Page 51 of A Theory of Dreaming
Luckily, Rhia was there again to rescue her.
“I put together several options for you,” her roommate said, opening up her closet and flipping through the hangers. “It’s a shame we don’t have time to get anything tailored, but I’m confident that at least one of these will work.”
Rhia flung three dresses onto the bed, one after another, where they landed with very soft thuds. Effy picked up the first one. It was a buttercup yellow with a ruffled taffeta skirt, but the size of the bodice didn’t look promising. She gave Rhia a grim shake of her head and put the dress aside.
The second was moss green and made of heavy draped velvet. The color was so similar to the dress of Angharad’s she had worn at Penrhos. Effy flinched at seeing it. The girl she had been felt to her like a stranger now, and it caused a deep ache in her chest.
“Not this one,” she said hurriedly. “Not—not green.”
Rhia nodded, and kindly didn’t ask her to elaborate. “Well, the last one is my favorite anyway.”
Effy didn’t feel too hopeful as she lifted the dress off the bed. The fabric unfurled from her hands.
It was an ankle-length, A-line dress with two layers. Underneath was a sleeveless shift of pale pink silk, and over it, a swaddling of baby-blue tulle. The effect was that it looked like the sky at sunrise, a filmy mass of tender dawn hues. Crystals were woven through the tulle, giving it a very subtle shimmer when the fabric shifted. Effy let out a quiet breath.
Clearly, that was all the encouragement Rhia needed. She grinned and began to rummage through her large jewelry box.
“I thought you could wear it with these,” she said, holding up a delicate string of seed pearls. “I have matching earrings, too.”
Fifteen minutes later, Effy was buttoned up into the dress and Rhia was helping her twist her hair into a loose chignon. It had been weeks since Effy had worn her hair pulled back, smooth instead of in tangled waves around her face. There was something of a relief about it, a literal weight lifted from her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said to Rhia, in a very heartfelt way. “Truly—I don’t know what I would have done without you.”Would do, Effy thought, but didn’t add.
“It’s nothing,” Rhia said, waving a hand. “I never would’ve worn this anyway. Not my color season.”
Effy finished the outfit with her own nude, patent leather heels and white elbow-length gloves. And when she regarded herself in the mirror, she didn’t entirely hate what she saw. Indeed, she even managed to force a small smile onto her face.
Rhia had, of course, put together her own elaborate outfit. Thedress was a strapless gown with a tightly laced bodice and a full skirt, in a shade of rich, deep red. Over her shoulders she wore a matching gossamer shawl, with black velvet gloves and a glamorous choker of ruby and gold.
“It’s supposed to be romantic,” Rhia explained. “Like a kiss at midnight.” She paused, brow furrowing. “I suppose it’s a very loose interpretation of the theme.”
“I love it,” Effy said. “You look beautiful. Maisie will be thrilled.”
Rhia reached out and grasped her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Then they both bundled up in their coats and scarves and stepped out bravely into the night. It was remarkably still, the snow on the sidewalks banked and days old, the sky clear and lustrous with stars.
At the end of their block, Rhia departed for the music college, where Maisie waited, leaving Effy to make her way alone to the literature building. As she passed beneath the lintel upon which the names of the Sleepers were carved, Effy thought of how impermanent it all was, in the end. Every bit of marble would one day crumble. Every engraved name would be erased by weather and time. Every hero’s light would fade.
In a sense, she was lucky that her own heroes were already lost to her. She was so accustomed to the grief that she almost felt like she had been made for it. She knew it as well as she knew the bragging of her heart.
Eighteen
There is a small but influential contingent of scholars whose work has focused heavily on the relationship between Neirin’s daughter and her lover in theNeiriad. This narrative arc, they insist, exemplifies the core themes of Aneurin’s epic and is more salient than the tales of Neirin’s military exploits. Their scholarship argues that theNeiriadis, in fact, not a war story but a love story. That it ends tragically is often the sticking point, as most literature considers a happy ending to be fundamental in defining aromance.
Can one still cherish a love that ends in grief?
—from “In Defiance of Death, and of Genre: TheNeiriadas a Romance,” by Dr. Morgan Malory, collected inThe Llyrian Journal of Literary Criticism, 198 AD
“Come on, mate. Youhaveto go.”
Preston and Lotto were both standing in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway of their dorm. Preston was staring skeptically and slightly morosely at his reflection. Clad in a suitand dress robes, he looked obscure to himself, like a stranger. Lotto had slung an arm over his shoulder and was patting his head in an affectionate way that slightly mussed his hair. It helped that Lotto had been steadily drinking since the early afternoon.
“There’s really no reason,” Preston said. “It’s just another outdated tradition. And now it’s being trotted out as amorale-boostingexercise, which really just means a crude display of nationalism and xenophobia.”
“That’s all themorereason to go,” Lotto said. He stood up straighter, letting his arm slip from Preston’s shoulder, and adopted a more solemn tone. “They win if you just hide yourself away. Southey and his lackeys. That self-important cu—”
“All right, stop,” Preston cut in, the back of his neck prickling with heat. “I’ll go. But you have to be on your best behavior.”
“I’m always on my best behavior,” Lotto lied shamelessly.
