Page 74 of A Theory of Dreaming
All hecoulddo was this: he approached Effy and took her into his arms. It was unexpectedly difficult; her whole body was tense and taut with her despair. It was like holding a statue of marble. She wept inconsolably, burying her face against his shoulder, until her tears soaked his shirt. Time dragged past, every second an agony. And then finally—finally—she went limp.
Preston slid to the floor, still holding Effy against him. Her tears began to subside to whimpers. He held her there, without words, one hand braced around the back of her head and the other around her waist.
Lotto had come to stand in the doorway. He stared in silence, his face grown pale. Maisie’s expression was remarkably solemn, and she did not speak, either, though there was a slight tremor in her chin. And Rhia—ever cheerful, ever easygoing Rhia—watched from her chair without words, looking as if she might come to weeping, too.
Twenty-Five
I may have been a girl when he came for me, but I am most assuredly a woman now. I had thought I might grow strength in my years, as an oak tree thickens and spreads its roots, but I feel in many respects weaker than I ever was before. If there is one great virtue of girlhood, it is the insulation of dreams. We are protected, as children, by our belief in the unreal. In moments of solitude I can turn back time and imagine myself as young again: my bare feet in the grass, a crown of white flowers and juniper berries in my hair. I can make myself believe in knights and heroes, in such sweet-voiced and pure-hearted saviors. I take refuge in these dreams. I dive eagerly into unreal waters. But when I return, dragged unwillingly to the shore like a mermaid in a net, I am bereft again. Womanhood has left me with no place to hide.
—from the diaries of Angharad Myrddin, 199 AD
Effy managed to calm her breathing just enough for Preston to help her to her feet. Her limbs felt numb and heavy. Her throat had a crackling ache and her cheeks stung from being washed with tears. Her lashes were spiked into wet daggers, and they made her flinch every time she blinked.
Lotto, Maisie, and Rhia watched her without speaking, their expressions all some degree of horrified. It was Rhia’s face that made Effy’s heart crumple. She looked like a wounded animal, in half disbelief that she had been shot through the heart.
Effy could not bear to see it—another person she had hurt, something else she had ruined and done all wrong. She turned away and, without a word, allowed Preston to lead her into her bedroom.
Once inside, he left her to stand and went to examine the bottles of pills on her dresser. Both were about a quarter full, ordinarily no need for immediate concern—but Effy had gotten to the point where she needed three sleeping pills, sometimes four, just to knock her into oblivion. At this rate, she would run out in less than a week.
Preston picked up the bottle and turned it over, frowning. “Do you have the number for your doctor in Draefen?”
Effy shook her head. “No, I... I never called him myself. My mother or one of my grandparents always did it.”
He was being careful, Effy could tell, to keep his expression schooled and neutral, unperturbed. But she heard him give a soft exhale.
“Could you give them a call, then?” he asked. “Then they can call the doctor—”
“No.” Tears leaped back into Effy’s eyes, and her throat tightened with renewed panic. “I can’t, I can’t talk to my grandparents, or my mother—they’ll be so angry at me. They’ll tell me I’ve been irresponsible for letting it get this far...”
She trailed off, her brain clouding with sudden weariness. If she couldn’t hold herself together in front of Preston, she wouldn’tbe able to pretend for her mother or her grandparents. They would know within moments how feeble she’d become.
“You mean, irresponsible for relying on them for just one thing?” Anger pitched in Preston’s voice. “You never ask them for anything, Effy.Never.That’s just absurd.”
“But that’s what they’ll think.” She was weary, too weary to explain further. And even if she had the strength, what would she say? This was something Preston would never understand. He had a family who loved him. A mother who would never have left him out in the cold. This barrier between them felt as real and tangible as glass, like she could press her fingers against it but never break through.
Preston let out a disgusted breath. It was rare for Effy to see him so boldly, nakedly angry. Even if it was on her behalf, it unnerved her.
Then, as if sensing the need to calm himself—almost as if he could read her thoughts—Preston closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose—still unoccupied by his glasses—and said, “I could try and call.”
“What?”
“What if I called them?” Preston looked up at her, suddenly determined. “I’ll just explain the situation. Would that make it easier?”
“Well...” Effy swallowed. “Maybe. I suppose.”
“All right, then,” Preston said. Relief was clear in his tone and on his face. “Let’s go.”
She followed him outside, into the cold and then into the telephone booth, its glass panes turned nearly opaque with frost. Herbreath came out in white clouds, and her hair, still slightly damp, only made her chillier. Teeth chattering, her hands stuffed into her pockets, she gave Preston the phone number to her grandparents’ house.
Effy hoped it would be her grandfather who answered. He was least likely to berate or lecture her. Being rather distant and cold, he would probably just shake his head in dismay and then snap an order to his secretary. Better than her grandmother, who would not let her get away without a scolding.
And both were better than her mother.
In the small booth, Effy could easily hear the dial tone and the staticky ringing on the other end, even though it was Preston who had the receiver against his ear. It rang once, twice. Three times. And then—
“Hello?”
Her mother.
