Page 36 of A Theory of Dreaming
It was perhaps his most unconvincing lie yet. Luckily, Master Gosse was in no state of mind to suss out his dishonesty.
“Something has gone terribly wrong,” he muttered, and at last loosened his grip on Preston’s collar. “I performed the ritual just as I performed it before—in the hall of the Sleepers—in the lambent pulse of their magic—and yet...”
Preston pushed himself clumsily into a sitting position. His chest was heaving; his limbs felt numb and needle-pricked. Letting out a tremulous breath, he said, “Perhaps that first time was only a fluke.”
“Afluke?” Gosse whirled on him. “Ah, you must be the weak link, Héloury! You unrelenting unbeliever. There’s no curriculum for dreaming. No refined academic method. If you cannot accept this, well, I shall have to soldier on in this enterprise alone.”
Preston’s stomach crinkled. It was hard for him to feel relief.CouldGosse succeed, if he continued to try these rituals alone? Or was it true that the palace beneath the waves washisworld, fitted to his unconscious desires? Preston looked down at the floor, as if he could somehow glimpse the castle below, the seam between dreams and reality. But he only saw hard, solid stone.
If he pressed his ear to the ground, would he hear the bells?
Master Gosse stood, letting out a breath that intimated deep frustration. Preston was left to gather the papers of Angharad’s diary, bundling them up and handing them to his adviser. Gosse did not say another word as he led Preston back through the dim, narrow corridor, out of the museum, and into the sharp, cold daylight.
Preston returned to his dorm, hoping for a warm shower and several hours of uninterrupted, untroubled silence. But his hopes were dashed before he could even open the door. He smelled an overwhelming rush of cigarette smoke, and, through the thin wood, he heard tussling and thudding, and then a muffled giggle.
Solitude and tranquility there would not be. With a deep, steeling breath, Preston pushed open the door.
Slush was tracked through the corridor, which was not unusual, but beside the melting footprints, there was a trail of rumpled clothes: a fallen blazer there, a balled-up blouse, a limp pair of black trousers with the belt still looped through. He would not even deign to describe what else he found there on the floor. Preston picked his way around the clothes and walked to the door of his roommate’s bedroom.
He waited there for a moment, listening to the hushed laughter on the other side, and then gave a brusque rap upon the wood.
“Ah, fuck,” came a familiar voice. “Hold on a moment.”
There was more shuffling, a few urgent shushing sounds. Thenthe door was flung open, revealing the disheveled but smiling face of Lancelot Albyric Grey, heir to the earldom of Clare.
“Hello,” Preston said flatly.
“Hello,” his roommate replied, in a cheerful and breathless tone. “How can I help you?”
“I live here, if you recall.”
“How could I forget? You’re the only reason I haven’t failed out yet.”
Perhaps, although Preston was not exactly doing the best job of it lately. It was ten thirty, the middle of the week, and given that he had, by now, memorized his roommate’s schedule, he knew that he was missing class.Again.
There was only so much he could do, of course. Preston helped him keep track of his assignments, devotedly filled out a planner (which he never used), and, more than once, had physically dragged him out of bed for an early-morning seminar. He refused to let his schoolwork be copied, but they had spent uncountable hours at the kitchen table, Preston explaining themes and motifs and symbols, while his roommate took sloppy, disinterested notes. But with Preston having been gone for so many weeks, and neglectful of this duty, the current situation was dire.
“Lancey?” someone called from the bedroom. “Are you coming back?”
“No,” Preston said through the door, before his roommate could reply.
The nicknameLanceyhad always seemed overly twee to Preston, although it was what all the girls—and sometimes boys—hisroommate brought back called him. Preston had his own nickname for him:Lotto.It felt appropriate, given how his entire life seemed to be no more than lucky collisions with fate. The luckiest incident, he supposed, was having been born the eldest son of one of the wealthiest aristocrats in Llyr.
Lotto huffed a laugh. “You’re having none of my nonsense today, are you?”
“You’re supposed to be in class. Professor Damlet will have a conniption—”
“I’ve missed the last seven of his classes,” Lotto said. “Surely he’s given up hope by now.”
Preston pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, his temples beginning to throb. He was going to have to coin a specific term for Lotto-induced headaches. Perhaps he would consult a medical textbook.
“The semester’s more than half over,” said Preston. “You’re going to have to buckle down just to get a passing grade.”
“Now that you’re here to keep me in line.” Lotto’s grin widened. “Oh, I missed you, Héloury.”
Despite everything—despite the daggering pain behind his eyes—Preston had to admit there was something relentlessly charming about Lancelot Grey. Perhaps it was no more than his well-formed face: his proud patrician nose and sharp, canny jawline, his black hair, which was cut rakishly to his shoulders, and his snapping dark eyes. He always looked on the edge of a smirk. He was not quite as tall as Preston, but he was broader and more muscled, owing to many years of rugby and polo andprobably other sports that were too upper-class for Preston to even know.
“Perhaps you should start by dismissing your, ah, guest,” Preston said.
