Page 23 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Tadig,” Preston whispered as he drew closer. He reached out his hand.
This time, his father did not vanish; Preston was not swept rudely back into reality before they could even exchange words. His father smiled, that same slight, familiar smile that dimpled his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes.
He took Preston’s hand. His grip was tender and his skin was warm; his fingers were callused but gentle. He was solid and real; he breathed and he ran with blood. And there was no distant, inscrutable glaze in his eyes, as there had been in his final weeks, the bleariness that held the real world back, as if he were trying to glimpse it through fractured glass. He was precisely as he had been, before the accident that withered his mind and ate away at his memories, like the ruinous eroding of stone.
“Preston,” he said. “Da garout a ran.”
I love you.
Argantian—the Northern tongue, the language of his grandparents and their snowy mountain village. Preston had not heard it spoken in so long. Even his mother, during their infrequent phone calls, used only Llyrian. The words washed over him and soaked him to the bone.
“I missed you.” Preston’s voice cracked. “Da garout a ran.I missed you. I—”
He took one stumbling step forward, and his father caught him in his arms. He pressed his face into his father’s shoulder, a sob rising in his chest and wrenching from his throat. But no tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. He could not cry here. Preston had built a world for himself that contained no fear, no grief, no weeping. A perfect world, entombed in stone, suspended in shimmering stillness. A world that, he realized with a start, he never wanted to leave.
Nine
As the apocryphal tale goes, upon the death of his wife, Christabel, a weary-looking Ardor said to one of his servants, “Love whispers. Grief shouts.”
FromA Complete Biography of Laurence Ardor, Lord of Landevale, by Francis Rockflower, 165 AD
“I took down every one I could find near the music college,” Rhia said. “Maisie helped. Some of them were tacked up on telephone poles. I definitely needed her height.”
Effy just nodded, watching as her friend unwound the scarf from her neck and shook out her hair, damp with melted flakes of snow. She swallowed, and in a scratchy voice replied, “Thank you.”
When Rhia set her satchel down on the kitchen table, it tipped over, and dozens of crumpled posters spilled out. Effy saw her own face, distorted by the creases, looking tiny and terrified.
“Where’s Preston?” Rhia asked. “We could’ve used his height, too.”
“I don’t know. He was helping Master Gosse teach a class this afternoon, and then...” Effy trailed off, biting her lip. Then shesent a silent prayer to whatever saint might be listening that he hadn’t seen the posters. He had enough to worry about as it was. If slippery snow was enough to work him into a knot of anxiety, she could scarcely imagine what he would do if he found out about this vigilante campaign.
You’re safe.His strained, breathless whisper echoed in her mind. Suddenly Effy felt monstrous. How unfair, that she had made him care about someone who was so helpless, so weak, who demanded so much labor from his mind and his heart. She was a malignant thing to love, and the more vulnerable she made herself, the quicker the poison would spread. It would kill him slowly.
“Do you want me to look for him?” Rhia offered. Her voice was soft.
“No,” Effy said quickly. “No, you’ve done enough already.”
“I don’t mind. Really. I’d love an excuse to procrastinate on my showcase piece.”
Effy gave her a watery smile. “No. Thank you. I need—I need to find him myself.” And despite her exhaustion, how her limbs felt boneless, her tone was resolute. “I only wish I didn’t have to worry about reporters camped outside.”
“Well, I might be able to help with that,” said Rhia. “Follow me.”
Frowning, Effy trailed her out of the kitchen and down the hall. Rhia led the way into her bedroom, which had grown even more untidy and overcrowded in Effy’s absence. An enormous piano was shoved up against the left wall, providing only a six-inch gap between the bench and Rhia’s bed. Effy couldn’t imagine how difficult it made going to the bathroom at night. They shimmiedaround piles of sheet music and instrument cases until they were both standing before the closet.
Clearly there was a method to Rhia’s madness, because she immediately began pulling open dresser drawers and flinging out items of clothing. A beige scarf and a camel-colored coat landed on the bed, and a silk kerchief listed to the ground at Effy’s feet.
As she bent to pick it up, Effy said, “I didn’t realize I was sharing quarters with a fashion model.”
Rhia snorted. “My father likes to send me every piece of luxury attire his assistants can get their hands on. I think he believes that he can lure me down the path of wifely domesticity if he just gives me enough new clothes. Or he hopes that I’ll attract a husband by wearing them.” At that, she laughed. “Anyway, try these on.”
Effy regarded her roommate, with her petite frame and—particularly—her slim, delicate bustline. “Erm...”
“My father doesn’t even know what size I am,” Rhia said, rolling her eyes. “Talk about money down the drain. Something here will fit you.”
Obediently, Effy pulled the camel coat over her shoulders. It just barely buttoned across her chest. She wrapped the scarf tightly around her throat, and then Rhia came over and began to knot the kerchief under her chin, which covered most of Effy’s golden hair. Rhia looked her up and down with scrutiny, frowning, and then produced an enormous pair of round, dark sunglasses.
“Rhia, it’s almost pitch-black outside,” Effy said.
