Page 7 of A Theory of Dreaming
Preston opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Effy grasped his wrist and maneuvered him past Rhia, through the corridor, and to her bedroom. “Thanks for the tea,” she called out, before shoving Preston into her room and closing the door firmly behind them.
“I would’ve stamped the snow off if she’d given me half a minute,” Preston muttered.
“Never mind that,” Effy said. She was so glad to see him that she didn’t care that he was dripping water all over her carpet. “Here—give me your coat.”
He shrugged out of it, and Effy took it to hang in the closet. Even soaked, the coat smelled reassuringly ofhim—tweed and wool and the faint lingering of cigarette smoke. Just to hold it was comforting. She plucked a towel from the back of her door and handed it to him. While he dried his hair—transformed to a heretofore unknown state of messiness by the rain and the snow—Effy carefully plucked his glasses from his face. They were blurred with condensation. She could hardly imagine how he had even navigated the darkening streets in this condition. She cleaned them off and then placed them back on his face, but not before brushing her fingers gently over the twin marks on the bridge of his nose.
“Thank you,” Preston said softly.
She nodded.
“How was class?”
She had known the question was coming, but her stomach still crinkled to hear it. “It was... ah...”
“It wasn’t all right?”
Preston’s brow was furrowed. With his damp hair curling over his forehead, standing with a slightly apologetic slouch so he could meet her eyes, he looked almost innocent to Effy in a strange way—so earnest in his concern that the last thing she wanted in the world was to disappoint him. To make him worry for her.
“It’s just—we were reading Ardor,” she said slowly, “and I suppose I wasn’t prepared—I only had time to skim it—they just started reciting... numbers.”
“Oh,” Preston said. “Line scansion. Tinmew makes all his classes scan for meter before diving into the text.”
“Scansion,” Effy repeated.
“Yes. Determining the meter of verse—based on syllabic stress.” When Effy only stared back at him blankly, he hastened to add, “It’s really quite intuitive once you get the hang of it, I promise. I can give you my copy of Ardor. It’s already been marked up.”
“Very generous of you,” Effy said. She couldn’t keep the edge of bitterness from her voice.
“That’s sort of what I meant when I said Tinmew was a formalist,” said Preston. His tone grew soft—and Effy felt it was almost pitying. “I should have been clearer. Tinmew cares only for theformof language, the style. Not for the historical or biographical context. The form itself is the meaning; the author and everything else is irrelevant. It presents an objective basis for evaluating literature. Like a science.”
Effy inhaled sharply. “If I had known it was all so utterlyscientific, maybe I would have stayed in architecture.”
“It’s only one approach, Effy. I can’t say that I’m particularly enamored of formalism myself, but it’s useful to understand the different methods. It’s part of being a well-rounded scholar.”
“Well.” Effy was beginning to feel precisely two inches tall. “I suppose I’ll figure it out. And it’s only one class.”
“Exactly,” Preston said. “Your other classes will be less rote.”
She decided not to mention the cruel stares of the other students—what would it achieve, other than to provoke Preston’s worry? She let her gaze wander, and her eyes landed on Preston’s satchel, which he had left rather unceremoniously slumped against the doorframe. Then she remembered what he had been doing this whole time, and was grateful for the opportunity to change the subject.
“How was your meeting with Gosse?” she asked.
With her question, something in the air shifted abruptly—it gained a sharp quality, almost, like the wind snapping at the hem of a dress. It was very subtle, but she saw Preston flinch.
“It was fine,” he said. “Gosse is swanning in all the attention. If theTimesoffers him another interview, he might keel over with delight.”
“Better him than us,” Effy said. The thought of being probed by reporters—the thought of facing their flashing cameras and unblinking eyes—made her stomach twinge again. “He’s probably wishing he could put his name on the cover sheet.”
“Something like that,” Preston said. He paused, and did not elaborate further. But before Effy could probe, he added, “That wasn’t all he told me.”
“Oh?” Effy arched a brow. “What is it?”
Preston drew a breath, as if to steel himself. Then, rather than reply, he bent down and opened his satchel. He withdrew a bundle of black clothing and held it out to her. In only the sullen, remote light from her bedside lamp, it took Effy a moment to recognize what it was. She picked up the first item and let it unfoldfrom her hands. A black blazer, just like the ones that the other literature students had worn.
“Dean Fogg is implementing some new policies,” said Preston. “Or rather, he’s newly enforcing some very old policies. Now all students are required to wear their uniforms to classes and to other university-sponsored events.”
Effy’s heart felt crushed—first with dismay, and then with anger. “He couldn’t have mentioned thatbeforeI embarrassed myself in my very first class?”
