Page 8 of A Theory of Dreaming
“I’m sorry.” Preston’s voice was tight. “Apparently Fogg sent a missive, but it didn’t reach either of us in time.”
Effy met his gaze and held it. They both knew it was no accident that they hadn’t received the missive. With the scrutiny of the government’s investigation weighing heavily upon him, Effy supposed it should come as no surprise that Dean Fogg would be more than willing to throw two of his students to the wolves. Especially awomanand anArgantian. They were such easy prey for hungry mouths.
She took the rest of the uniform and placed it on her dresser. As she did, something tumbled from its folds and fell to the carpet, bouncing once before settling. Among the rough and stubby gray fibers, it gleamed with an uncommon brightness.
Preston knelt hurriedly—almost embarrassedly—to recover it.
“What is that?” Effy asked.
“Oh, this...” His cheeks grew faintly pink. “Another one of the old policies that Dean Fogg is implementing. It’s inane, really. Gosse has made me the student head of the literature college. Alegate, as it’s called. He claims it’s just a ceremonial role. A line on my résumé.”
The object lay flat on Preston’s open palm. It was a pin—no larger than Effy’s finger—in the shape of a dragon. Its serpent’s body curved, in bends and arcs that were too uniform to look real, and its mouth was slightly ajar, frozen in a silent grimace. It was nearly identical to the dragon that decorated Llyr’s flag—and its war banners. It seemed to gather all the room’s meager light, holding it within its golden scales, and its emerald eye was so bright it almost burned, like water doused in a witch’s oils.
It was at least half as old as the university, yet it glittered as though it were new. No dust had gathered on it; no rough handling had marred it. Effy had the strange sense that if she touched the pin, her thumb might come away pricked.
Preston, too, seemed unnerved. His fingers quivered a bit as he held it.
“What an honor,” Effy said, and tried a smile. “Though it does seem like a conflict of interest. I expect you’ll have to report all our nefarious doings to Master Gosse.”
“We’re hardly doing anythingnefarious,” said Preston. “And like I said, it’s only a formality.”
“So very modest. Shall we see how it looks on you?”
“All right,” Preston said. His voice was low.
Carefully—and not without a moment of hesitation—Effy took the pin. It did not prick her finger, and it did not burn, the way that iron did when it brushed the immortal flesh of the Fair Folk.
She ran her thumb gently along the collar of Preston’s shirt,his throat bobbing with the nearness of her touch. She smoothed the lapel, and then, with clumsy, tremulous ministrations, fastened the pin to the fabric. When she laid her palm there beside it, flat against his chest, Effy felt Preston’s heart skip once, before returning to its steady bragging.
“There,” she said softly. “Do you feel distinguished? Exalted? Ennobled?”
“High marks for vocabulary.” Preston laid his hand over hers. “No, I feel...”
At that moment, a high, warbling tune echoed through her bedroom’s thin walls.
Effy almost laughed, for the utter inopportuneness of it. Preston’s brow furrowed. “Whatisthat?”
“Rhia,” she answered, unable to bite back a smile. “She’s practicing for the music college’s showcase. Their version of a final exam.”
“Oh,” Preston said. “Does she practice at all hours?”
“Why?” Effy bit back a smile. “Do you find it... distracting?”
She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes, her mouth a hair’s breadth from his. His fingers curled around hers, tightening his grip on her hand, which was still laid flat against his chest. Over his heart. She felt it judder and skip again as she leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut.
But the theater behind her eyelids was not dark, nor was it dashed with red for her wanting, her love for him. Instead, the faces of the other students came bright and clear in her mind. Their scowls and sneers, the fixed probing of their gazes. And then thewords from the poem appeared as they had been, ink on the page—and then, astonishingly, echoed in a deep and sonorous voice that was not her own.
I found my deathless death in dreams.
It was not the voice of the Fairy King, either. Effy flinched and stepped back, almost as if struck.
“What is it?” Preston’s voice tipped up with immediate concern. “What’s wrong?”
She let her hand slip from his. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
Preston inhaled. Effy both wanted and didn’t want him to ask again. She both wanted and did not want to be held, to be touched, to be comforted. She was afraid ofwantingbecomingneeding.And she was afraid, so terribly afraid, that if she needed him, it would be the moment that he slipped away, like twilight dying into total dark.
“I’m fine,” she said, when Preston still did not look convinced. “Really. I’m just tired.”
