Page 68 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Surely this can’t come as a surprise,” Maisie said flatly. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail, and her arms were folded across her chest; with her impressive height and her neatly pressed uniform, she gave the impression of a disdainful schoolmistress. “Perhaps if you spent less time bedding half the university—”
“My irresistible charms are both a blessing and a curse.”
Maisie snorted. “Irresistibleis one word for it.”
“Enough,” Preston said tiredly. “What do you want me to do?”
Lotto cleared his throat. “Ah, well, I thought that maybeyou could—if you were so inclined—perhaps you wouldn’t mind speaking to him for me. Explaining the situation.” Lotto looked at Preston, bald pleading in his eyes. “He likes you quite a lot. More than he does me.”
“That’s not true,” Preston said. But, as always, he was an unconvincing liar. Effy could well imagine that the earl would hold Preston in high esteem. Top literature student, Master Gosse’s favorite, legate, consummately responsible and frustratingly brilliant. He was a son any father would be happy to have.
At least, before he met her. Now he was suspended, likely to be expelled. The thought made a lump form in her throat. She was dragging him down, burdening him with her ineptitude and her sadness. He didn’t deserve that—and she didn’t deservehim.
“It’s at least half true,” Lotto said. His brow wrinkled. “Please?”
Several moments passed in silence. Preston looked at Lotto, and then glanced over at Effy, as if for permission. She nodded, even as the lump in her throat grew and nearly choked her.
“All right,” Preston said at last. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
The five of them made their way into the kitchen. Rhia, ever the enthusiastic hostess, put on a kettle for tea. Lotto slumped into one of the chairs, not even bothering to shrug out of his coat. Preston pulled out a chair so that Effy could sit, and then he sank down beside her. Maisie stood slightly off to the side, arms still folded peevishly across her chest.
The table was a cluttered mess of papers. Frowning, Effy beganto thumb through them. There were some torn-out notebook pages, covered in Rhia’s hasty scrawl, but most of it was sheet music. Effy lifted one paper from the pile.
“‘Wayward Daughter,’” Effy read aloud. “‘A Melody for Dahut.’ What is this?”
“Oh,” Rhia said, turning away from the teakettle. “That’s my piece for the showcase.Wasmy piece. They canceled the showcase because they were afraid that not everyone would perform banal songs of patriotism.” She rolled her eyes.
Effy bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing,” Rhia said. “And it’s not your fault. I could still let you hear it, if you want.”
But before Effy could reply, Preston had snatched the page from her hand. She was too surprised to be offended. He squinted his eyes—still managing, somehow, without his glasses—and then looked up at Rhia with urgency. “You’ve heard of Dahut?”
“Well, yes,” Rhia replied. “And so have all of you. She’s King Neirin’s daughter. I know that Aneurin doesn’t give her a name in theNeiriad, but in our Southern folktales, we call her Dahut.”
“And your song is about her?”
Rhia nodded. “I always thought Aneurin never gave her a fair shake. Her portrayal is rather one-dimensional, his version. The evil girl with the traitorous heart. But in a lot of the folklore of the South, Neirin is portrayed in a less favorable light. He’s crueler, especially to his daughter. So when she flees, it’s to escape her tyrannical father. And the city falls in retaliation for Neirin’s crimes.”
“And what happens to Dahut?” Preston asked.
“The saints take pity on her and, instead of drowning her, they turn her into a mermaid,” Rhia said. “I wrote lyrics about that. And the youth that she loved. Their story seemed as much a tragedy as the city falling.”
“Silver,” Preston murmured.
Rhia cocked her head. “What was that?”
“Silver,” Preston repeated, more clearly this time. “In your Southern iterations of the myth, is the youthsilver-clad, the way he is in theNeiriad?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Rhia frowned. “And he’s not a prince or an enemy soldier in disguise. He’s just an ordinary boy who falls in love with the proverbial princess in the tower. Why?”
“Because.” Preston lifted his gaze, his voice grown solemn and deep. “We have the same version of the myth, in Argant.”
There was a silence, inflected only by the burbling of the kettle. Rhia moved it from the burner and onto the counter, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“That can’t be,” she said at last. “It’sourstory—no offense. The story of the last king of Llyr.”
“Allegedly,” Preston said.
