Page 37 of A Theory of Dreaming
“If you insist.” Lotto turned around and spoke in hurried whispers to the person in his room. Several moments later, a girl staggered out, her hair mussed and her expression jilted. She gave Preston an enormously foul look as she passed by.
Once she was gone, Preston said, “I’m serious. You’re at risk of academic suspension, or even expulsion.”
“Dean Fogg wouldn’t dare to insult the Earl of Clare like that.”
“Thereisa precedent for expelling even the most blue-blooded students,” Preston said. “Silvanus—”
“Yes, yes, Silvanus Chatterly, the infamous forger,” Lotto cut in. “You’ve told me before. But I’m not at any risk of being caught out for plagiarism. That would require me to actually turn in my work.”
Fair enough, Preston thought.But it wasn’t Dean Fogg who Preston was concerned about. It was the Earl of Clare himself. Lotto’s father was, even for an aristocrat, exceptionally cold and demanding of his son. He showed no pride in Lotto’s rare achievements, and no mercy for his many mistakes.
The Earl of Clare had visited the university once, his nose wrinkling as he surveyed their shared dorm, his frown lines deepening as he saw Lotto’s slovenly bedroom. Preston had stood anxiously against the wall, saying nothing, feeling like a serf in the presence of a king.
But then, just before the earl had departed, he had approached Preston and put a hand on his shoulder.
“I hear you’re the top-ranked literature student in the college,” he had said.
“Yes, sir,” Preston had replied, unnerved.
“I also hear you’re responsible for keeping Lancelot’s grades in the passable range.”
“Well, ah, I suppose...”
“You’re a good boy, then,” the earl had said. “The sort of boy any father would be happy to have. I can only hope my own son can pick up some better habits from you. If he were even half as much...” The earl trailed off, giving a long and weary sigh.
And then—and without even one more glance at Lotto—he had left.
Preston cringed at the memory. Lotto should be more worried about being disowned than expelled. But as remote and dispassionate as the earl had been, there was one thing Preston had to give him credit for: he had not once remarked on his accent, or on his Argantian blood.
“Regardless,” Preston said at last, “Damlet is a patient professor, but his compassion isn’t endless. You should at least try and make it to class next week.”
“I’ll give it my best effort,” Lotto said. “But you can protect me now, can’t you? Legate of the literature college and all that.”
“I can’t abuse my position to help my friends,” Preston replied stonily. It was the sort of thing one might get away with if they were the son of an earl, not the only Argantian student at the university, regardless of what his college rank might be.
“Of course not.” Lotto came fully out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him. His hair was mussed, lips slightly swollen, and his shirt only half-buttoned, but at least he was wearing pants. “Luckily I have Damlet and not Gosse, eh? He came around this morning looking for you.”
“Well, he found me,” Preston said. “Unfortunately.”
“What is Gosse tormenting you about?” Lotto asked.
His vision was starting to glaze, as if he were tired, only—he wasn’t. His eyelids didn’t feel heavy; his muscles didn’t ache for relief. It was that the real world, Lotto’s face, the plaster-cracked walls of their dorm, were starting to shudder away. In its place, the glimmering marble chambers of the palace rose up. The image was translucent, so he could still see what was real, but only just.
Preston blinked, and the vision dissipated. He gave a low sigh of relief.
“Just another one of his fanciful schemes,” Preston said, which was not at all a lie, though his stomach fluttered nonetheless.
“Hopefully this one won’t end with you being menaced by reporters and making enemies of the culture ministry.”
“I don’t think it will.” He didn’t mention that he was more likely to end up in a locked psychiatric ward.
“At least there’s that,” Lotto said. He patted the pockets of his pants, as if searching for something, and then said, “How’s Effy?”
Preston hesitated. His chest suddenly felt very tight. “She’s all right,” he said after a moment, and this time, he was unsure whether it was a lie.
“Good,” Lotto said. He located the packet of cigarettes in hisback pocket and pulled them out. Holding them flat on his palm before Preston like an offering, he asked, “Smoke?”
“Yes,” Preston replied gratefully. He was surprised at the way his body seemed to relax, his taut muscles unclenching. Perhaps this was better than stewing in silence, with nothing to distract him from the memories of the palace chambers, the statues, his father, that shimmery gray unreal world. If nothing else, Lotto was always enlivening company. “Thank you.”
