Page 76 of A Theory of Dreaming
I’ve wrecked it, he thought. When the glass of Aneurin’s coffin had shattered under his hands, he knew that he had ruined everything. If the police did not find him then he would still have to face Master Gosse. If Master Gosse decided he had gone too far then he would be expelled, arrested, deported, even, torn away from Effy and thrust over the unbreachable border fence.
Yet he feared more than these mundane, mortal consequences. The stories of the Sleepers might not have been true, but they were real, at least in the ways that mattered. They were the magic that gave the ordinary world its protective luster. The people needed them as much as Effy had once needed the Fairy King. Perhaps still did. He had destroyed it all in pursuit of the truth, to sate his own desperation, to quell his own terrors.
Selfish, a voice in his head whispered.You don’t deserve her. It would be better if you stayed away.
Preston squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The dream world vanished. Effy reappeared before him: thin, shivering, and so very, very fragile.
He swallowed hard to clear his throat. “You’re not a burden,” he said at last, weakly.
Effy didn’t reply. Her eyes were hollow. He heard the faint sound of her teeth chattering.
“Why don’t you go inside? It’s freezing.” Preston reached out and rubbed her arms briskly up and down, at least to generate some superficial heat. “I’ll be there in just a moment.”
Still, Effy did not speak, but she went back toward the building without hesitation. Preston watched her until she vanished through the door. Then he let out a breath, which plumed white in the winter air, feeling just the smallest measure of relief.
Relief that she was safe, at least for now. And relief that he could have just a few moments for himself.
He felt ill, almost to the point of retching. Her mother’s casual cruelty had infected him like a fever. And there was a small, shameful part of him—the same small, shameful part that had shownitself the night of the Midwinter Ball—that was pure rage, that wished Effy’s mother physical harm.
Preston leaned against the building and took a cigarette out of his pocket with shaking fingers. He lit it and inhaled. At the very least, it settled his stomach.
Then he tried to force his mind to make a plan, but it was like revving a cold engine. His thoughts would not order themselves. They floundered and scattered. He had the doctor’s number, etched hastily in ink on his palm. It was too late to call tonight, but tomorrow he could wake up first thing. He had checked; Effy had more than enough pills to get through the night.
The memory of her statue kept returning to him—its time-whitened, water-stained, algae-covered face. The evidence of the slow wearing-away of the stone. The danger was deep enough to penetrate his dreams. The fear was so real that even that meticulously crafted fantasy world could not keep it at bay. He had done it himself—shattered Aneurin’s coffin and, with it, the refuge of magic. He might as well have plunged the great city of Ys into the ocean with his own hands.
Preston listened for the bells. They were duller now, as if slightly removed, but still unmistakable. And somehow, strangely, they had become a comfort.
He finished his cigarette, stubbed it out, and then went inside.
Lotto stood in the corridor, arms crossed and gaze downcast. When he heard Preston come in, he pushed himself off the wall and, with his dark eyes flashing, asked, “Are you all right, mate?”
“Fine,” Preston lied hopelessly. “Where’s Effy?”
“She came in a few minutes ago. She went to her bedroom, I think.”
Preston nodded. He felt too weary to speak, so he merely left Lotto there by the door and continued down the hall, on the way to Effy’s bedroom. But he paused as he passed the door to the kitchen.
Rhia and Maisie were still inside, huddled by the stove. Maisie had her arms around her, and Rhia’s face was half-hidden against her chest. Maisie spoke in words Preston could not make out, but the tenor of her voice was soft. Comforting. And Rhia only whimpered in reply.
They had not noticed him there, and Preston did not announce his presence. He felt as if he had intruded on an intimate moment, especially when Maisie bent down and took Rhia’s face gently into her hands. She murmured more unintelligible words of comfort, and Preston felt his throat grow thick.
This was too much for them, too. And it was his fault—he had let it get this dire. Shame heating his cheeks, he turned away from them and continued down the hall.
The door to Effy’s room was open just a crack. He stepped in, expecting to see her curled on the bed, or perhaps at her desk with Antonia Ardor’s book, but she was not there. The room was empty.
Preston was too bewildered to be immediately concerned. Lotto had seen her come in. She was here somewhere—his body, seemingly untethered from his mind, carried him back down the hallway to the kitchen. Rhia and Maisie were still speaking in hushed tones,and when they saw him in the threshold, both of their heads turned. Rhia’s cheeks were shiny with tears.
“Where did Effy go?” he asked. His voice was more tense than he had meant it to be.
Rhia blinked. “Isn’t she in her bedroom?”
“No.”
“She must be in the bathroom, then,” Maisie said. Yet for once, she didn’t scoff or roll her eyes.
Right.Preston turned, still feeling oddly bodiless, almost numb. He came to the bathroom door and put his hand on the knob.
It was locked.
