Page 31 of A Theory of Dreaming
Effy did not know how long she stayed in the tub, staring blankly at the cracked plaster ceiling. It was only a knock on the door that jolted her from her reverie.
“Effy? Are you in there?”
Rhia’s voice. Effy sat up, which created a small tempest, watersloshing over the tub’s edges. Without her even noticing, it had grown as cold as ice.
“Yes,” she called back. “Sorry. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“What on earth is going on with Preston and his adviser?” Rhia asked as she buttoned up her coat and wrapped her scarf tightly around her throat. “Blackmail? Induction into a secret society?”
“The university doesn’t have any secret societies,” Effy said. She glumly gave her tea a stir. “Blackmail is more likely.”
“Have you asked him?”
“Sort of.” Effy was reluctant to admit that she hadn’t exactly beenintrepidin finding out the truth. That perhaps she was better off knowing as little as possible. “He’s being rather cagey.”
“Of course.” Rhia rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m off to class. If I see any more posters, I’ll tear them down.”
“Thank you,” Effy said, in a very heartfelt way. “Truly. I’ll see you tonight.”
Her roommate left in a bustle of dark curly hair and rose-pink wool, a fox-fur muff to keep her hands from the cold. More gifts from her overbearing father, Effy presumed. She was in awe at how Rhia managed to shoulder that burden, how she seemed never close to breaking under its weight.She’s so much stronger than I am, Effy thought. A sideways glance from a classmate was enough, these days, to make her falter.
As soon as Rhia shut the door behind her, Effy abandoned her tea and went to the trash pail. She dug out one of the crumpled posters and flattened it as best she could onto the table. The photoof her was almost indistinguishable, with all the creases, and the ink barely legible.
Still, she managed to find the phone number, tucked into the bottom right corner.
They win, Effy thought as she bundled up and tied her hair back with a white ribbon.Myrddin, Blackmar, Master Corbenic, Dean Fogg—they win if you don’t fight back. They win if you don’t even try.She braced herself and stepped out into the sharp morning cold, the sunlight harsh enough to make her squint. Luckily, the phone booth was only half a block away.
Once inside, Effy slotted in her coins and picked up the receiver. Before dialing, she let out a long breath that clouded the glass. She had to run through the words in her mind, practicing to make sure she would have the confidence to speak them aloud.
Steeling herself, she dialed the number and lifted the receiver to her ear. It rang only once before someone picked up.
“Roger Finisterre, investigative reporter with theCaer-Isel Post.”
“Hello, Finisterre,” Effy bit out. “It’s Effy Sayre.”
She could almost see his mouth stretching into that wide, gaunt smile. “Effy,” he said. “I’m surprised to hear from you.”
“No you’re not,” she replied acridly. “You put up those posters as a taunt. You knew that I would call.”
“I hadhopedyou would call,” Finisterre corrected her. “I hoped you were smart enough to discern my plot.”
“You’re not nearly as clever as you think, and nastily underhanded besides.” Anger was starting to burn in her chest, but she managed to keep her voice level, proud that she was able to remainarticulate. “Can’t you get a good story without resorting to cheap tricks?”
“One man’s cheap tricks are another’s brilliant gambits. You’re talking to me now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Effy admitted, “but I’m not going to give you an interview. All of this is off the record.”
“Very well,” Finisterre said, in a perfectly casual tone. “I have no shortage of ink and printer paper.”
Her stomach squeezed with nauseous fury. “Don’t you dare.”
“All I want is an interview, Ms. Sayre. In fact, I’ll settle for as much as a tip. Something that no other paper has been able to cover yet.”
A frigid wind whipped by, so fierce that it rattled the glass panes of the phone booth. Effy shivered. Those same words echoed, threading through her mind with the steady rhythm of embroidery.
They win if you don’t fight back.
“You’re a disgrace to your profession,” she said bleakly. She wasnotgoing to let Finisterre win. Then she slammed the receiver down.
