the next breath, told me I have to change who I am!”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “All marriages require some degree of compromise.”
“Some degree of compromise, to be sure! I am willing to wear whatever clothes your sister tells me are befitting. To practice pouring tea with your mother. But I am a classical scholar. That isfundamentalto who I am.” She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, realizing they were suddenly damp. “And I am not willing to—to—” Her voice broke, and she gave a great sniff.Perfect. Now her nose was starting to run. She reached for one of the soiled handkerchiefs from the end table but hesitated when she saw how damp it was.
Edward was glowering out the window. “There are some clean handkerchiefs in the desk drawer,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Thank you,” she muttered, crossing the room and pulling it open.
As she reached to retrieve one of the neatly stacked handkerchiefs, her hand brushed something cold and hard that made a metallic clink. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling it out.
It was a large, gold coin, about the same size as a crown piece. The image showed a man in collegiate robes kneeling before a Muse, who was enthroned upon a dais. The Muse held a lyre under one arm and with the other, reached forward to crown the kneeling man with a wreath of laurels. There was an inscription in Latin, which Elissa translated aloud without thinking. “Praise has its own rewards.”
She flipped the coin over. The reverse side showed a man in the sort of curly wig that had been popular during the previous century. “Sir William Browne,” she read absentmindedly, then gasped as she realized what it was.
“Edward! Is this one of your Browne Medals?” Elissa had followed his academic career at Cambridge assiduously in the newspapers and knew very well that he had won four of them, two for Latin composition and two more for Greek. “Surely you don’t keep your Browne Medals loose in your desk drawer!”
But it seemed that was exactly what he did, because digging around, her hands felt more large, cool, coin-shaped objects. She pulled a handful out and laid them on the desk. There were two more Browne Medals and a few smaller ones she didn’t recognize.
It seemed that Edward hadn’t been attending, but the clank of the medals on the desk snapped him from his stupor. He hurried across the room, his eyes so wide they were showing more white than blue. “What—what are you doing?”
“No wonder you don’t understand,” Elissa spat, pulling out another fistful of medals. “You’ve won so many awards, they don’t even mean anything to you. You’ve just tossed them in a drawer!”
“Put those back!” Edward snapped. His shoulder twitched violently as he yanked the drawer open. The medals made a great clatter as he swept them back inside, then slammed the drawer shut.
One of the medals was still in Elissa’s hand. It was different from the others—bronze and almost the size of her palm, far larger than the others. There was another goddess upon a dais, this time addressing a cluster of students. In the background was a building with a columned portico. The inscription was again in Latin. “For classical studies. From the liberality of Thomas Holies, Duke of Newcastle…Chancellorof the University!” Her fingers were trembling as her gaze snapped to Edward. “Do you mean to tell me that you keep theChancellor’s Classical Medalshoved in the back of a drawer?”
He spun around, making a feral sound, something she had never imagined Edward Astley capable of. “Give me that!” he shouted, lunging for the medal.
Elissa took a step back. “I won’t! Not if you’re going to throw it in that drawer to clatter around and get damaged.” He tried to snatch it from her grasp, but she held it out of his reach. “I’m surprised at you, Edward! You should take better care of this. Do you haveany ideahow much it would mean to me to have a Chancellor’s Classical Medal? It would mean everything, absolutelyeverything! But I never had that chance. I’ve never been permitted to cross the hallowed thresholds of Oxford or Cambridge.” Tears were streaking down her face, and she was fairly certain her nose was running again, but she didn’t care. “You shouldtreasurethis! You shouldn’t keep it loose in a drawer. You should have it on display!”
“Display?” he shouted. His eyes were wild, and his shoulder was positively spasming. “I willneverput it on display! I hate the sight of that bloody thing! Because that is not the Chancellor’s Classical Medal, Elissa, and I am not the Chancellor’s Classical Medalist.Robert Slocombeis the Chancellor’s Classical Medalist! I am the Chancellor’sSecondMedalist, and I can assure you, there is aworldof difference!”
Never in her life had she seen Edward Astley lose even an inch of control, but here he was, shouting, hands shaking uncontrollably, a sheen of sweat upon his brow. His eyes were frantic, and as annoyed as she was with him at the moment, it tore at her heart.
All at once he seemed to realize himself. Horror swept across his face, his cheeks flushed, and he hastily turned away, crossing the room and staring determinedly out the window.
She set the medal down upon the desk and trailed after him. “Edward.” He refused to meet her eye. She tried to lay her hand on his arm, but he shook her off. “You don’t truly berate yourself for that, do you?” He said nothing. “For coming in second? Out of everyone at Cambridge? That is an achievement. Not something you should be ashamed of.”
He glared out the window, his jaw iron. Suddenly certain things he’d said to her over the past two weeks came flitting across her mind.
“—everything I used to love about classical verse—”
“—Harrington is the one that everyone loves—”
“—I think it is common enough for authors to see nothing but the flaws in their own work—”
“—being around me is often a burden—”
