Page 63 of A Theory of Dreaming
Perhaps there was something to be said for Tinmew’s formalist approach. Effy didn’t think she could bear it. Not again, not anymore. Not another girl.
She was so tired.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Tinmew replied, in a tone of icy condescension. “But I suspect that you haven’t actually been attending my lecture in quite some time. If you had, you would be aware that the syllabus has been modified. We are now studying Colin Blackmar’s seminal work ‘The Dreams of a Sleeping King.’”
Effy was so taken aback she could no longer be bothered to playact politeness. “What?”
“Surely you’re aware that with the government’s new restrictions, the university has imposed temporary measures to prevent loss of morale.” Tinmew leaned back in his chair, now steepling his hands over his stomach. “Dean Fogg saw it as imperative to adjust the curriculum of our class accordingly. Ardor’s work, while influential, lacks the strongly nationalist character of Blackmar’s.”
“But he’s a joke,” Effy broke in. “We studied that poem inprimaryschool.”
“Yes, well, we all must suffer the costs of war. This is a relatively minor burden to bear. Particularly compared to the trials put upon our enemy. The draft and all that. What a pity.” His voice reflected no pity at all.
Effy’s skin prickled. She thought of Preston emerging from the telephone booth, his expression one of blank horror, of shock. She swallowed down the rising knot of anger in her throat and, with a pointed stare, she said, “It’s always a tragedy when young men die in an old man’s war.”
She was perversely pleased to see a faint flush appear on Tinmew’s face. He stiffened and sat up, placing his palms flat on his desk with force.
“I believe we’re finished here, Euphemia,” he said. “Why don’t you make an appointment to return when you’ve come up with an essay topic on ‘The Dreams of a Sleeping King.’ And I’d suggest putting in a bit more effort to show your face in my lecture hall. I don’t enjoy failing first-years, but there are always exceptions to be made.”
Effy stood, cheeks heating. She gathered up her book and her bag, and stalked out of the room without another word.
“Do you want to tell me about the meeting?” Preston asked as she emerged from Tinmew’s office.
“No,” Effy said. The last thing he needed to know was that she had burned seemingly yet another bridge at the university. How long would it be, she wondered, before Dean Fogg had enough of a reason to suspend her, too?
She was only slenderly protected by the attention of the media; she could always take her grievances to Finisterre again and shame him. But as time wore on, and as the war effort intensified, the less powerful that trump card became. The more readily she could be painted as asaboteur, and any empathy for her cause would evaporate.
“All right,” Preston replied, tone uneasy. “Shall we get something to eat? Some coffee, at least?”
Effy had not felt truly hungry in weeks. She wondered whether her weight loss had become noticeable. To put off Preston’s worry, she replied, “Yes. Fine.”
As they walked past the Drowsy Poet, its lights turned low inside, Effy paused to catch her reflection in the window. Once she would have seen the Fairy King, rising up behind her in his robes of black, colorless eyes flashing and clawed hands reaching. She would have been half horror, half relief.
Now she saw... nothing at all. Just her own face staring back, pale and gaunt, and, even with Preston at her side, alone.
Twenty-Two
What became of the mermaid, Dahut? Was she caught in some sailor’s net and carried to shore as his unwilling bride, like a selkie stripped of its skin? Did she wash up on the dry-cracked shore and die of thirst, the water just a finger’s reach away? Or did she remain beneath the waves, in a palace of alabaster coral, a labyrinth of her own design, never again straining for the light of the sun? Mermaids can breathe water as mortals breathe air, but all living creatures can drown.
—fromLes Contes de Fées d’Argant,by Ulysse Guégan, 144 AD
“Shall we begin?”
Preston was in Master Gosse’s office, again. A mere day had passed since he had helped Effy to her meeting with Tinmew. The pages of Angharad’s diary and the open copy of theNeiriadwere spread out across the carpet. Wearily, Preston shifted from the armchair and to the ground, kneeling among the papers, the back of his neck prickling. Master Gosse lowered himself to the floor beside him.
Itwas morning, but the shades were drawn, and the room was illuminated only by the small desk lamp, which emitted a filmy and indistinct light. The walls, with their dark wood, seemed tight and close, as if they were pressing in on him. Still, it was better than the museum, where Preston had more to fear than Master Gosse’s fevered delusions. His adviser, too, had been spooked by the tightened restrictions, that terrible missive handed down by the Ministry. It would be tempting fate far too much to try to sneak in anArgantiansaboteur. Even Master Gosse had his limits.
Gosse’s eyes gleamed with eagerness as he stared at Preston. “Héloury—”
“Why me?” Preston broke in. His voice was strangled. “Why am I the one who...”
He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Yet it was the question that had preyed on his mind more than anything over these past weeks. Why had this happened to him? Why did he hear the bells when no one else did? Or, perhaps better—perhaps worse—this had nothappenedto him, and he had done it to himself, simply because he could not bear the world as it was, and wanted to exist in a better one.
Son of Argant. Son of Llyr. This world has been built for you. Now you may mold it to your desires.
“I have my theories,” Master Gosse replied. “Of course I have my theories. What sort of academic would I be if I didn’t? And surely you have theories of your own.”
Preston swallowed.
