Page 18 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Yes,” she replied, a bit taken aback, “I am.”
He exhaled, but Effy could see there was still a tension in him, his shoulders raised tautly and a muscle pulsing in his throat. She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the mouth, and even then, she felt his rigidity, as if she were kissing something made of stone.
Earlier that day, she had planned to confront him about the scansion, about the marks he had made in her book, but now the quibble seemed petty. They had enemies all around them; why should they make enemies of each other? For now, she was indeed safe—they both were.
“It’s all right,” she said, with more conviction than she felt. “We always knew there would be hurdles. But when people read Angharad’s diary, they’ll see the truth. And in the meantime, I’ll become an expert at dodging reporters and you’ll become an expert at pinning down Master Gosse.”
Effy smiled, and she was relieved to see Preston gave her a faint smile in return. But if there was one guaranteed way to quell his nerves—she reached over into the pocket of his coat where he always kept his cigarettes. She fished about for it, and after a moment, her hand closed around the pack. Yet when she drew it out, she was shocked to see that the paper had gone soggy, the cigarettes damp and crushed and the loose tobacco smeared on her fingers.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Oh,” Preston said, “I, ah, dropped them in the snow.”
He didn’t volunteer any further information. Effy frowned and wiped the tobacco from her hands. “And after all your fretting overmyclumsiness.”
“It might surprise you to learn that a pack of cigarettes is not of equal value to me,” he said. He stroked back another strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ears. “Let’s go. You must be freezing.”
She was, but there was something comforting about the cold. If one could outlast the nipping bite of the wind, it turned to a glorious sort of numbness. If she could lie down in the snow and let it close over her, in its obliterating cocoon, she would have. Though of course she did not tell Preston that.
“Just a few more moments,” she said instead, and tucked herselfback against his chest. He slid his arms around her waist. She heard his heart, and its beating was steady.
There was an irony to them standing atop the astronomy building when no celestial bodies could be seen. But then the snow began to fall in soft flurries, and the flakes were dappled against the dark sky like stars.
The next day, Effy climbed the steps to the literature college again. This time, though, she was hand in hand with Preston. His gaze was electric, darting everywhere, as though he expected someone to come leaping out from behind the building’s columns. But there was no sign of Finisterre, or of any other reporter, and the odd stares they were getting were probably more due to their joined hands, or the dragon pin on Preston’s lapel. It was easy to see the envy in the other students’ eyes.
Once inside the lobby, Preston paused. “You’ll tell me if someone does anything—or says anything—won’t you?”
“What will you do?” she teased. “Challenge them to a duel in the courtyard?”
“No,” he said, without a hint of humor. “I’ll write them up. They can answer to Gosse.”
“Then they’ll hate you for more than just being a saboteur. They’ll hate you for abusing your position.”
“It’s notabusing. I read the student handbook. ‘Students are not to denigrate, persecute, or maltreat their fellow students; the punishment for this behavior may range from writing lines to, in the most extreme cases, expulsion.’”
Effy wondered when he had found the time to read the five-hundred-plus-page student handbook, much less memorize parts of it word for word.
“Well, I suppose that’s good,” she said. “Though it’s hard for me to think of Gosse as a strict disciplinarian.”
Behind his glasses, Preston’s gaze shifted in an unreadable way. “Gosse is full of surprises.”
The bell rang, and with one last squeeze of her hand, Preston departed. Drawing a breath, Effy pushed open the door to Master Tinmew’s classroom. At the very least, attendance was not recorded in these large lectures, so her absence yesterday would not be officially noted—and, she hoped, it was not noticed at all. She strode purposefully up the aisles and found a seat in an empty row, eyes fixed straight ahead, chin held aloft.
Do not cringe for them.
Only a few students glanced up from their books to watch her. She hoped the novelty of her presence was wearing off. It helped, of course, that she had her uniform now, her pleated skirt ironed neatly, her blazer buttoned across her breast. Having lost her black ribbon, Effy had tied up her hair with a white one instead, knotted twice to make sure it held tight. Dismally she realized that she had already gone from wishing to be exceptional to wishing to be invisible. Her hands trembled as she removed her book from her satchel.
As she searched for her place, Master Tinmew dawdled his way to the lectern. He gave a few dry words of greeting and then started the recitation. This time Effy was prepared; thanks to Preston’s carefully inked numbers, she was able to join in without hesitation.Her voice mingled with all the rest, and no one gave her any pointed stares. Invisible indeed. Effy let out a quiet breath of relief.
She’d also had the chance to study Ardor’s poem on her own. After reading his short biography in Rockflower’s introduction, she’d grown genuinely intrigued; the lines had begun to come alive, like vines reaching slowly and hesitantly out from the earth. And she had noticed that certain words were written in bold capital letters. Effy checked her own book against Preston’s and found that it was not an error in her copy. It had to be intentional on Ardor’s part, but she could find no pattern to it, no relation of the words to each other. They did not appear in any consecutive sentences; sometimes she could go for pages without seeing one.
And should itPLEASEthe maiden fair—
The rust-checked latch sprangFREE—
And yet more. Effy listened raptly to Master Tinmew’s lecture, hoping that he might offer an explanation. But he only rambled on about meter and rhyme, hardly bothering to inflect his voice with any amount of enthusiasm. The other students took their dutiful notes, and none even so much as glanced her way. Her nerves were beginning to ease. Perhaps she did not need to be so cowardly; perhaps her fears had been exaggerated.
By the end of the class, Effy had built her courage. It burned within her like a live ember. For the last few moments she sat at attention, arm coiled, waiting for Tinmew to ask—
