Page 12 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

The purpose of a formalist approach to literature is to ensure that a text stands alone as a complete entity in and of itself.

The focus, therefore, is on grammar, syntax, meter, and other elements of style that can be objectively quantified.

Matters of culture, societal influence, and even authorship and content must be bracketed.

One must operate always under this assumption: that the author himself is an enigma, and only the words on the page are real.

The building had been abandoned when the university’s astronomy college was closed down; the dean before Dean Fogg had decided astronomy was too empirical a pursuit, too scientific, and its professors and students had been shunted off to the School of Practical Studies, a rather ignominious demotion that some benefactors still grumbled about.

Now, with its building left to lie fallow, it was common for students to sneak onto the rooftop. Cigarette butts and half-empty bottles of liquor were scattered around the asphalt. Effy figured she was probably the first student who came to the rooftop without the intention of merrymaking.

Instead, she looked out over the city of Caer-Isel.

The university’s yellow-stoned buildings rose up from the earth like old grave markers, slightly worn by time but still august and resolute.

Much of the snow had already melted, but some remained in clever places, like the cracks in the facade of the architecture college or the basin of the mermaid reflecting pool outside the college of fine art.

Little flecks of white in the otherwise bleary and fathomless dark.

Effy remained on the roof for so long that she could not even account for the time passed. She was willing her mind to be blank. To empty it of all memories of Master Corbenic, of the prying eyes of her classmates—of Finisterre.

And she was doing a rather good job of it, of thinking about nothing except the way the golden pools of lamplight looked like coins in a fountain, until she heard door hinges squealing behind her. She turned around with a start.

Preston stood there against the darkness, his navy coat unbuttoned and his hair even untidier than she remembered it being when they had parted that morning.

His cheeks were pink and his chest heaved with exertion.

Effy stared at him in silent shock, but before she could say a word, he strode toward her and wrapped his arms around her, with such force that he lifted her off her feet.

Effy squeezed him back, pressing her cold face into the crook of his neck. The warmth of his body bled into hers immediately, and the relief at seeing him was so great that her stomach felt hollow with it. She closed her eyes and inhaled his wool-and-smoke smell.

When at last he released her, setting her back down on the asphalt, she asked, “How did you find me?”

“Rhia,” he replied. “She said you wanted to go somewhere that would be difficult to follow. Why?”

The chill air pricked at her eyes. “I was on my way to Tinmew’s class when some reporter cornered me at the literature college. Finisterre. He’s with the Post . He asked me about Master Corbenic.”

Preston inhaled sharply. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, of course,” she replied. “ No comment , that is. But he told me...” She swallowed hard. “He told me that I had more enemies than I know. People who don’t like that I’m in the literature college, and then what we’ve done with Myrddin...”

Effy trailed off, her voice fading into the revived night wind. She expected Preston to look at her with despair, but instead his brown eyes were electric with anger. It was an uncommon emotion for him, and she was taken aback at seeing it.

“Cowards,” he bit out. “They’re willing to spew their vile lies as long as they’re shielded by anonymity.”

“Finisterre said he would give me a fair shake.” Effy let out a breath. “I know that’s a lie. What rubbish. He’ll write whatever sells the most papers. Whether that’s telling people I’m a conniving harlot or a political saboteur or some other creative smear.”

“And put it on the front page, I’m sure,” Preston said bitterly.

Effy could scarcely work up the courage to tell him that this wasn’t even the worst part.

“Finisterre is just the first,” she said.

“There will be other reporters. He said— taunted , really—that my class schedule is public. They’ll be able to find me so easily.

I won’t even be able to leave my dorm. I—”

“ No ,” Preston cut in. Abruptly, he reached out, and pulled her back against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. “I swore I would take care of you, Effy. I meant that. They won’t touch you. I won’t let them.”

She wasn’t sure exactly how he would stop them—but Effy let herself relax against his warm body nonetheless.

There was a very faint scent of brine about him, which she hadn’t smelled since they had left Hiraeth.

She wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her, making old memories feel new again, muddling reality once more.

It was almost a comfort, to recede into an unreal world.

A dreamlike recollection. She closed her eyes.

“But at least I didn’t concuss myself,” she murmured into the fabric of his coat. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

Preston’s chest juddered with a weak and shaky laugh. “Well, I suppose. More relieved than anything.”

Effy breathed in his smell again, brine and tweed and tobacco. With black humor in her voice, she asked, “And how was your day?”

At that, she felt Preston stiffen. Frowning, she pulled away and looked up at his face. His brows had drawn low over his eyes, and his cheeks looked suddenly drained of their color.

“It was fine,” he said.

Effy sighed. “You’re still such a terrible liar.”

“Really,” he said, in an utterly unconvincing tone.

“Master Gosse continues to be eccentric and elusive, but that’s nothing new.

He left me to teach his class for him; he didn’t even have the decency to show up.

Which would have been fine, I suppose, if I had been prepared.

..” He shook his head as if to clear it, and then went on, “But none of that matters. I only care that you’re safe. ”

His hands moved to cup her face, and his grip was so gentle, his touch so tender, that for some reason it made Effy want to cry.

He stared at her intently, as if trying to see something beyond the capacity of mortal perception—and that was strange for him, too, the stubbornly and petulantly rational man that he was.

He let a hand slip out from under her chin and brushed his thumb gently across her forehead, smoothing back a loose strand of hair.

“You’re safe,” he repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yes,” she replied, a bit taken aback, “I am.”

He exhaled, but Effy could see there was still a tension in him, his shoulders raised tautly and a muscle pulsing in his throat. She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the mouth, and even then, she felt his rigidity, as if she were kissing something made of stone.

Earlier that day, she had planned to confront him about the scansion, about the marks he had made in her book, but now the quibble seemed petty. They had enemies all around them; why should they make enemies of each other? For now, she was indeed safe—they both were.

“It’s all right,” she said, with more conviction than she felt. “We always knew there would be hurdles. But when people read Angharad’s diary, they’ll see the truth. And in the meantime, I’ll become an expert at dodging reporters and you’ll become an expert at pinning down Master Gosse.”

Effy smiled, and she was relieved to see Preston gave her a faint smile in return.

But if there was one guaranteed way to quell his nerves—she reached over into the pocket of his coat where he always kept his cigarettes.

She fished about for it, and after a moment, her hand closed around the pack.

Yet when she drew it out, she was shocked to see that the paper had gone soggy, the cigarettes damp and crushed and the loose tobacco smeared on her fingers.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Oh,” Preston said, “I, ah, dropped them in the snow.”

He didn’t volunteer any further information. Effy frowned and wiped the tobacco from her hands. “And after all your fretting over my clumsiness.”

“It might surprise you to learn that a pack of cigarettes is not of equal value to me,” he said. He stroked back another strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ears. “Let’s go. You must be freezing.”

She was, but there was something comforting about the cold.

If one could outlast the nipping bite of the wind, it turned to a glorious sort of numbness.

If she could lie down in the snow and let it close over her, in its obliterating cocoon, she would have.

Though of course she did not tell Preston that.

“Just a few more moments,” she said instead, and tucked herself back against his chest. He slid his arms around her waist. She heard his heart, and its beating was steady.

There was an irony to them standing atop the astronomy building when no celestial bodies could be seen. But then the snow began to fall in soft flurries, and the flakes were dappled against the dark sky like stars.

The next day, Effy climbed the steps to the literature college again.

This time, though, she was hand in hand with Preston.

His gaze was electric, darting everywhere, as though he expected someone to come leaping out from behind the building’s columns.

But there was no sign of Finisterre, or of any other reporter, and the odd stares they were getting were probably more due to their joined hands, or the dragon pin on Preston’s lapel.

It was easy to see the envy in the other students’ eyes.

Once inside the lobby, Preston paused. “You’ll tell me if someone does anything—or says anything—won’t you?”