Page 96 of A Theory of Dreaming
Preston was silent for a moment. His throat pulsed. “Tired enough to sleep?”
“I hope so,” she said, biting back a smile.
While Preston undressed further and settled beneath the covers, Effy turned around to her desk.Letters & Annalslay open to the page she had marked. A sense of eagerness overtook her—yet it was a strange eagerness, twined considerably with grief. Effy began to flip through the book, until she reached the very final page.
The 1st day of Spring, 93 AD
My dearest Clementina,
It is long since I have written you, but I was far from well allwinter—the doctors say it is not the same illness that struck down my mother and grandfather, and which plagued my father so, but rather a rheumatism of the nerves, and this region’s dry, irritating air was not fit to soothe them.
You have no doubt seen the clamor which has ensued since the publication of “The Garden in Stone,” and how they speak of my father’s interment among Llyr’s Sleepers when the hour of his death comes. Is it not funny, how eagerly all now speak of his end? How even my father anticipates the expiration of his mortal form, so that he may shuck it like an old worn cloak, and inhabit a shape which is made for eternity? A statue which never cracks, a daisy which never blows. He will be greater in death than he is in life. Life is fleeting, after all, and death is eternal.
And you, my dear Clementina, how is it with you? Is your health good? How is your little brood—your three sweet daughters? Your husband, Lord Milton, do his fields prosper? I shall be so glad to hear from you.
Just now I have begun to dream the strangest dreams, the visions from which follow me even through my waking hours. They are not unpleasant dreams—no, far from it. In these fantasies, I “wake” inside a coffin of glass. This may seem a frightful occurrence, but my heart and mind are absent of fear.
When I open my eyes, the glass shatters and vanishes. I rise. I am in a grand hall of statues and I can taste the brine of seawater in the air. The statues are too numerous to count, though I can recall a few which have made a special impression upon me: a king, sitting slumped in his throne; a mermaid perched on a rock;a maiden with seashells in her hair. These statues are all rendered in such immaculate detail that they seem to be more living things, magicked to immortal stillness, than objects carved from stone.
I walk through the halls and observe still more statues. There are great glass windows, through which I can see the shifting green waters of the sea. It is a sunken palace, a forgotten structure beneath the waves. With each dream I strive further, exploring more of this mysterious place. I have found thus far a library of waterlogged books, and a greenhouse where a number of the most exquisite white flowers grow.
I must confess that I am stunned that my own imagination could conjure such a vast and elaborate fantasy! I am eager now each night for sleep, anticipating the chance to see more of the world my mind has built for itself. My favorite of all the statues is that of a knight robed in armor, kneeling penitently and holding a single rose. I feel emanating from him a sense of nobility, of sacrifice, and of love. He is a hero who will rescue the girl in the tower and swear to her his unyielding devotion. He will cut away the thorns that ensnare her; he will wake her from her infinite slumber with a kiss.
I have begun to take great solace in these dreams, Clementina. Where I have not known such love in the waking world, I can indulge in it now; I can drown myself in it. This is not the life I planned for myself when we were girls, giggling and braiding daisy chains—I had never imagined I would be twenty-eight and a spinster, with little else to show for my time on this earth than some contributions to my father’s work that will never be acknowledged.
And yet... I can still dream. This is a power that no man, no mortal force, can take from me. While the sickness corrodes my body, it has left my mind untouched.
So here I am, in some ways still the girl I was all those years ago, hoping, believing. I am feeling quite well just now. When I close my eyes, I see that grand palace, those statues with their mysterious virtues, their pulsating sentiments; indeed, their love. Their beauty is all around me.
I must mark this as a peaceful and happy hour.
Affectionately yours,
A.A.
That was the very last page. A small footnote indicated that Antonia Ardor had passed away in her sleep not long after this final letter was written. Effy traced her finger over her initials,A.A., as if she might feel some of Antonia’s peace, some of her love.
But Preston’s voice broke her from her reverie.
“Effy,” he said, “won’t you come to bed?”
And, with one last glance back at the book, she did.
Epilogue
Here the darkness, there the light,
Here the lady and her knight.
As petals scatter out to sea,
Their tale folds into eternity.
—from “The Garden in Stone,” by Laurence Ardor, Lord of Landevale, 82 AD
Spring came late and hesitant in Argant, but it did come. And it always began with the snowdrops blooming.
They dappled the cliffsides in a flurry of white, standing out against the still-dead grass, which was dry and deep brown from the season’s lack of rain. But the ground beneath was damp, the soil rich and webbed through with roots. Soon the seed hulls would crack and the green vines would nuzzle up blindly from the earth and the lilacs and crocuses and daffodils would show themselves, too, turning the mountains into a riot of color.
