Page 28 of A Theory of Dreaming
“How about the other students?”
He was certainlynot going to tell her about Southey, either. “They’ve been all right.”
Preston cringed at his own unconvincing voice. Effy was right; he was a terrible liar.
His mother sighed softly. “What about Master Gosse? He’s your adviser and the head of the college. Surely he’s able to help.”
Surely, Preston thought, with no small amount of bitterness.“It’s fine, Mother,” he said wearily. “I was prepared for this. Part and parcel of proposing a controversial theory.”
A brief pause. “And what about Effy? How is she?”
His mother had never met Effy, of course, but Preston had spoken of her often during their phone calls. Often enough that his mother had grown quite invested in their courtship. So invested, in fact, that she had once, in an overly innocent voice, asked if he would be needing her ring—a family heirloom.
No, Preston had answered quickly, a flush prickling his cheeks. And then, with a rush of guilt and sadness, he had thought to himself,I wouldn’t be able to put it on her.He didn’t know what she would do, what she would say—if it would only be a reminder of everything she had lost and could never recover.
“She’s all right,” he said, and in fact, he wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not. Since they had returned to Caer-Isel, she had not spoken of the Fairy King. She had not spoken of her dreams, or her nightmares, if indeed she had any. She had taken her medication fastidiously. She was not enjoying her classes as much as he had hoped, but...
He had to believe that Effy was all right. To conceive of anything else was terrifying. It would ruin him. So Preston drew a breath and said again, “She’s doing all right.”
“Good,” his mother replied, and perhaps she knew not to press him. “I was hoping I might get to meet her soon, but I might have to wait a long while.”
Preston frowned. “Why?”
“Argant has suspended all travel visas from Llyr. I supposeit didn’t make it into any of the Llyrian papers.” Preston’s heart dropped, and quickly his mother added, “It shouldn’t affect you, of course. You have both of your passports at hand.”
“Right,” he said in a weak voice. “I’ll still be home for the holiday break, I promise.”
“I can’t wait, lovey.”
“Me either.” Preston shoved up his glasses so that he could rub his eyes. At last he was beginning to feel tired. “Mother, would you be able to send me something from home?”
“Of course. Is it one of your books?”
“Sort of,” he said. “Or, well—I think it’s one of Father’s.”
Instantly there was silence, cleaved through only with the low bristling of static. He heard his mother draw in a very sharp, short breath.
They never spoke of his father, not even obliquely, not even an offhand mention. It was a tacit agreement in his family, one that had been observed since the day of his funeral. It made Preston wonder if they would ever speak of him again. If the passage of time could resurrect, or if it could only bury.
“A book,” his mother said at last. Her tone was blank, almost alarmingly so. “What book is it?”
“It’s that old book of fairy tales,” Preston said. “He used to read it to me when I was young. I can’t remember the title, but I think it had a green clothbound cover. Do you remember it?”
Another long stretch of silence.
“It’s in Argantian,” he said. “Maybe it’s in one of the boxes in the attic...”
He trailed off, trying to imagine his mother’s face on the other end of the line. Was it pale, horrified? Was she going to cry? He regretted saying anything at all.This is ridiculous, he thought to himself, suddenly angry. He was a scholar, not a dreamer.
Yet in the back of his mind, the bells rang and rang.
“I know the one,” his mother said. Her voice had grown small and muffled. “Yes, I’ll send it to you.”
She didn’t ask why, and Preston was relieved. It was cruel of him, almost, to prod at this wound. He knew it and still he had done it. Something heavy settled into the pit of his stomach, a slippery weight like black water. He did not like the person he felt as though he was becoming, so easily moved to frustration, so quick to begrudge and to hate. But if he found these answers—if he could stop the damned bells from ringing—he could snuff out these frightful passions. He could be that remote and reasonable man again, steady enough for Effy to lean on, strong enough to carry her.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “Da garout a ran.”
He was awoken from a deep and dreamless slumber by the sound of brutal, frenzied knocking. Preston shot upward in bed, while Effy stirred more slowly beside him. The knocking ceased for a moment, and then started again with greater fury.
