Page 30 of A Theory of Dreaming
But Preston was so tense with adrenaline that he could hardly feel the cold. And he knew, even before he saw the domed roof of the Sleeper Museum rising up against the gray sky like the scute of a sea monster, that they were returning to the site of the first successful ritual.
This world has been built for you—
It was too early for the museum to be open, which meant the streets and the path up to the main doors were empty, but Master Gosse did not lead him up the main staircase. Instead, he took a sharp turn around the corner of the block and brought him to a small side door.
“What—” Preston began to ask, but before he could finish, Master Gosse was removing a key from his pocket and fitting it into the lock.
“Somervell was kind enough to give this to me,” Master Gosse said, and Preston figured he meant the museum curator, “so I could visit the exhibit at my leisure. A right good chap. He thinks I’m authoring the definitive paper to refute your claims about Myrddin.”
Master Gosse laughed, and Preston’s stomach churned with bile. He could not remember the last time he’d eaten.
The back entrance led them down a narrow, dark corridor, which smelled strongly of bleach and other preserving chemicals. After several moments of walking, they passed a door on the left. Through the door’s small window, Preston saw a lectern, made of shining oak. A very ancient-looking book was laid open on top of it, and it was encased in glass. Otherwise, the room was completely empty.
“What is that?” Preston asked.
Gosse paused in his brisk forward march, looking irritated. “The original copy of theNeiriad,of course. It used to be on display, but Somervell said he had some concerns about its integrity. They’re bringing in a professional restoration artist to try and keep the parchment from crumbling further. Poor timing, of course. The people and the government of Llyr could certainly use the reassurance of looking upon such a sacred text. The Ministry of Culture must be stewing in frustration. Now come on.”
Preston began walking again, but he cast one last glance at the book. He could see only the faintest lines of text, faded ink in Old Llyrian, too far away to make out. An odd chill shivered through him, making the skin rise on the back of his neck.
At last they reached the chamber of the Sleepers. It was unchanged—of course it was. Most of these men had lain here for decades, for centuries. He followed Gosse over to that same place, between Myrddin’s coffin and Aneurin’s, where they had knelt the first time. Just as before, Gosse opened his satchel and began to spread the papers about. Pages of Angharad’s diary, the essential quotes circled and underlined.
A low, nauseating rage simmered within Preston. He felt the defilement of Angharad’s work like a slow torment of his own, splints jammed under his nails, the constantdrip-drip-dripof water meant to drive him mad. This was wrong. It was all wrong.
“Kneel, Héloury,” Master Gosse commanded.
Reluctantly, mutinously, he did. The coldness of the stone floor bled through and into his bones.
“Close your eyes.”
At that, Preston did not hesitate. He should have been thinking of magic, of those long-gone, youthful years when he had believed in more than what he could see in front of him. But instead he was thinking of how Southey had smirked at him, goaded him, how Master Gosse had jerked him forward by his collar, as if he were no more than a rag doll to be arranged at his amusement, and about the words of Aneurin the Bard—the savage pillagers who spoke the demon Ankou’s tongue.
Ankou was one of Argant’s patron saints. His father had a small, carved-wooden idol of him on his bureau. Since his death, it had accumulated a concealing shroud of dust.
Preston inhaled, breathing deeply air that smelled of salt andsmoke. In the not-so-distant distance, the bells were ringing their resonant song. But before he could even open his eyes, he felt a gentle hand close around his arm, hauling him to his feet. Once again, his glasses were gone.
At last Preston opened his eyes. His father stood before him, smiling a gentle but canny smile. Master Gosse was nowhere to be seen.
“Degemer mat,” his father said, clapping his other hand warmly against Preston’s shoulder.
Welcome home.
Eleven
Swear fealty to no cause but knowledge.
—the motto of the University of Llyr, as translated from Old Llyrian
When Master Gosse had gone, taking Preston with him, Effy walked, as if in a trance, to the bathroom. She bent over the tub. She was scarcely even aware of what she was doing as she turned the faucet, and was only jolted into complete wakefulness when she put her hand below the stream of water and felt it scald her skin. She retracted her hand, wincing.
As the tub filled, Effy stripped off her robe and her nightgown. She hung them on the towel rack, where the folds of white silk rippled like a restless spirit. Then, after testing the water once more, she stepped into the tub and sank down, drowning herself up to the throat.
Her hair rose to the surface and drifted out around her, golden flotsam on the tide. The water seemed to caress her limbs, and the weightlessness made her eyelids feel paradoxically heavy. Of course, there was a simple explanation for why she was so tired, though she was loath to admit it even to herself.
Last night, she had taken her bottle of sleeping pills to the bathroom—out of Preston’s sight—and placed two of them on her tongue and swallowed. Her doctor’s instructions had been clear; she was to take only one tablet each night, just to make her tired enough to sleep, to smother the anxious thoughts that seethed and whispered in her mind. But since returning from Hiraeth, since the vanishing of the Fairy King, one tablet had not been enough.
Two, however, was enough to put her under, to obliterate her imagination. But the effects of the pills were slow to wane, and in the mornings, Effy felt their residual exhaustion. It made her brain fuzzy and her movements clumsy. It made her always on the verge of tumbling back into sleep. So far, at least, Preston had not noticed.
He seemed to have plenty else to worry about. As he had vanished through the door with Master Gosse, Effy could remember what it felt like to be afraid—afraid she would lose him to this strange affair, the details of which he refused to share. Yet when she tried to grasp for that emotion, that terror, it seemed as though it were being held behind a pane of glass, out of reach. The fear was only a memory. Perhaps even a dream. The sleeping pills were putting a numbing distance between her and the world.
