Page 33 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Yes,” she replied, and reached into the marked folder. She pulled out a single sheet of paper and held it face down, but Effy still managed to glimpse just a peek of it. There was a seal at the top, not unlike the university’s coat of arms. She couldn’t quite make out the details, only the line printed below:From the desk of Lord Benedict Byron Southey, 8th Baron of Margetson.
Dean Fogg took the paper and folded it in his fist. Then, in an unmitigatedly disgusted tone, he said, “Come with me, Miss Sayre.”
Dean Fogg’s office was no different from how Effy remembered it—when she had sat there with Preston upon their return from Hiraeth, Master Gosse pacing about in excitement, Dean Fogg frowning over his tea. Some time had passed, but her position, she realized, was no different. Here she was yet again, bargaining for her humanity.
Only this time, she was not offered any tea.
Dean Fogg set the letter down on his desk and gestured vaguely toward one of the armchairs. But Effy did not sit. She stood, facing him directly, and said, “What’s taking theLlyrian Timesso long?”
“Excuse me?”
“The paper,” Effy said. “You gave them Angharad’s letters and diary, and they said the editorial board was ‘vetting them for authenticity.’ But it’s been weeks now. Shouldn’t they be finished already?”
Dean Fogg’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Your entitlement is unbecoming, Miss Sayre,” he said. “The editorial board at theTimesdoes not work according to your whims. Besides”—he cleared his throat in a meaningful way—“have you not been given enough?”
Effy looked down at her uniform, the blazer edged with the literature college’s colors. She thought about—or at least she imagined—what Master Corbenic’s empty office would look like. His books would be cleared out, his framed degrees removed from the walls. The green chair would be gone. Her stomach shriveled. Was Dean Fogg right? Was she demanding too much?
“It’s just a question,” she said, trying to level her voice. “If you gave me the phone number, I could call and ask them directly—”
“No,” Dean Fogg cut in, shaking his head with such emphasis that his bright-white hair grew tousled and disarrayed. After much consideration, Effy was now almost certain it was a wig. “That would beunacceptablyimpertinent. I won’t have you further smearing the good name of this university.”
That had always been his greatest concern—that Effy would shame the university and, by extension, its dean. She admittedly did not know very much about Dean Fogg, but shedidknow that he was new at this position, relatively speaking, and eager to establish his reputation. His predecessor, Dean Licenfed, was so old he had literally died in his office chair, in the middle of signing papers. Dean Fogg was younger, and when he had been sworn in, he had promised progress, innovation, a farewell to stuffy traditionalism. It was the only lever of control Effy had over him.
And yet... now he had reinstituted uniforms, had brought back legates. It was a demonstrable heel turn. Was it all pressure from the government, the Ministry of Culture, now that her and Preston’s accusations about Myrddin had been made public?
The gears in Effy’s mind began to turn. She took a step closer to Dean Fogg’s desk, until she was near enough to place her hands on the wood. Dean Fogg drew in a warning breath.
“Fine,” she said. “I suppose I’ll just have to stop by your office regularly for updates, then.”
Dean Fogg’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Very well. Goodbye now, Miss Sayre.”
As Effy left the administrative building, she found herself shockingly calm. The adrenaline had ebbed; her limbs no longer quivered. Even the wind had quelled itself and, from a distance, she could see that the iron-colored waters of Lake Bala were as smooth and still as an oil painting.
She descended the steps, passing by the stone dragons that reposed on either side. A trio of students sat astride the statues, smoking. Where their jackets flapped open, Effy could see that their blazers were edged with the yellow and blue of the fine art college.
The nearest phone booth was just down the street, its glass translucent with condensation. Effy closed herself inside, slotted in her coins, picked up the receiver, and dialed.
“Roger Finisterre, investigative reporter with theCaer-Isel Post.”
“Hello, Finisterre,” Effy said pleasantly.
“Euphemia ‘Effy’ Sayre,” said Finisterre, and she could easily imagine the smile that was stretching across his wan face. “How lovely to hear from you again. I presume you’ve changed your mind about our interview?”
“No,” she said. “Not quite. But I do have a tip for you. Something exclusive.”
“Oh?”
Effy inhaled, the cold prickling her nose as she gathered her words. As she had leaned over Dean Fogg’s desk, she had taken the opportunity to give the letter another glance. She had not been able to read it all, but she had gotten the gist of it. Enough to know that it was most certainly something that Dean Fogg wouldnotwant aired publicly.
“Yes,” she replied. “Get out your pen and paper.”
Twelve
The warrior-king called upon his liege-man,
Who retained his consciousness, and [... ]
