Page 12 of A Theory of Dreaming
Effy stood at the edge of Lake Bala, hands braced on the railing. There was a superficial coat of ice over the water, stippled with black-veined cracks. Her reflection, warped and tiny and distant, looked like little more than a passing shadow. Behind her there were the perfunctory sounds of the city: cars crunching down the asphalt, pedestrians shuddering and shouting, store awnings flapping in the wind. But Effy stared down at the ice until her eyes stung.
Once she had looked at the water and wished to hear the bells, the precious signs of life, the proof that magic was real and there was some mystic order to the world. Now she was comforted by the fact that nothing moved below the surface. It had the perfect, shimmering stillness of a dream.
With great reluctance, Effy walked back down the pier, toward the literature college building. It seemed wretchedly unfair that she would have to return to Professor Tinmew’s class today, although at least now, with the uniform and with Preston’s help, she would not embarrass herself quite so terribly. Ducking beneath a store awning gave her a slight reprieve from the wind, just enough that she could untie and retie the ribbon in her hair, which seemed determined to keep coming loose.
The building, with its great cornices and curling dragons,seemed no less intimidating to her now. Perhaps more now that she had faced such immediate humiliation within it. But she averted her gaze from the names of the Sleepers and, keeping her head down, began to scale the steps. It was only when she heard her name shouted from behind—like a rough jab to the back—that she turned around.
“Euphemia? Euphemia Sayre?”
Not two paces away was a tall, slim man dressed in a beige coat, with a hat that was—impressively—holding fast to his head despite the wind. He had a very gaunt face, hollowed cheeks that whittled down to a blade-sharp chin. He absolutely reeked of cigarette smoke.
“Yes?” she replied. “Who are you?”
“Roger Finisterre, with theCaer-Isel Post.”
Immediately, Effy tensed. ThePostwas a gossip rag, known for its sensational (and not thoroughly fact-checked) headlines. In theory, journalism was a noble profession, but thePostseemed determined to quash that notion. After one young actress’s tragic suicide, Effy remembered, thePostbegan pushing stories that she was involved in a cult, prompting the actress’s family to send a seething cease-and-desist letter, and release public statements decrying the vulgar conspiracy.
Because of this, Effy’s voice was flat and unfriendly when she replied, “What do you want with me?”
“I’d like you to respond to the rumors that you were involved with the dismissal of the architecture college’s dean, Master Corbenic.”
Her chest seized. “I...”
Finisterre had taken out a notepad and pen. He inched closer to her and said, “Is it true that he was fired because of your affair?”
“That’s not—” Effy’s face was warm, her heart pounding. “Who told you that?”
“I’m a reporter, Ms. Sayre. It’s my job to know things like this.” His dark eyes gleamed like knifepoints. “There is no shortage of rumors about you, and plenty of people with grievances willing to talk. This is your opportunity to set the record straight. I’ll give you a fair shake.”
Students were milling around them, clambering up the steps to the college, bumping against her in their stiff wool coats. Several of them stopped to flash her unfriendly, irritated looks. A great gust of wind came again, blistering her cheeks, and Effy had to raise a hand to shield her eyes. Which was good enough, because there were tears, hot and humiliating, gathering at their corners.
Even still, she was of sound mind enough to know when she was being manipulated.
“I don’t have any comment,” she replied sharply. “And I have to get to class.”
“Ah, yes,” Finisterre said. “The first woman admitted to the university’s literature college. There are a great many people who find that... displeasing. You have more enemies than perhaps you even know. But one interview could be enough to quell dissent and assuage fears. I could do a whole spread. You look like you would photograph well.”
“No,” Effy bit out. It was crude, Finisterre’s manipulation, andshe hated that it was working on her, just a little—terror was turning her stomach into an icy pit. “Leave me alone.”
“Are you sure?” Finisterre had his pen poised above the notepad, one brow raised. “You must be aware that I’m not the only journalist after your story—I’m just the first. And, I might add, the most sympathetic. I think you’re a rather courageous young girl. My piece would be very favorable.Idon’t think you’re a conniving harlot or a sly political saboteur.”
At that, anger cleaved immediately and forcefully through her fear.
“No,” she repeated, lifting her chin. “No, thank you. I’ll take my chances with your peers. Surely there’s another reporter from a more reputable publication.”
Frustratingly, Finisterre did not react at all to her slight. In fact, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Very well,” he said. “But it’s a pity. We could have worked so nicely together. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, the schedules of first-year literature students are publicly accessible. Mypeersare certainly not above using that information. Theirreputablepublications use the same tactics as my—what is the favorite invective about thePost?—slimy little gossip rag.”
Effy’s mouth went dry. On the steps, as the wind shrieked and howled, she felt herself turn to stone.
Finisterre’s smile broadened. “Last chance, Ms. Sayre.”
A pair of students dashed past her, brusquely slamming into her shoulder with enough force that she almost toppled backward.Preston would have a fit of panic if I fell,she thought, rememberinghis fear-stricken pleading for her to be careful on the ice. It was precisely this thought that made her turn away from Finisterre, though instead of continuing up the steps, she fled the literature building altogether.
As she paced briskly through the courtyard, maneuvering her way into—and then out of—the press of students, she was walking into the wind. Her face burned with cold, and the tears that fell froze on her cheeks like tiny pearls. And, at last, the wind succeeded in its cruel task: her ribbon was ripped from her hair, snatched up into the sky, and flung out of her sight, lost within moments to distance.
Six
