Page 5 of A Theory of Dreaming
Preston swallowed.Did you ever—
“Let us assume, for a moment—putting your preoccupation with science aside—that Angharad Myrddin wrote with clear eyes and a sane mind. That these seeming impossibilities of nature can be, andare. That the Fairy King is real, and that there is a world of magic,beyondreason, which lurks somewhere above, or below, orwithin, the world we have always known.”
“I’m a scholar,” Preston said. Yet his own voice sounded strange to him, distant, like an echo he heard from underwater. “Not a magician.”
But you heard them, his traitorous mind whispered. The bells, the bells, the impossible gonging of the bells.
“Perhaps that is nothing more than a difference in semantics.”
Preston was beginning to wonder whether Master Gosse had gotten an early start on his six p.m. scotch. It wouldn’t be the first time. But every one of his adviser’s words was spoken with consummate solemnity.
“For the sake of argument, then,” Preston said. Weariness had trickled into him. “What would it mean if Angharad’s words were true? What would you do?”
“Well,” said Gosse, “I suppose I would be obligated—as ascholar—to try and find definitive proof of their veracity. The search for objective truth... surely you would agree that’s the ultimate aim of scholarship, right, Héloury?”
Wishing for an end to this interminable conversation, Preston gave a reproachful nod.
“And whosoever proved such a thing to be real... forget about the puerile squabbling over Myrddin’s legacy.” Gosse’s eyes had grown large, and astonishingly bright. “Forget about playing nice with Dean Fogg, and even about courting politicians and journalists to your side. Whoever could prove such a thing would bring this whole country—this whole island—to its knees.”
Perhaps Master Gosse had been partaking in something even stronger than scotch.
“In the immediate future, my time might be better spent focusing on writing my thesis,” said Preston. “Not, ah, proving the existence of magic and making governments tremble before me.”
Gosse’s eyes flickered over to the window, which was now opaque with frost, and—surely—impenetrable to his stare. Unless he saw something there that Preston could not.
“Very well,” said Gosse, looking back at him. “Keep me abreast of your progress, of course, and do let me know if I can be of any assistance.”
Preston nodded. He made to stand, but Gosse’s lingering gaze seemed to press him back into the armchair and hold him there.
“One more thing,” Gosse said.
Preston paused, half in and half out of the chair.
Moving with deliberation, Gosse bent over again and openedthe top drawer of his desk. He took out what appeared to be a bundle of clothes and set them before Preston.
“You do have your college uniform, don’t you?” Gosse asked.
“Yes,” Preston replied, blinking. “But why—”
“New policy,” Gosse cut in. “Or rather not new, but newly enforced. Dean Fogg is sending a missive. All university students are now expected to wear their uniforms to class and to other school events and activities.”
Preston rose from the chair at last and looked down at the bundle of clothes. From within the black folds he saw piping of green and gold, the colors of the literature college. Just like his own, and yet they looked different somehow, smaller—
“These are for your compatriot,” Gosse said. “I don’t imagine she has a set in our college’s colors. And I don’t imagine you would mind bringing them to her.”
The greasily conspiratorial tone in Gosse’s voice made Preston’s skin prickle. He unfolded the fabric. There was a blazer, a tie, and a black pleated skirt.
“Did Dean Fogg give any reason for this new policy?”
Gosse lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t want to bear tales. But with all the commotion you’ve caused and the increasing hopelessness of the war effort, I imagine he’s feeling pressure to batten down the hatches, as it were.”
That was a rather euphemistic way of putting it, Preston thought. The abrupt turn toward traditionalism was obvious. And it really was aturn—university policy regressing to its more conservative roots. To a time when, many reminisced wistfully, there wereno women among the student body, no one without aristocratic blood and a family pedigree, and, most certainly, no Argantians.
A muscle throbbed in Preston’s jaw. “I see.”
“I wouldn’t actually take it personally,” Gosse said, his tone light. Then he reached into his pocket. “Or perhaps if you do—this might lift your spirits.”
Gosse held out his hand. On his open palm was a small golden pin in the shape of a dragon. Brightly polished, with a small green stone for its eye, Preston immediately recognized it as the same creature from the sigil of the literature college.
