Page 91 of A Theory of Dreaming
Thirty
The swirling surf shielded the king’s death,
His body buried in its salt grave, the tide to pick his bones—
For so great a man, he was made small in his ending,
Small as any peasant, low as any serf.
He had no song to sing, no [...] to behold,
It was only his daughter, lonely Dahut [sic], who trilled on,
In the swell of the Sea [sic], yearning still for her lost lover.
Her song was love, and it was eternal.
—fromThe Neiriad, as attributedto Aneurin the Bard, date unknown
Preston had three appointments that day, and a fourth if he could make the time.
The first was with the optometrist, to replace his glasses. It would not do to continue stumbling about the city half-blind. He was fitted with a new pair within the hour, and when he put them on, the world was clear and bright again, all its edges sharp. He had to blink, to adjust his eyes. In the days since he had destroyed the dream world, he had grown almost used to seeing only blurred shapes and colors.
It was not only his renewed eyesight that made the city look different. Itwasdifferent, in ways that could be perceived and in others that were invisible to the senses. The tense, fearful silence that had fallen over Caer-Isel was beginning to lift. People spoke to each other as they walked down the street. Gazes lifted from the ground. The snow was melting on the pavement, icicles vanishing from the eaves. There were flowers being sold in the corner stores again. Baby’s breath and winter camellias. He even happened to catch a bundle, inexplicably, of out-of-season daisies.
As Preston passed by the newsstand, he caught the headlines out of the corner of his eye.
LLYRIAN GROUND OFFENSIVE FALTERS—
MORALE DROPS AMONG INFANTRY AS NEWS OF SLEEPER MUSEUM DESTRUCTION REACHES FRONT LINE—
AFTER UNEXPECTED LOSSES, DISCUSSIONS OF ARMISTICE RENEWED—
He drew in a breath that made his chest swell with something like hope. It was as if a spell had been lifted. It was as if the whole city were awaking from a deep and heady sleep.
His next appointment was at the jeweler’s. Preston had called ahead; he knew what he wanted and it had already been set aside, in a small velvet box. He paid and as he exited the shop, he openedthe clasp and peeked at what lay inside. The chain gleamed in the midday sun like a vein of silver ore.
Preston tucked it into his pocket and walked on. He arrived at the Drowsy Poet, which was once again serving a full menu, replete with sugary drinks and even sweeter pastries. But he ordered his coffee black, like he always did, and sat down at one of the tables by the window. He was just removing one of his cigarettes from the pack when the door clattered open and Lotto entered in a rush.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, dropping wearily into the seat across from Preston. “Professor Damlet was relishing the opportunity to berate me.”
“I hope you didn’t have any choice words for him in return this time.”
“No,” Lotto said. “I was as quiet as a mouse and as penitent as a nun.”
Preston looked at him skeptically.
“Really,” Lotto insisted. “You should have seen me. You would have been impressed. And anyway, it was enough for Damlet, because he said he wouldn’t flunk me if I could produce an abstract for my thesis in the next week.” Without asking, he snatched up one of Preston’s cigarettes, lit it, and took a long drag, letting out a satisfied breath. “So, that’s cause for celebration, in my book.”
Preston plucked up a cigarette of his own, but didn’t light it. “I’m glad for you,” he said. “But that means you’ll have to get to work at once.”
“I know. And my father certainly won’t let up the pressure,either.” Lotto exhaled. “None of this is really that important, though, is it? Not in the grand scheme of things.”
The staff hadn’t allowed Lotto into Effy’s hospital room, but he had waited for hours in the lobby, just so he could walk Preston home when he was ready to go. Just so he could help him navigate without his glasses.
“It’s not exactly a matter of life and death,” Preston said, “but it matters.” He lit his cigarette. “All the little things do, in the end.”
They were both silent for a moment, smoke curling into the air over their heads. Then Lotto said, in a low voice, “It feels strange now, though. Writing a thesis on Llyrian literature when all of it has just crumbled under our feet. But I suppose you already know the feeling. Since Myrddin...”
