Page 52 of A Theory of Dreaming
Preston gave him a death stare.
But Lotto backed off, and, as he adjusted his bow tie and tried vainly to smooth his hair, Preston recalled their previous two Midwinter Balls. Their first year Lotto had gotten so drunk that he had tripped, falling in such a dramatic way that he splattered his glass of wine all over the portrait of Corentin Eresby, one of the former masters of the literature college. The Earl of Clare had not been happy when he was made to pay for it.
Their second year was arguably worse. Lotto had not gotten quite as drunk, but that only meant he was more solicitous, strutting about the ballroom and flirting with whoever would give him a moment’s attention. The night ended with him taking another student’s datehome. That had made both him and Preston quite unpopular with their peers; for weeks afterward, Preston had been shunned and whispered about while walking through the college halls.
As much as Preston wished he didn’t, he felt a sort of responsibility for Lotto, a desire to keep him from his worst impulses. Perhaps it was because his own brother was so far away, across the unbreachable border, and Preston couldn’t help or protect him. Somehow, Lotto had carved his way into a place in his heart that previously Preston had reserved only for family.
And, of course, he couldn’t leave Effy out in the cold. Likely she had already arrived at the ball and was waiting for him. That was the thought that energized him at last, and Preston took his coat from the rack and put it on. Lotto was pouring himself another drink; Preston snatched the glass from his hand and herded his roommate toward the door.
Right before he crossed the threshold, Preston took one quick glance back in the mirror. Somehow, his reflection seemed foggier to him than before, as if his glasses were misted with condensation. But if the mirror wasn’t working as it should, plenty of voices piled in his ears, telling him who and what he was:Saboteur. Traitor. Argantian. Young unbeliever.
King.
The ballroom was already packed when they arrived, abuzz with voices, the mass of bodies shifting beneath the gleaming golden lights. Drinks were raised for toasts, and women lifted their gloved hands to cover their mouths when they laughed. From the cornerwhere the orchestra sat, there was the twanging of harp strings and the warbling of the violins.
Preston and Lotto checked their coats and then Preston cast his gaze across the ballroom, squinting as he searched. His vision still felt oddly blurred. He took off his glasses and was cleaning them with the tail of his shirt when he heard her voice.
“Hello.”
He put his glasses back on hurriedly and turned. Effy stood before him, her golden hair gathered and pinned up in a shiny chignon, her throat ringed with pearls. Her lips were painted the soft color of a just-budded rose. And her dress—a floaty, delicate mesh of sky blue and pale pink, shimmering in subtle, clever places between the folds of fabric. It looked like sea-foam, like the ocean at dawn. It was as if she had come right out of the water, a mermaid with her tail magicked away, taking her first hesitant steps to shore. She belonged more in that palace beneath the waves than in this bleak, banal human world. He felt it was rude, almost cruel, that somehow she had been forced into it.
Preston’s breath caught in his chest. He could not say everything he was thinking, much less everything he was feeling, and so he said what was simplest and the truest: “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.” A faint flush colored her cheeks. “It’s all thanks to Rhia, really. And her magical depthless closet.”
Preston reached for her gloved hand. But before their fingers could touch, Lotto was bullying his way between them.
“Effy Sayre,” he said, andhetook her hand, raising it to his mouth for a polite kiss. “What my good friend Preston means tosay is that you look ravishing, sublime, ethereal—”
“If only you could apply this eloquence to your coursework,” Preston interrupted. He was surprised by the faint tremor of anger he felt. Heknewthere was nothing threatening about Lotto’s shameless flirtation, and yet—
But Effy was smiling good-naturedly. “You heard him, Mr. Héloury. If you don’t lavish compliments on your date, Lancelot Grey will do it for you.”
Preston let out a breath. “You have no idea how utterly true that is.”
Lotto led the way into the ballroom, and Preston took Effy’s hand at last and walked in with her. He was grateful that the other students were already far too deep into their drinks to pay any mind to them, though he couldn’t stop scanning the room, trying to make sure he and Effy weren’t the target of any glares. He saw the top of Southey’s white-blond head, but his attention was elsewhere, with his friends and the bottom of his glass. Preston exhaled quietly with relief.
“Shall I get us drinks?” Preston asked.
Effy bit her lip, hesitating. He knew she rarely drank and he didn’t want to force her. After a moment, she said, “All right. But no scotch or whiskey, please. Something... something sweet.”
“I suppose I could ask the bartender to spike your drink with six sugars, just the way you take your coffee.”
“Oh, be quiet.”
Preston bit his lip on a smile, then leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
Effy nodded, but Preston couldn’t help hesitating, for just a moment. The room had been adorned in false vines, ribbons of green silk that draped over the paintings and the wall-mounted candles. There were artificial trees placed at the chamber’s edges, their branches spreading, garlanded with fairy lights and synthetic moss—all of it to, rather dubiously, fit thefolkloretheme. When he saw Effy standing among it, shadowed slightly by the tree canopy, and close enough that the hanging vines nearly brushed the crown of her head, a tremor of unease ran through him. He thought of her at Hiraeth, in the damp, verdant woods beside the cliffs, eyes wide and wheeling as she tried desperately to convince him that the Fairy King was real. That he was coming.
He had been so fearful of losing her then, to magic or to madness. And now the memory struck him through like an arrow, piercing him with the very same fear.
But he could not speak it aloud. What good would it do to remind her of it, to poison her with his paranoias? Blinking away the memory, Preston turned and maneuvered through the crowd, toward the bar. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, but he ended up catching an elbow to the shoulder, and a girl in a bright purple dress turned around and glared at him. Then her date turned, too, and before Preston could hurry away, he thought he saw recognition flash in the other boy’s eyes.
He ordered drinks—a whiskey, neat, for himself, and a gin with soda water, syrup, and lemon for Effy—and leaned against the long oak bar to wait. With the sound of the music and all themuffled conversations, he couldn’t make out any individual words, any invectives against him.
It was only when the bartender returned, sliding the drinks across the counter, that Preston found himself confronted.
“Argantian?” the bartender asked.
