Page 54 of A Theory of Dreaming
“I’ll try,” she replied finally, her voice little more than a whisper.
“All right,” Preston said. What more could he ask? He took the last sip of his drink and then set it down on a nearby table. “Will you dance with me?”
Effy nodded. She put down her glass, still half-full, the ice melting, and took his hand. He led her out onto the dance floor, surrounded by swaying couples, sequins glinting in girls’ dresses and fabric swishing, wool against silk. Preston braced his arm around her waist, and she curled hers around his shoulder.
For several moments, they danced in silence, keeping pace with the couples around them. The music lulled and then swelled. It was a slow song, and a sad one, at least to Preston’s mind. His face was so close to Effy’s that he could see the fluttery shadow of her lashes against her cheek, the single strand of golden hair come loose and now feathering against her jaw. Hecould see the way the pearls gleamed against her skin, smooth and marble pale.
“Do you remember,” she said, “the last time we danced?”
“Of course. Blackmar’s party. After Marlowe...”
“You saved me,” Effy broke in. “I felt safe with you. It was the first time I realized—the first time Iknewthat I wanted... you.”
Preston smiled. “Then you were slower to come around than I was.”
“Oh?”
“I told you,” he said. “I wanted you since the very first day. Since I wrote your name on that paper.” He felt his cheeks warm. He knew it was silly, to be embarrassed by that now, but he went on, “I almost kissed you that night, at Blackmar’s.”
The corner of her mouth quivered. “Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid, I suppose. Afraid that you wouldn’t want me to. Afraid that I could hurt you.”
“Well,” she said slowly, as the song neared its end, “you don’t have to be afraid of that now.”
She pushed herself up, onto her tiptoes, and Preston dipped his head, lowering his mouth to hers. All around them, other couples dipped and whirled. But in the filmy darkness behind his eyelids, it was only Effy’s face he saw, her golden hair, her wide, dreaming gaze.
She was sheltered here, in his arms, at least for the moment. When he opened his eyes again, the candles on the wall seemed to burn faintly green. He blinked, and the illusion vanished, but the sense of contentment remained. Effy was safe in that underwaterpalace, in the realm where he was king. He would keep her safe in this world, too. At any cost.
As the hours wore on, the crowd on the dance floor began to thin. Couples instead lined up against the walls, the girls taking off their heels and wincing as they rubbed their sore feet, the boys offering their arms for balance. Half-empty drinks were scattered around, and the air grew hazy with cigarette smoke. The music played on, but conversation dulled to little more than a murmur.
He and Effy finished the night chatting with Lotto, who was the perfect amount of drunk to be buoyant and full of mirth. Just a bit more alcohol and he would’ve turned lazy and morose, and Preston would’ve had to sling his arm over his shoulder to ferry him home.
His own head was buzzing, the corners of his vision turned pleasantly blurry. While Lotto recounted a story about being found in a compromising position with the Viscountess of Blount, a married woman twice his age, Effy put her hand to her mouth and giggled. Preston realized it had been a while since he had heard her laugh so openly. A relief settled in him, a sense of peace. He leaned closer to listen to Lotto’s tale.
“—her husband was approximately five feet tall, even his heeled velvet slippers—”
“Hey! Héloury.”
Preston whirled around.
Southey was sauntering toward him, looking rather worse forwear. His drunkenness was obvious—his face was bright red, with a sheen of sweat across his forehead; his bow tie was undone and his cummerbund was loosened, sagging from his hips. He had two other boys trailing him, one of them the cuff link student from Gosse’s literature class.
Preston tensed. “What do you want?”
A lazy smirk emerged on Southey’s face. “No need to sound so hostile. I’m here to inquire about your well-being.”
“I highly doubt that,” Preston replied coldly. “Now leave me alone.”
“Yes, go away,” Lotto called, loudly enough that several heads turned. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Southey raised his brow. “To tell me thatI’munwelcome here, when your friend has decided to show his traitor face.” His tone was still maddeningly casual. “You don’t have to bum about with Argantians, Grey. I can’t imagine the Earl of Clare is very pleased with your choice of companion. Though I suppose he’s not pleased by anything you do.”
“Shut up, you twat,” snapped Lotto, who was far too drunk by now to have an eloquent rejoinder. “And piss off.”
Southey ignored him and stepped closer. Preston willed himself not to flinch.
“Iamconcerned about your mental state, Héloury,” Southey insisted, a smile playing at his lips. “The Argantian front line crumbling, the government instituting a draft—you must be miserable, imagining the wretched fates of your countrymen. Unless, of course, you’re drinking yourself blind to forget.”
