Page 32 of A Theory of Dreaming
The domed roof of the administrative building rose up gray against the grayer sky, supported by six grooved columns and an intricately engraved lintel. There were six distinct carvings in the sumptuous frieze: a stag for the architecture college, rearing its great antlered head; a mermaid for the fine art college, her tail patterned with serpentine scales; an ermine for the history college, twisting its lithe body; the dragon of literature, breathing a volute of flame; a swanfor the music college, its slender neck bent into the shape of a musical note. And then there was the unicorn of the defunct astronomy college, wearing a bridle of stars.
Effy climbed the steps with purpose, energized by the seemingly relentless surge of adrenaline. As she passed under the cornice, she glanced up at the university’s motto, etched into the stone in Old Llyrian.Swear fealty to no cause but knowledge.
In Old Llyrian, the words forknowledgeandtruthwere the same.Fealty totruthindeed, Effy thought bitterly as she pushed through the oaken double doors and into the warm, softly gleaming lobby.
Everything was gold-hued oak, which caught and held the light from the lamps and from the fireplace. The tongues of flame leaped and crackled, yet stayed fettered behind their iron grate. Effy stopped to stamp the snow off her boots before she could track it onto the lovely plush carpet, and then was annoyed at herself for the urge. She was not here to be polite.
With a loud, disdainful breath, she marched over to the secretary, who sat behind a very large but uncluttered desk. Envelopes were stacked in neat piles; papers were held together with clips or sorted into appropriate folders. The secretary, a woman in her mid-twenties—seemingly not much older than Effy herself—looked up and gave a small but decorous smile.
“How can I help you, miss?” she asked.
“I need to speak to Dean Fogg,” Effy replied, forgoing pleasantries. “Immediately.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary asked.
Her voice was cheery enough to grate on Effy’s frayed nerves. “No,” she replied. “But this is an emergency.”
“Well, I’m afraid he’s rather booked today,” the secretary said. “You can make an appointment for...” She opened a memo book and began to flip through its pages. “Next month?”
“No,” Effy repeated, her chin starting to quiver. “This really can’t wait.”
The secretary’s smile was still unflinchingly polite. “I have to follow procedure, miss. I’m sorry. The dean isn’t even in right now—”
“Then I’ll wait right here until he returns,” Effy cut in.
The secretary winced, as if cowed by Effy’s insistence. Hesitantly she indicated a circle of armchairs on the other side of the lobby. They were arranged around the hearth, their leather gleaming with firelight. Effy turned to sit, but before she did, she gave the papers on the desk a cursory glance. It was no more than idle curiosity, but her gaze landed on a rather tightly packed folder, which read, in careful letters across the top,CORRESPONDENCE FROM BENEFACTORS.
With that, Effy sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs, letting the heat of the fire warm the cold tip of her nose and her fingers. It would have been pleasant, if not for the extenuating circumstances. Above the fireplace hung the university’s enormous coat of arms, the sigils of the original six colleges represented in evenly divided sections of the shield, which made for a rather busy design. And the motto again, draped across in a banner:Swear fealty to no cause but knowledge.
The grandfather clock in the corner seemed to tick with agonizing slowness, but luckily Effy had come prepared for this potentialcircumstance. She reached into her satchel and drew out Rockflower’s biography of Ardor, shaking off some of the dust it had gathered. Then she flipped to the marked page and began to read.
Following the death of his beloved Claribel, Ardor became something of a recluse. He rarely left his bedroom and—owing to his blindness—required the near-constant attention of carers and housekeepers. This time of his life is not well-documented, but one of his maids, a woman by the name of Maud, reported that he kept the window beside his bed open at all hours, and in all temperatures. Through the window he fingered the leaves of a nearby tree, and each morning when she came to give him his breakfast, he reported on the minute changes that had occurred to the tree overnight. The dying of leaves, the withering of branches by the encroaching winter winds.
“His world may have been small then,” Maud said, “but it was not shallow.”
One can imagine, then, why he would have been inspired to compose “The Garden in Stone,” a work about a frozen, unchanging garden, trapped in the sinister rigidity of time. Within the garden, the maiden sleeps and dreams, her mind at work even when her body is magicked to immortal stillness. And, of course, there is the gallant knight who comes to her rescue, ultimately freeing the maiden and her garden from this ill fate.
Composing this poem while blind was of course no mean feat, and Ardor employed an amanuensis to accomplish it. An amanuensis—
“Dean Fogg?”
It was the secretary’s voice. Immediately, Effy’s head snapped up. Over the back of the armchair she saw the door to the office open and the dean come striding out. His gait was hurried, and his hair was shockingly white against the backdrop of shining tawny wood.
Her chest burned with humiliation and jilted anger; he had been in his office the whole time. Stumbling a bit, Effy got to her feet. Dean Fogg was approaching the secretary’s desk, and he didn’t even notice her until she practically threw herself into the path of his gaze.
“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly. “Excuse me, Dean Fogg—”
The dean inhaled sharply and recoiled from her in surprise. “Miss Sayre,” he said. Then, turning to the secretary, he asked, “What’s all this, then?”
“My apologies, sir,” the secretary said, with a brief but baleful glance at Effy. “This student entered in a hurry, demanding to see you at once. I explained that you were booked, but...”
“This is improper, Miss Sayre,” said Dean Fogg coldly. “If you wish to speak with me, you may make an appointment—”
“This is an emergency,” she interrupted. To her surprise, her voice didn’t shake. “Itreallycan’t wait.”
Dean Fogg stared down at her, his watery blue eyes unblinking. And Effy met his gaze and did not cower or flinch. She might have—wouldhave—once. But that cringing girl had perished at Hiraeth, along with the Fairy King. Effy tried not to think what other parts of her had perished there, too.
“Very well,” Dean Fogg said at last, and he was the one to break off his stare. To his secretary, he said, “Do I have any urgent correspondence?”
