Page 58 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Yes,” Lotto spoke up earnestly. “Punish him for being a lout and a bigot.”
But it was Master Gosse who replied, ignoring both Effy and Lotto entirely. “Chin up, Héloury. A suspension isn’t the worst thing in the world. Take the time to clear your head. Perhaps you’ll emerge from this fallow period a changed man, as a flower blooms from desolate fields of ash.”
Effy was in no mood for whimsical and overwrought metaphors. “It’s not fair,” she repeated. “Preston wouldn’t have done it if not...”
If not for me.The thought, as it occurred to her quite suddenly, made her almost sick with revulsion. Revulsion for herself, because here she was again, a burden. If Preston had never known her, had never loved her, none of this would have happened. She—in some indirect way—was responsible for this. For hurting him.
Mollified by the realization, Effy sank back down into her seat.
“Leave now,” Dean Fogg said. “All of you. And for the sake of all the Saints, stay out of trouble for atleastthe next two weeks. The board will reach its decision by then.”
Effy returned to her dorm feeling empty. She was a shell that had been scraped clean, worn to translucence by the relentless, tossing tide. All she wanted was to sleep. But, with great effort, she gathered up her clothes and her towel and headed for the bathroom. After last night—and with Preston’s blood still staining the crevices of her palms—she needed a shower.
For some reason, she had not been expecting Rhia. She had assumed she would sleep over at Maisie’s, and it was only just after dawn. But she bumped into her roommate on the way to the bathroom.
Not even the shock of seeing her there made Effy startle. She was beyond—or perhaps beneath—the basic instinct of fear. But alarm crossed Rhia’s face at once.
“Effy,” she said. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Her roommate was still wearing last night’s ball gown, lipstick smudged. She had divested herself only of her gloves and shoes and jewelry, and the pins that had held back her thick curly hair. All the remains of joy and merrymaking. Beside her, Effy felt like a ghost.
“Ah, well...” Effy began.
She would have to tell her. Rhia would see the blood on her borrowed dress. And already she knew her friend saw the haunted look in her gaze. She could not hide.
But Effy was past the point of tears, too. Her eyes remained dry as she told Rhia everything, her voice monotone and growing quieter and quieter, until it was little more than a whisper. And while she felt no emotion—at least none she could discern or put a name to—she did feel some part of her slipping away, like a spirit vacating its vessel. She was not even a specter. She was a body without a girl inside it.
Twenty
The sleeping body of Aneurin the Bard was discovered in the second century BD, beneath a green knoll in the most remote hills of Southern Llyr. But, according to the Southern Llyrians of the area, this was no secret—they knew, all along, that the king’s bard was asleep under the hill. They simply also knew not to disturb him. Indeed, these peasants all bore a consistent tale: that, if one were to encounter a fairy in the woods or on the moors, the fairy would ask the question: “Does Aneurin the Bard still live?” The only way to keep from being killed or ferried away to the realm of the fae was to reply, “For now, he sleeps, but he will wake again, to reign and to conquer the world.” Then the fairy would allow you to pass unharmed.
—fromMyths and Legends of Southern Llyr, by Perceval Haldane, 101 AD
“Héloury. Wait.”
He was half in, half out of Dean Fogg’s office. Southey had already pushed brusquely past him, scowling and muttering swears, and Effy and Lotto were just ahead of him, down the hall.Dean Fogg had returned to his desk and was gathering tobacco for his pipe. It was Master Gosse who grabbed him by the forearm and halted him there in the threshold.
“What is it?” Preston asked. His voice was flat and tired.
“Will you come with me to my office a moment?”
Preston looked down at his adviser. Former adviser, he supposed. Now that he was suspended.
Despite it being so early, there was no sense of weariness about Master Gosse. His mustache was waxed and curled. His eyes were bright and flashing, no purple crescents of sleeplessness beneath them. And Preston could see all of this clearly, even without his glasses.
He did not know how it had happened, that suddenly he didn’t need them. He saw as sharply and perfectly as he could in his underwater world, in his palace. Ordinarily he would have interrogated this in his mind; he could never take something that appeared to be a miracle at face value. But now he was simply too tired.
And perhaps part of himdidalready know. The real world was breaking apart under his feet, and his fantasy, his dream, was surging up in its place. The world where he was king. He was infected with this delusion of power. It was turning him into a creature he did not recognize.
A creature that had beaten a man nearly to a pulp. Who had thought ofkillinghim.
Preston glanced down the corridor. Effy and Lotto were waiting there expectantly. He caught Effy’s eye, and gave her asilent nod of assurance. Her brow knitted with worry and she didn’t move.
So Preston’s gaze slid to Lotto instead, and he hoped that his roommate could read his silent entreaty.Please, he thought,just get her out of here, take her somewhere safe.He was no longer certain that he could keep her that way. He was no longer certain of anything.
And, to his great relief, Lotto nodded back. He put his arm gently around Effy’s waist and began to lead her away. But Effy watched him over her shoulder, never turning once. Her lower lip wobbled.
In the end, it was Preston who had to break his stare. Every part of him protested it. It felt so utterly, viscerallywrong. But he did not know anymore what was right. He only knew that he wanted her away from harm.
