Page 94 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Oh,” Effy choked out. “Oh—”
“Effy,” he said softly. “Will you marry me?”
She had grown tense; he felt her fingers clench and stiffen in his grasp. There was a shimmery wetness in her eyes.
“Is this... is this really what you want?” she asked in a whisper. “You know that I’m not—I can’t even wear that.” The sudden pitch of despair in her voice made Preston’s heart sink.
“It’s what I want, Effy,” he said. “More than anything. And look—” He let go of her hand for a moment to reach into his other pocket, for the second box, which he had just purchased that day. “—youcan.”
Inside was that simple chain of silver, and when he held out both boxes together, he hoped Effy would understand. Her gaze ran over them questioningly for a moment, a swallow ticking in her throat.
Then her eyes shifted to meet his, that green-fire shade from the kingdom of his fantasy. He had dreamed her there because he could not live without her. Not in this world or in any other.
At last, slowly—slowly—she nodded.
“Yes,” she said, with a tremulous breath. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
Preston rose to his feet and caught her up in his arms. He kissed her as the wind picked up and threaded salt water through her hair. He kissed her as the gulls and cormorants called to each other and as the sea sang in both their veins, the shared memory of their very first meeting atop those cliffs, their very first kiss, in that drowning house on the edge of the world.
But Preston did not hear the bells, as he had at Hiraeth. He only heard the determined pulsing of his own heart, and with each beat he thought,I love you. I love you. I love you.
Thirty-One
Let no one say that I am weak. I am fearful, and therefore brave. I am wounded, yet all the stronger for it.
—from the diaries of Angharad Myrddin, 203 AD
PEACE TREATY SIGNED, ENDING TWELVE YEARS OF WAR BETWEEN LLYR AND ARGANT
As of this morning, a peace treaty has been officially signed by dignitaries from the governments of Llyr and Argant, putting an end to a twelve-year-long war between the nations. The full text and provisions of the treaty have not yet been made public; however, theLlyrian Timeshas learned exclusively that it includes a restoration of the border to its 196 lines, an easing of sanctions, and a reinstitution of diplomatic relations. The Llyrian government has also agreed to pay the government of Argant an unspecified amount to aid in reconstruction of civilian areas that were damaged in the conflict.
This treaty comes after unexpected and heavy losses to the Llyrian side in a recent skirmish, during which theLlyrian army was forced into a temporary surrender. Prior to this battle at Four Crosses (in Argantian, Quatre-Croix), Llyr’s military leaders projected confidence, leading many to believe that victory was assured and would be definitive, perhaps even ending the war in Llyr’s favor.
The crushing defeat—and subsequent armistice—has left the nation reeling. It has long been accepted that Llyr’s army is superior, with greater stores of wealth upon which to draw and state-of-the-art military technology that outclasses that of Argant. By contrast, Argant has often relied on irregular tactics, such as ambushes and surreptitious attacks on supply lines.
None of these tactics were on display in the Battle of Four Crosses, however. The Argantian and Llyrian armies met in open battle. Thus far there has been no official statement on the cause of Llyr’s hasty and conclusive defeat; however, morose speculation hangs in the air. The timing is all too convenient to ignore: the Battle of Four Crosses took place a mere day after the sudden, devastating destruction of Llyr’s Sleeper Museum.
The more superstitious citizens of Llyr will say that our nation has lost something far more essential than the war. Indeed, while tanks can be refurbished and army ranks replenished, there is no easy remedy for the ruination of faith. The Llyr that emerges from this war will be unquestionably changed. It remains to be seen how, exactly, our nation restores its sense of self. What will bethe new foundation of our country’s character? Who will be our heroes now?
The sun was shining and Effy was standing on the steps of the university’s administrative building, before a large and jittery crowd. Reporters, their notepads out and their pens poised above the page, made up the first row. She glimpsed Finisterre among them, his dark eyes shining apprehensively out of his gaunt face.
But her gaze didn’t linger there. Instead, she looked out over the rest of the crowd—the bobbing heads of students, professors, bureaucrats, ministers—and found familiar faces. Rhia. Lotto. Maisie. Preston. They stood slightly off to the side, and when Effy met each of their stares, they smiled.
She held Preston’s stare for the longest. It was steady, gentle, and full of love. Almost unconsciously, Effy raised a hand and grasped the ring, which hung from the silver chain around her throat.
Just to her left was a podium with a microphone, and that was where Dean Fogg stood, looking—admittedly—slightly mutinous. A bit of nervousness stirred in Effy’s stomach. But all she had to do in order to dispel it was to look past Dean Fogg, to the other side of the lectern, and catch Angharad’s eyes. They gleamed emerald green in the sharp midday winter sun.
Dean Fogg leaned into the microphone and cleared his throat, causing the crowd to grow silent.
“Thank you all for being here,” he said. “The matter of this address is to inform the university—and representatives from thepress—about upcoming changes that will be made to the literature college. Here to herald these changes is Angharad Myrddin.”
His introduction was terse, but Effy had not really expected anything less. It had been no easy task to convince him to make a public statement at all. Yet, as always, money was what greased the wheels in Dean Fogg’s mind.
“Thank you,” Angharad said as she took Dean Fogg’s place at the lectern. “And thank you all for being here. My name is Angharad Myrddin, and my late husband was Emrys Myrddin. I am the true author of the celebrated novelAngharad.”
A ripple of shocked gasps went through the crowd. Effy felt her breath catch in her throat. Angharad had not shared her speech ahead of time, and Effy had to confess that she, too, was surprised at its boldness. Yet at the same time, a shiver of pride went through her. Angharad’s gaze did not falter. Her voice did not shake.
“I have chosen today to make my first public appearance because, tomorrow, theLlyrian Timeswill publish the thesis statement of two university students, Effy Sayre and Preston Héloury, which proves definitively my claims of authorship.”
