Page 80 of A Theory of Dreaming
The words came out rather hurried, and slightly slurred with exhaustion, but the earl appeared to be listening intently. Something shifted behind his eyes. Lotto looked up hopefully—gratefully—through his lashes, biting his lip like a chastened schoolboy. Preston’s heart fluttered as he waited, fearing that he had spoken out of turn, that he would only make things worse for Lotto. But then—
“Very well,” said the earl. “I suppose I will let him finish out the academic year. But one more slipup and you’re coming home to Clare.”
Preston blinked, thinking at first that he had misheard. Surely his lack of sleep was, by now, making him slightly deranged. He glanced over at Lotto, and his friend’s face was equally stunned. Then Lotto’s expression softened, into one of relief. Of gratitude. And, Preston realized with an ache in his chest, of love.
Weakly, Lotto said, “Thank you, Father.”
“Thank Mr. Héloury. He’s a good friend to you.” The earl cast his gaze up and down Preston probingly, with an expression that seemedalmostlike affection. “It’s only a shame that I had to make such an inconvenient trip on a Tuesday morning.”
Tuesday morning.
“Oh,” Preston choked out. “It’s Tuesday?”
“Yes,” the earl replied, frowning. “What’s the matter?”
Preston felt the words turn to stone in his throat. But Lotto rescued him. Because—of course—Lotto remembered.
“It’s the day of your suspension hearing,” Lotto said quietly. “We’re meant to meet with Dean Fogg and Master Gosse at the administrative building in thirty minutes.”
Preston couldn’t even manage to nod. Surely he had disgraced himself in the earl’s eyes; perhaps he had even ruined all that he had said in Lotto’s defense. And now he was meant to appear in front of a board that would decide his future at the university with no sleep, with his mind half-lost to dreams and fear, with the parts of him that mattered still back in Effy’s hospital room.
As it was, Lotto grimaced—realizing, too late, that perhaps it might have been better to lie. But by now he was likely as weary as Preston was. Impulsive as his nature was even at the best of times, the lack of sleep was surely not helping.
“A suspension hearing,” the earl repeated slowly. “Over what matter?”
“It wasn’t his fault,” came Lotto’s immediate, hearty response. “All semester Domenic Southey has been taunting him—over his heritage, out of bitterness and jealousy. There was a bit of a scuffle at the Midwinter Ball. Southey was appallingly drunk...”
“Southey, you say?” The earl arched a brow.
Feeling numb, Preston nodded.
The earl drew in a breath, the tenor of which could not be discerned, at least to Preston’s ears. Disappointment? Impatience? Disdain? Yet nothing in the world could have surprised him more than what the Earl of Clare said next.
“Then I imagine the Baron Margetson will be there as well.” The earl paused, waiting for Preston to nod again in response. “Hmm. Well, this isn’t something a boy your age should be facing alone. Your family must be barred from crossing the border at the moment. Let me come with you instead.”
Preston was still feeling numb with shock as they walked toward the administrative building, the sunlight cold and pure white. He and Lotto walked on either side of the earl, and every time he heard his velvet-trimmed overcoat swish, Preston had to blink to clear his mind of disbelief. He was on his way to a hearing over his suspension and he was being accompanied by one of the most preeminent aristocrats in Llyr. Nothing about the moment felt quite real.
The steps up to the building were already crowded with students, leaning against the marble statues and smoking. But, to his further shock, Preston realized that the crowd was more than just students—there were a number of other people who appeared to be administrators, professors, and even some assortment of Caer-Isel residents. Their gazes fixed on him as he walked, probing and obtrusive.
A very tall, thin man pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
“Mr. Héloury,” he said, thrusting out a hand. “Roger Finisterre, with theCaer-Isel Post.”
Preston stiffened. “Finisterre. What are you doing here?”
“We’re all here for the show,” he replied pleasantly. “The newspapers received an anonymous tip that there would be a suspension hearing held to mediate a dispute between the son of theEighth Baron Margetson and the university’s only Argantian student.” He cast a glance over Preston’s shoulder, to where the Earl of Clare stood. “And now another aristocrat has turned up! What an affair!”
It wasn’t hard to imagine who had sent in thatanonymous tip. Bristling, Preston jerked away from Finisterre.
“Step away, sir,” said the Earl of Clare, in completely undisguised annoyance. “This is no business of yours or your gossip rag. Go trawling for stories somewhere else.”
Finisterre’s mouth opened dumbly, like a gutted fish. And then, before Finisterre could reply, the earl put a hand on Preston’s shoulder and guided him farther up the steps. By the time they reached the landing, Preston’s knees were trembling.
“Don’t worry, son,” the earl said as he pushed open the door. “Fogg won’t allow observers or reporters inside. He’ll want to maintain that this is a private university matter.”
“It’s going to be hard to maintain that when Finisterre breaks the story.” Preston squeezed his eyes shut. “Llyr’s distinguished and venerable aristocratic family against an Argantiansaboteur. It’s exactly what the public is clamoring for.”
The earl gave him a bracing smile. “Yes. The narrative is quite of the moment. But it’s not yet time to fall to despair. You’re more than your heritage. Blood isn’t destiny. Finisterre’s story will only be one version of the tale—you will have your own.”
