Page 57 of A Theory of Dreaming
With utmost tenderness, Preston brushed her hair back from her shoulders and kissed her throat, then her collarbone. Her pulse twinged and that place in the bottom of her belly grew taut. He bore her down onto the bed, and in a matter of moments, they were both swathed and tangled in the sheets.
Effy had been with him enough times to know that he would be gentle. She knew the manner in which he would slide his arm beneath her and tilt up her hips, the way he would duck his head into the curve of her shoulder, breathing hard and huskily until they were both wrung through. But he seemed to hold her even tighter now, as if he could bear no space between them.
When the theater behind her eyelids was flickering with false stars and Preston had collapsed beside her, panting, Effy reached over and placed her palm flat on his chest. Over his heart. They were both still, illuminated only by the pale, pooling moonlight that slanted through his window. It clung to the curves and valleys of Preston’s face in profile, making him appear even more still, somehow, like a marble statue veined in silver.
In a swift and sudden motion, Preston reached up and clasped her hand in his. It was her left hand, with its absent ring finger. He didn’t speak, but Effy was afraid that he had come to think of it the way she did. That he had come to believe she was ruined long before they had ever known each other.
But Preston never said a word. And he held her hand until they drifted into their twin, moonlit slumbers, carrying them both into the refuge of dreams.
The next morning was cold and bleak. It was too cold, even, for snow to fall, and what remained on the sidewalks had ossified into banks as hard as bone. Effy’s breath streamed out from her face in white clouds as they approached the administrative building, Preston’s hand in hers, and Lotto in tow.
She was trying to guide Preston carefully around the obstacles on their path because he was not wearing his glasses. They had been left, broken and mangled, on his nightstand. Effy knew how terrible his vision was without them. But he maneuvered himself with remarkable certainty, as if he were not impaired at all by their absence. It unnerved Effy—was he so distraught that he didn’t care if he tripped, fell, or worse?
When they reached Dean Fogg’s office, they found Southey already waiting for them. His eye had swelled to a degree that would have been funny in another circumstance, the rough size and blue-black color of a plum. His other eye was narrowed to a slit. As they entered the room, he drew in a breath, as if preparing to speak, but he was cut off by another voice.
“Good to see you decided to turn up.” Master Gosse’s tone waslight, almost nauseatingly so. He leaned back against Dean Fogg’s desk and fiddled with an unlit cigarette. “Imagine my surprise, to receive a call in the middle of the night that my favorite student and advisee had landed himself in such an unfortunate and compromising situation.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Lotto shot back. “Southey was being his usual self, an unabashed prick. He was taunting him.”
“Have you mistaken this university for a seedy pub, Mr. Grey?” It was Dean Fogg who spoke now, andhistone was all ice. He rose from his chair and walked around his desk, gesturing to the chairs that had been set before it—four of them, in a neat row. “Do we settle our disputes with drunken brawls?Sit.All of you.”
Muttering to himself, Lotto dropped into his seat. Effy followed, lowering herself slowly into the middle chair, and Preston filed in after her, perching stiffly on the edge of his seat. Southey watched them balefully before at last taking the chair to Lotto’s left.
“I don’t expect I’ll get the full truth out of any of you,” Dean Fogg said. “But the porters relayed to me what they observed. Mr. Southey approached Mr. Héloury, who were both inebriated. Brief words were exchanged. And then Mr. Héloury tackled Mr. Southey to the floor.” Dean Fogg’s gaze fixed on Effy. “The porters said it was a fight over a girl.”
“That’s a lie,” Effy bit out. “Preston was drinking, but he wasn’tdrunk. But Southey was practically slurring his words. He was taunting him. He called him—” Effy cut herself off, her throat suddenly too tight to speak. Remembering the way Southey had sneeredArgantian scummade her skin prickle with rage.
“Regardless,” Dean Fogg said, “it’s clear that Mr. Héloury was the one who escalated the situation to physical violence.”
All the eyes in the room turned to him. For the entire time they had been inside Dean Fogg’s office, Preston had not said a word. At some point, he had folded back into his seat, bent over with elbows on his knees, hands obscuring his face. Even now, he didn’t so much as flinch.
“Héloury?” Master Gosse prodded. “Suppose you explain your side of the story?”
There was a long beat of silence.
“It’s like you all said,” Preston whispered at last. “Southey taunted me. I attacked him.”
This time, the silence was not quite so long, but it was infinitely more uncomfortable. Effy felt her stomach churning. Dean Fogg’s gaze flickered in a bewildered way.
“And do you have any defense for your actions?” he asked.
“No.” The word dropped like a cold stone.
“I want him expelled,” Southey snarled. “Once my father hears about this—”
“Oh, shut up about your father,” Lotto said, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you fight your own battles?” He paused, and then with a snicker and a glance at Southey’s eye, he went on, “Evidently not.”
“That’senough, Mr. Grey,” Dean Fogg cut in. “The porters’ story has been corroborated. I’ll have to call a meeting of the disciplinary board, who will decide upon a course of action. Until then, Mr. Héloury, I have no choice but to suspend you.”
“What?” Effy leaped to her feet, with so much force that herchair toppled to the floor. Her heart was pounding in her ears. “That’s completely unfair.”
“Sit down, Miss Sayre,” Dean Fogg said.
“No.”
She had been here before, in this very same room, in these very same chairs, fighting for Angharad. For herself. Preston had helped her fight then, but now—he still sat in that same hunched position, his hands over his face, the only sign of life the faint rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.
“You should hear what he said to me.” Her voice shook, but she didn’t relent. She looked over at Southey, who was glaring defiantly back. “The disgusting things he—heproposed. He should be suspended at the very least, too.”
