Page 83 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Well—” Preston began uneasily.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Gosse interrupted, tone still mild. “However, you do have something that belongs to me, and I would appreciate if you returned it.”
Preston froze.
“Come on, then, Héloury. You can’t have believed I wouldn’t notice.”
Skin prickling, Preston dipped a hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around the museum key.
“Give it here,” Gosse said. “You know, I never took you for a pilferer. It was rather bold of you to swipe it straight from my desk. Bolder still to use it.”
His mouth went dry. “Somervell told you.”
“Of course. Since there was no evidence of a break-in, he knew that whoever entered the museum must have had a key.”
Preston’s fingers curled, the metal digging into his palm. “And what did you tell him?”
Gosse smiled beatifically. “I didn’t sell you out. Don’t worry.”
“But—”
“And the news won’t reach the papers,” Gosse went on. “Somervell will make sure of that. Think for a moment. The public would be horrified and outraged that their precious Sleepers were violated. Somervell would be removed from his post at once. The Ministry of Culture might consider having him killed.” Gosse chuckled darkly. “No, what you did will remain a secret between the two of us.”
“What about what I found?” Preston asked, lowering his voice. “You saw it, too. Aneurin... unmasked.”
Gosse’s expression became inscrutable. A shadow passed over his face briefly, and the light in his smoked-glass eyes flickered.
“Yes,” he replied at last. “But seeing is one thing, believing another. Are you a believer now, Héloury?”
“I believe that we’ve been told lies all our lives,” he said. “About the supremacy of Llyr and its supposed king. About the bard that wrote songs in his name. And you’ve known all along, haven’t you? That the stories aren’t true?”
“I’m the most celebrated professor of literature in the country,” Gosse said immodestly. “Of course I’m privy to what lurks beneath the lies that our politicians tell to maintain peace and unity.”
“No,” Preston said. “Not peace. They’re justifications for war.”
“Well, in some instances, yes,” said Gosse. “When the government wants its citizens to rally behind the cause, then it behoovesthem to paint a certain picture of the island’s history. A certain picture of its enemy. It can’t come as such a terrible shock to you, really. TheNeiriadis fragmentary. Later scholars filled in the blanks. It was the third Sleeper, Tristram Marlais, who made some of the very first additions.”
“And redactions.” Preston’s tone was cold. “The real story of the king’s daughter, the one that lives on in local myths and legends—inArgantianmyths and legends—doesn’t make Neirin look very noble and saintly.”
“That sounds like a good topic for a paper,” Gosse said with a thin smile.
“I’m not writing a fucking paper.” The bright lights of the corridor felt like needles jabbed in his eyes. Preston squeezed them shut for a moment of reprieve. “Just tell me the truth. Now. Tell me everything.”
Gosse’s brow raised. “I thought you were first and foremost a scholar.”
Preston didn’t know what he was anymore.
“I’ll tell you what,” Gosse went on. “You give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you’re asking for. An even trade. Doesn’t that seem fair?”
Opening his eyes, Preston drew in a breath. His fingers were still clenched around the key in his pocket. As Gosse watched him intently, he removed his hand, holding the key out flat on his palm.
“Good boy,” Gosse said. “But you know that’s not all I need from you.”
The bells rang richly and sonorously in the back of Preston’s mind. “I know.”
“So let’s go, then.” Gosse snatched the key from him and pocketed it. “No time like the present and all that.”
“Wait.” Preston lifted his head and at last met Master Gosse’s stare without flinching. “I’ll join you at the exhibit. There’s something I have to do first.”
