Page 53 of A Theory of Dreaming
Preston blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your accent,” said the bartender. He was a man who looked to be in his middle twenties; unlike the porters, he had the affect of the middle class. “You’re Argantian, aren’t you?”
Preston had taken hold of the drinks, and the glasses suddenly felt very cold against his palms.
He had always prided himself on the subtlety of his accent, had thought that it was scarcely noticeable. Especially in this loud, overcrowded room, how had the bartender managed to discern it? Once he might have felt flustered.
“None of your damn business,” he bit back. He only felt angry. The force of his rage surprised and terrified him.
And then, before the bartender could reply, he turned and shoved his way back through the crowd. His pulse was pounding in his ears, drowning out even the sound of the music. He willed himself to calm down before he reached Effy. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him out of sorts. To see him enraged.
She had pressed herself against one of the far walls, kneading her gloved hands together. Relief blossomed on her face as he approached.
He handed her the gin cocktail and said, “Something sweet.”
Effy took it. They clinked glasses, and then each took a longdrink. With only one sip, her cheeks had already begun to pink. “Now it’s a proper party,” she said.
“Better than Blackmar’s banquet, I’ll give you that,” Preston replied.
“Well, you do have a suit that fits this time.” She smiled over the rim of her glass. “And at least one friend.”
Effy tilted her head toward Lotto. He had already amassed a small crowd as he slouched against one of the busts of a previous college master, one arm thrown over the statue’s shoulder, wineglass in his hand. He gestured animatedly, clearly telling some theatrical tale, and the men and women around him watched with transfixed stares.
“He better not be trying to steal someone’s date again,” Preston said, with a weary shake of his head.
“Did he really do that?”
“Yes. Last year. There was nearly a full-out brawl.”
Effy glanced up at him, then at Lotto again, then back to Preston. A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Well—” Preston started. He looked over at Lotto, who now appeared to be miming some sort of rugby move, head down, shoulders raised and in a pouncing pose. “I suppose. Unfortunately. And against my will.”
“Unfortunately?” Effy echoed.
“It would be easier,” Preston clarified, “if I didn’t care at all. If I could choose... I certainly wouldn’t have chosen someone who was so determined to sabotage himself at every turn. So unable to hear reason.”
Effy fell silent, and it seemed, for a moment, that she had takenthe music and the conversation with her. He couldn’t hear anything aside from the uneven beating of his heart. Reminding him, with every beat, that he was alive, and that one day he wouldn’t be. That all this would be gone.
“I didn’t realize it was so torturous for you,” she said at last. “Maybe I should just go.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Effy, no. That’s not—I would love you even if it was killing me slowly. Even if it ruined me. Don’t you know that?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor; she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t want to ruin you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it’s difficult to love me.”
“It’s not difficult. It’s the easiest thing in the world.” His voice lowered. “Sometimes it’s the only thing I’m certain about—that when I’m with you, it’s the right place for me to be.”
Effy brushed her eyes with the pad of her thumb, though Preston didn’t see any tears. At last she looked up at him again. “I don’t believe you. You’re always looking for the discrepancy. The exception. You don’t think that anything is so simple that it can be boiled down to an axiom.”
Preston had never really thought about himself that way. But he supposed that, in a sense, she was right. He had always needed an escape hatch.There were no universal truths. And it made him feel so very tired, tired of being in his own head.
“But perhaps that’s how I know that I love you,” he said at last. “Because it is simple. Because all the quibbling in my mind goes silent when I look into your eyes.”
And it was true. When he looked at her he knew—heknew—beyond the shadow of a doubt, even when everything he did was always couched in exceptions, in what-ifs—that it was exactly where he belonged. Golden light danced in her eyes, and they gleamed like the green-fire torches in his underwater world. In his palace, where he worshipped her like a saint. His fairy-tale girl.
“I mean it,” he said softly, when Effy still didn’t reply. “Can’t you believe me? You know what a terrible liar I am.”
She believed in fairies, in monsters, in magic, but she couldn’t believe that he loved her completely and without reserve? It made him tired, too. And mournful.
