Page 20 of A Theory of Dreaming
Ardor’s poem had been written while he was blind, so he could not alone have made such meticulous formatting changes, all those scattered, bolded, and capitalized words. She did not yet have all the pieces to make meaning out of this revelation, but it was enough to set her head spinning, just as it had when she had uncovered another secret, concerning another author—though one that had meant a great deal more to her than Ardor.
Even if things were not perfect, if her new place at the literature college felt precarious and infirm, if reporters were skulkingafter her and her fellow students were suspicious and cold, it was so much better than the way things had been. Before Hiraeth. Before Preston. When she had been alone, adrift, with only the capricious comfort of the Fairy King and the unreal world she had built up in her mind, like a seawall against the tide.
Effy decided she would allow herself coffee and a scone at the Drowsy Poet to celebrate, after the turmoil of these past few days. She was so absorbed in thinking about Ardor, and about this small reward, that she didn’t notice heads turning toward her as she walked. She didn’t notice the posters until she was right outside the café, hand on the bronze doorknob.
CAMPAIGN FOR REINSTATEMENT OF DR. EDMUND CORBENIC, FMR. MASTER OF ARCHITECTURE
UNJUSTLY ACCUSED AND DECEITFULLY REMOVED
SHOULD ONE STUDENT’S SCURRILOUS CLAIMS RUIN A SUPERB AND DISTINGUISHED CAREER?
SIGN BELOW TO SAVE AN INNOCENT MAN’S REPUTATION AND LIFE!!!
DO NOT LET THE ACCUSER—EUPHEMIA “EFFY” SAYRE—GET AWAY WITH HER LIES!!!
Below were two black-and-white photos. One of them was of Master Corbenic, a face-on portrait, his black hair gelled neatlyand the corners of his mouth curled up, just slightly, into a dimpled smile. It was both the man she had known and not. His features were familiar, but the camera had not managed to capture the gleam of hunger in his eyes. Effy’s stomach pooled with that old, resurrected terror—the terror that it seemed she would never, ever be free from.
The second picture was grainy and poorly developed, more like a charcoal sketch than a photo. Effy had to squint just to recognize the face as hers. It was taken from the side, and at a slight distance, her blond hair and its black ribbon blurred in arrested motion. Yet it was, unmistakably, her, walking away from the literature college, not more than two days ago. And the camera had successfully managed to capture the fear in her gaze.
For just a moment, Effy felt her heart completely cease its beating.
It sputtered like a cold engine, then roared to life again. Students milled around her, pausing to read the posters that had been plastered on nearly every inch of the Drowsy Poet’s large glass window. Someone began to whisper, and the whispers spread through the swiftly gathering crowd.
Effy’s throat closed in on itself. The corners of her vision darkened. And then she strode forward, pushing through the crowd, grasping every poster she could reach and ripping them from the window in long, ragged tears.
Eight
What is significant is not that the king sleeps but that he dreams.
—from the introduction toThe Early Writings of Aneurin the Bard: A Work in Translation,by E. A. Lawes, 144 AD
With Effy safe—relatively speaking—in Tinmew’s lecture hall, Preston took the elevator to the third floor of the literature college. Just as the doors were about to close, another student boarded with him. A first- or second-year, by the looks of it, and he stared at Preston shamelessly for the entirety of the ride—first at his face, then at the dragon pin, then back at his face again. Preston’s skin prickled; he felt he could almost hear the student’s thoughts.
Saboteur. Traitor. Argantian.
By the time Preston exited the elevator, his hands were shaking. He walked to the end of the hallway and then, with only a bracing inhale, pushed open the door to Master Gosse’s office. He figured he had earned the right to barge in unannounced.
To his surprise and relief, Gosse was there: leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigarette with his feet propped up on his desk. It had to be his third or fourth or even fifth because the room was so suffused with smoke that Preston had to wave his hand in front of his face to clear the air and keep from coughing. When Master Gosse saw him, he swung around in his seat and looked up at him with eager, shining eyes.
“Héloury,” he said breathlessly. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“We have class this afternoon,” Preston said in a stiff voice. “In case you forgot. Again.”
Gosse chuckled. “Surely you aren’t here to plan a lesson on Aneurin’s early writings. Come. Sit down. There’s so much—so much—we have to discuss.”
With no small amount of reluctance, Preston took a seat in the armchair in front of Gosse’s desk. Gosse bent over, reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of scotch. He poured himself a generous glass and then looked over at Preston. “Drink?”
“No thank you.” It was ten fifteen.
“Suit yourself.” Gosse took a hearty sip. “I had to down half a bottle just so I could sleep last night. My heart was racing, and my mind was racing twice as fast. I’ve done it, Héloury.We’vedone it.”
After they had both risen—after they had bothwoken—Gosse had swiftly collected the pages of Angharad’s diary and hurried out of the Sleeper Museum through a side door, Preston following groggily behind. He could not believe what he had seen. What he haddreamed.
“What is it you think we’ve done?” Preston asked.
“Accessed the unreal world, of course!” Gosse boomed. “The realm of magic and myth, where stories are birthed by sea nymphs and then floated up to the surface, given over to the real world like changeling children, to be found by believers and washed up ashore.” He lowered his voice then, and went on, “Surely now you are a believer, aren’t you?”
Preston thinned his lips. He did not blink as he met Gosse’s eager eyes, but he did not reply, either.
