Page 81 of A Theory of Dreaming
With that, the earl gave Preston’s shoulder one more bracing squeeze, and two university clerks held open the double doors to the hearing chamber.
It was grander than Preston had expected inside. Indeed, it looked precisely like a courtroom, complete with a judge’s bench, a viewing gallery, and a witness stand, all furnished in dark, gleaming mahogany. All that was missing were the barristers and the black-robed judge. Instead, it was Dean Fogg who sat behind the desk on the dais, hands steepled in front of him.
The benches on the left side of the aisle belonged to Southey’s contingent. It was Southey himself—the faint bruise of the black eye still visible from the right angle—and his father.
The 8th Baron Margetson was, admittedly, not what Preston had expected. He was shorter than his son, with a slightly hunched posture, and scarcely any hair left on his head. The white-blond strands had receded completely from his temples, and a bald spot on the crown gleamed under the lights. Preston felt a very petty and perverse sense of satisfaction knowing that Southey’s hair might start to vanish in the same manner soon.
Southey looked up as he passed, meeting Preston’s gaze without blinking. It was a baleful stare, though surprisingly restrained compared to the spitting rage Preston had braced himself for. Perhaps he was more subdued in the presence of his father—or in the presence of the six university administrators, who were seated in what looked like a jury box. The administrators who would vote on Preston’s expulsion.
Lotto and the earl filed into the benches on the right side of the room, and more slowly, Preston followed. Dean Fogg narrowed his eyes as he saw the earl, but he didn’t protest or even remark upon his being there. There was too much funding at stake, Prestonfigured, and then felt a jolt of bitterness. This hearing would not be decided by justice or reason. It would be decided by money and influence, by nationalism and fear.
There was something deeply ironic about the university’s motto etched in the marble lintel above Dean Fogg’s dais.Swear fealty to no cause but the truth.Once upon a time, Preston had ardently believed those words. Now they felt utterly empty, no more substantial than a fairy tale.
Once Preston was seated, Dean Fogg cleared his throat.
“We are gathered here to discuss the matter of the recent misconduct and physical altercation between two of the university’s students, Preston Héloury and Domenic Byron Southey the Second. Over the past weeks, the board of administrators has thoroughly examined the facts of the occasion and is prepared to make its recommendation for how to proceed with the punishment phase. Today is merely an opportunity for each student to make his case for leniency, or to advocate for a particular outcome.” Dean Fogg paused, as if he expected some interruption, some protest, but even Lotto remained silent. Then, turning to the left side of the room, he said, “Mr. Southey, you may go first.”
With a toss of his head, Southey rose, and strode confidently up to the witness stand. He gave Dean Fogg a deferent nod, bright blue eyes gleaming with the assurance of his victory.
“This recent incident has left me physically scarred and shaken,” he began, in a tone so level that it belied his professed distress. “I fear that further attempts might be made to harm me, if the student in question is to remain on campus. The university has alreadyfailed its duty to protect me and to ensure that I can learn and thrive in an environment without intimidation, threats, or violence. I am appalled that the safety of its students is not the university’s top priority, particularly in this moment of political strife. I do not believe it is a stretch to imagine that Mr. Héloury could become even more hateful and potentially vengeful as his home country is forced into surrender. And so I call upon the board of administrators to deliver a decree of expulsion, effective immediately.”
As he spoke, Preston wondered where the slavering idiot he had perceived Southey to be had gone. He realized that he had been naive to think of him that way, to believe that bigotry and fanaticism could not be cloaked in eloquent language. And perhaps that misbelief would be his downfall.
When he was finished, Southey drew in a breath and puffed out his chest, as if he expected to be showered with applause. Instead, Dean Fogg merely nodded and said, “Thank you, Mr. Southey. You may sit now. Mr. Héloury, you will speak next.”
But before Southey could even depart the witness stand, the baron rose noisily to his feet.
“Excuse me,sir,” he said, “but I must protest the entire premise of this so-calledhearing.Myson is the victim. The facts are plain. Why are you allowing his aggressor a platform to defend himself? He should have been expelled on sight.”
Dean Fogg’s face turned a pale shade of purple. “Well, my lord, I am merely following the disciplinary process outlined in the university handbook. Whenever there is an altercation between students—”
“This was no altercation! This was an act of unprovoked violence that ought to have been considered a matter for the police!”
Somehow, in the midst of this, Preston felt himself begin to slip. Perhaps it was pure exhaustion. He could scarcely keep his eyes open. His gaze muddied and then sharpened and then muddied again. Rising up around him were marble statues and marble pillars, the unreal world layered translucently over the real one. He wasn’t afraid of it anymore. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to dream.
It was the earl’s voice that broke him from this reverie.
“If you’re so certain of your righteousness,” he said, “then why not give the boy a chance to speak? Surely, if you are correct, the judgment will land on your side regardless.”
Across the room, the gazes of the baron and the earl met, with a crackling like static. There was a long stretch of silence as they both stared at one another, these two great men, armored in their ancestral titles and robed in clothing that likely cost more than the monthly lease on Preston’s mother’s house. Not even Dean Fogg dared to speak.
Finally, the baron bit out, “Fine. Speak, then.Argantian.”
Preston cast a look of gratitude at the earl and then rose to his feet. His gait felt unsteady as he walked to the stand, but he wasn’t sure if it was just his own perception, his own vision still slightly blurred. He was all too aware of the eyes of the administrators on him, all too aware of his own loudly beating heart. And when he reached the stand at last and looked out over the room, he felt a sense of despair and loss that was almost overwhelming.
Lotto was there, and—still hard to believe—so was the Earl of Clare, his most unexpected ally. But otherwise his side of the aisle was empty, poignantly and painfully empty. His father was gone. His mother and brother separated from him by that unbreachable border wall. And Effy—
Preston squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying not to think of her pale, still body in the hospital bed. What did any of this matter if he lost her? If he couldn’t save her? It all felt not only hopeless but also pointless. Learning and wisdom and reason and scholarship, these things he had prized for so long beyond measure... it all crumbled in the face of love.
When Preston opened his eyes again, to the chamber’s dim, recessed light, and to all those unblinking, ambivalent stares, he said, “Lord Southey is right. The factsareplain. I won’t dispute what I did or justify violence. And maybe”—he paused and swallowed—“maybe I don’t belong here.”
He heard Lotto make a choked sound of protest, but Preston didn’t glance over at him. He stared down at the wood of the witness stand, following the pattern of grain with his eyes, yet not seeing it. Not really seeing anything at all.
Dean Fogg cleared his throat bewilderedly. “So are you saying you’ll accept a decree of expulsion, Mr. Héloury?”
“I...”
Very faintly, in the back of his mind, he heard the ringing of the bells.
