Page 95 of A Theory of Dreaming
Angharad paused there, to allow for more noises of disturbance from the crowd. The reporters’ pens raced across their pages. There was the flicker and flash of cameras, which made Effy’s vision blur for a moment. When her eyesight returned, Angharad was pressing on.
“My deepest and most sincere gratitude goes to Ms. Sayre and Mr. Héloury,” she said. “They are brilliant, innovative scholars and courageous individuals. They have given me a voice, after all theseyears of isolation and silence. And I will continue to speak, to tell my story, and to make sure my name is not forgotten.”
The crowd stirred again, feathering the air with whispers and sharp breaths. Nervousness twitched in Effy’s stomach. But Angharad’s expression was placid, almost serene. She shifted her gaze very slightly, to meet Effy’s eye. And Effy, though her heart beat fast and unevenly, gave her a nod in return.
“The trouble is,” Angharad continued, “that I am far from the only woman whose work has been stolen and whose voice has been silenced. It is not enough that I alone am compensated for what I have lost. There are so many others, whose memories have been suppressed, whose graves are untended, whose legacies are left to rot and ruin. And it will happen again and again, unless we do something about it.
“And so I leave my inheritance to the university.” Angharad held her chin aloft. “This grant will establish a program within the literature college dedicated to studying the writings of female authors and producing academic work on the subject. This grant will heretofore be known as the Antonia Ardor Memorial Endowment, and the first work it will produce is a paper by Effy Sayre, entitled ‘The Ethics of Amanuensis.’”
The crowd was abuzz—cameras flashing, pens scratching—but Effy seemed to soar above the sights and sounds. They were held at a distance as she looked at Angharad, so strong, so assured, so proud. With her cropped hair and her stylish clothes, she was so different from the woman Effy had first met at Hiraeth all those months ago—her untamed mane of silver, her bare feet, her tangledwhite nightgown, her wild, slightly unreal beauty. She had been a creature straight from a fairy tale, out of place, out of time.
And yet... even now, there was something more than mortal about her. She seemed to emit a strange and subtle glow. Like atylwyth ynys, she might just shimmer and fade out of sight. Nothing worldly could quite touch her; she was more powerful than that. More eternal.
“The people of Llyr are afraid,” Angharad said. “Our army has fallen and our Sleepers have been put to their watery graves. Just this morning, theLlyrian Timespublished an article which asked how we will define ourselves, now that we have lost so much of what we believe makes us who we are. It asked who our new heroes will be. I say, these are our new heroes. The young students who are clever enough to ask questions, who are brave enough to venture into the dark corners of the world for answers, and who are strong enough to survive when the foundation of everything they know crumbles from beneath them. To Effy Sayre and Preston Héloury. To all who came before, and all who will come after.”
That night, the air was so clear and crisp that the sky seemed almost riotous with stars. They laid a silver cast over Caer-Isel, limning every surface in an ethereal, unworldly light. And yet within the back room of one of the city’s oldest and most well-loved pubs, the air was warm and close, and the light from the oil lamps was a gleaming, languid gold.
Angharad sat at the head of the table, and the rest of the seatswere occupied by Effy, Preston, Rhia, Maisie, and Lotto. Plates lay mostly cleared, glasses half-empty. A pleasant sort of weariness had settled over them all, making the voices that had once been raucous grow low, the laughter to turn soft, and making Effy lean over, resting her head on Preston’s shoulder.
“Are you tired?” Preston asked. “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” she replied. “Not now. Not yet.”
Rhia, meanwhile, was examining Effy’s ring with equal parts awe and outrage. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell meimmediately,” she said. “What, was I supposed to find out when you sent the wedding invitations? Oh, and therebetterbe a proper wedding.”
“Well, these past few days have been rather busy,” Effy said.
“No excuses.” Rhia gave her head a prim shake. “And no protests when it comes to dresses and flower arrangements and sampling cake. You deserve all of the extravagance.”
“If you say so,” Effy replied, but she smiled. Rhia handed her the necklace and Effy looped the delicate silver chain back around her throat. The ring settled against her breastbone, a welcome and familiar weight. Just inches above her heart.
“And no protests from you when it comes to the stag night,” spoke up Lotto, who had probably had too many drinks. He pointed accusingly at Preston. “The least I can do is show you a good time.”
“Let’s save that topic for later,” Preston said hurriedly, and Maisie rolled her eyes, but Effy saw Rhia stifle a giggle.
Effy turned to look at Angharad. She had been subdued throughout dinner, though not unhappy. She seemed merelycontent to watch as they talked and laughed and ate, as they drank more than they should and stayed up later than was wise. She had her hands clasped under her chin and was resting her elbows on the table. Effy lifted her head from Preston’s shoulder and shifted her chair closer to Angharad’s.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Angharad replied. “Yes, more than all right. I’m happy. I only hope that you are, too.”
In this moment, it was easy to say yes. But Effy knew it would not always be so simple. She would need one pill or another. She would hear the siren song of an oblivious, dreamless slumber. She would need books and fairy tales to build a seawall around her, to hold against the vicious, rising tide.
And she would need a hand, a voice, a promise—something from the outside to pull her from the darkness. That, perhaps, was what she would need the most. Yet it was the most difficult truth to swallow. It was hard, letting go. But it was even harder holding on. Reaching out. Needing.
“I am,” Effy said at last. “I am happy. Right now. And maybe that’s all I can ask for, really. Maybe that’s enough.”
Effy’s hand was on the table, her four-fingered hand, which always seemed so freakish to her, so loathsome. In this light, though—and perhaps with the help of the wine she’d drunk—it didn’t feel quite as objectionable. It seemed... almost ordinary. Hardly worth remarking upon.
If you can learn to love that which despises you, that which terrifies you, you can dance on the shore and play in the waves again, like youdid when you were young. Before the ocean is friend or foe, it simplyis.And so are you.
Angharad laid her own hand over Effy’s.
Back in their dorm, Effy gave Rhia and Maisie one last weary wave and then retired to her bedroom with Preston. Their shared exhaustion made the air feel heavy, almost fuzzy, and their movements clumsy and sluggish. Preston shrugged off his coat and kicked off his shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed. Effy collapsed into her desk chair.
“That was nice, wasn’t it?” Preston said. “How do you feel?”
“Glad,” Effy replied. “Glad for everything. Good food and good company—what more could you wish for, really? I’m tired now, though.”
