Page 62 of A Theory of Dreaming
“I can’t go like this,” she muttered. “I look...”
She hadn’t glanced in a mirror in days, but she could feel her long hair falling matted down her shoulders. Her dry, cracked lips hurt whenever she spoke. And she was certain that, despite how much sleep she had gotten, her eyes would still be ringed with deep, dark crescents of violet.
“I’ll help you,” Preston said. “All right? I’ll help.”
And so, as Effy sat there, hunched on the bed, Preston went about the room, gathering her clothes. He dressed her, maneuvering her limp body with great gentleness. He even ran a brushthrough her hair, careful not to tug at the knots. When he was finished, he brushed the loose strands back from her face. Then he picked up the length of white ribbon from her dresser.
“Do you want this?” he asked.
Effy shook her head.
He brought her tea and tried to make her drink it. Effy could only manage a few sips; even with sugar and milk, it tasted like nothing and dissolved on her tongue. Then she caught her reflection, dull and rippling, in the surface of the pale brown water. She looked very, very tired.
Preston led her, on unsteady legs, to the literature building. She had managed to make it just in time for her meeting. Pausing at the door of Tinmew’s office, he gave her hand one last squeeze and said, “I’ll be waiting outside.”
Effy nodded. She couldn’t quite manage to thank him.
She would have been more afraid to enter had she not still felt overwhelmingly numb. Effy pushed through the door. Professor Tinmew’s office was smaller than Dean Fogg’s, but it was all shining mahogany wood and brown leather, and it smelled of pipe smoke. He was seated behind his desk, a book open in front of him and a pen beside it. He looked up when Effy stepped inside.
“Euphemia,” he said. “Sit.”
He didn’t comment on her weeks of absence—perhaps he simply hadn’t noticed. As Effy moved toward one of the armchairs, she noticed for the first time a figure in the corner. He was anotherstudent, in the literature college uniform, his arms crossed over his chest and watching her intently.
“Who’s that?” Effy blurted.
“My teaching assistant,” Tinmew replied, in a clipped tone. “After your...involvementwith Master Corbenic, I decided it would be to both of our benefits to have a witness to what transpires.”
Effy’s face burned. She sank down into the chair, trying not to slouch and willing herself not to give it all up and just flee. She was good at escaping. That was one option that was always left to her.
“So let’s discuss your paper, then,” said Tinmew, closing the book in front of him. “I hope you’ve come here today with your topic.”
White noise crackled inside Effy’s head. She cleared her throat and said, “The ethics of an amanuensis. That’s my topic.”
Professor Tinmew gave her a contemptuously befuddled look. “What was that?”
“An amanuensis,” she repeated. “A scribe. Ardor used one, when composing ‘The Garden in Stone.’ His daughter, Antonia. I found a copy of her letters and diary entries in the library. She discusses the writing process. How she helped him, how she even made edits and additions of her own. It seems like an ethical issue, doesn’t it? Ardor is seen as the sole author, but he isn’t—or, well...”
Effy trailed off, shrinking under Tinmew’s remote stare. His eyes had narrowed to slits, but he didn’t say a word. He steepled his hands and rested his chin upon them, as if waiting for her to go on.
“I have the book,” Effy said, leaning down and wrestling it fromher satchel. “Antonia writes about her father’s illness, his blindness, and how she transcribed the poem for him. I asked you once, why you thought some of the lines were bolded or capitalized. I think Antonia was secretly leaving her mark, indicating where she was adding her own words.”
Still, Tinmew didn’t speak, but, suddenly blustery with confidence, Effy met his stare. The only sound in the room was his teaching student, shuffling and clearing his throat.
At last, Tinmew said, “This class operates under the theory of formalism, Miss Sayre, in case you’ve forgotten. These outside influences—Ardor’s illness, his relationship with his daughter—are all irrelevant to analysis of the text. Your paper should be focusing on grammar, syntax, meter, rhyme... not this supposedethicaldilemma. It is beyond the bounds of this class’s subject matter.”
Effy felt a twinge of frustration. “I think that the circumstances and the means of composition influence the work produced. In inextricable ways.”
“Then I imagine you will enjoy the pedagogical approach of some of my colleagues far more,” Tinmew said. He arranged the papers on his desk in an inane way, as though to signify his boredom with their conversation. “This is an introductory lecture. It is not for you to debate philosophies or take aim at entire schools of thought.” He looked up and raised a brow. “I’m aware that you’ve already established a reputation for yourself as a maverick in the field, but please leave your puffed-up ego at the door. You’ve done your dirty work against Myrddin; I don’t think that Ardor needs to receive the same injurious treatment.”
Effy was stunned into silence. The teaching assistant gave a choked little gasp of shock.
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” she said, and then quickly added, “Sir. I was just enthusiastic about the subject matter. I’m not trying to take aim at Ardor...”
Yet Antonia’s words echoed in the back of her mind.
Please—free me—free me—how much longer must I endure this posthumous existence?Did her agony at her father’s hand not matter at all? Was it possible for her pain to coexist with the great art it had produced?
Was there any way to protect books, poems, paintings from the ugly, banal reality in which they were composed? She had discovered the truth, about Ardor, about Myrddin, but at what cost? It was not just the soul of the nation she had wounded. It was her own heart, her own mind, all of it going to ruin now, because there was nothing left that she could love without a footnote or an asterisk.
