Page 17 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

As the apocryphal tale goes, upon the death of his wife, Christabel, a weary-looking Ardor said to one of his servants, “Love whispers. Grief shouts.”

“I took down every one I could find near the music college,” Rhia said. “Maisie helped. Some of them were tacked up on telephone poles. I definitely needed her height.”

Effy just nodded, watching as her friend unwound the scarf from her neck and shook out her hair, damp with melted flakes of snow. She swallowed, and in a scratchy voice replied, “Thank you.”

When Rhia set her satchel down on the kitchen table, it tipped over, and dozens of crumpled posters spilled out. Effy saw her own face, distorted by the creases, looking tiny and terrified.

“Where’s Preston?” Rhia asked. “We could’ve used his height, too.”

“I don’t know. He was helping Master Gosse teach a class this afternoon, and then.

..” Effy trailed off, biting her lip. Then she sent a silent prayer to whatever saint might be listening that he hadn’t seen the posters.

He had enough to worry about as it was. If slippery snow was enough to work him into a knot of anxiety, she could scarcely imagine what he would do if he found out about this vigilante campaign.

You’re safe. His strained, breathless whisper echoed in her mind.

Suddenly Effy felt monstrous. How unfair, that she had made him care about someone who was so helpless, so weak, who demanded so much labor from his mind and his heart.

She was a malignant thing to love, and the more vulnerable she made herself, the quicker the poison would spread. It would kill him slowly.

“Do you want me to look for him?” Rhia offered. Her voice was soft.

“No,” Effy said quickly. “No, you’ve done enough already.”

“I don’t mind. Really. I’d love an excuse to procrastinate on my showcase piece.”

Effy gave her a watery smile. “No. Thank you. I need—I need to find him myself.” And despite her exhaustion, how her limbs felt boneless, her tone was resolute. “I only wish I didn’t have to worry about reporters camped outside.”

“Well, I might be able to help with that,” said Rhia. “Follow me.”

Frowning, Effy trailed her out of the kitchen and down the hall.

Rhia led the way into her bedroom, which had grown even more untidy and overcrowded in Effy’s absence.

An enormous piano was shoved up against the left wall, providing only a six-inch gap between the bench and Rhia’s bed.

Effy couldn’t imagine how difficult it made going to the bathroom at night.

They shimmied around piles of sheet music and instrument cases until they were both standing before the closet.

Clearly there was a method to Rhia’s madness, because she immediately began pulling open dresser drawers and flinging out items of clothing. A beige scarf and a camel-colored coat landed on the bed, and a silk kerchief listed to the ground at Effy’s feet.

As she bent to pick it up, Effy said, “I didn’t realize I was sharing quarters with a fashion model.”

Rhia snorted. “My father likes to send me every piece of luxury attire his assistants can get their hands on. I think he believes that he can lure me down the path of wifely domesticity if he just gives me enough new clothes. Or he hopes that I’ll attract a husband by wearing them.

” At that, she laughed. “Anyway, try these on.”

Effy regarded her roommate, with her petite frame and—particularly—her slim, delicate bustline. “Erm...”

“My father doesn’t even know what size I am,” Rhia said, rolling her eyes. “Talk about money down the drain. Something here will fit you.”

Obediently, Effy pulled the camel coat over her shoulders.

It just barely buttoned across her chest. She wrapped the scarf tightly around her throat, and then Rhia came over and began to knot the kerchief under her chin, which covered most of Effy’s golden hair.

Rhia looked her up and down with scrutiny, frowning, and then produced an enormous pair of round, dark sunglasses.

“Rhia, it’s almost pitch-black outside,” Effy said.

“Well, they’re not supposed to be functional . Just pretend you’re in a spy movie.” When Effy put on the sunglasses, Rhia clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Sorry! Sorry. You look like you’re about to film one of those fancy automobile commercials.”

Effy was wondering whether it might end up calling more attention to herself if she dressed like she was walking off a film set, but when she took a glance at herself in the mirror—through the darkened shades of the glasses—she was relieved to see that, at the very least, she did not look like a university student.

Most of her was relieved. And a small part of her was secretly delighted to look like someone else.

Perhaps, for just a moment, she could forget that she was Euphemia “Effy” Sayre, political saboteur and lying harlot.

She wondered if even Preston would recognize her.

“Thank you,” Effy said, feeling her heart swell with affection. “Really, I...”

“It’s nothing.” Gently, Rhia reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “And you can keep the clothes. Good riddance to my father’s deplorable hopes and dreams.”

“Good riddance,” Effy echoed. And then, with one last, deep inhale, she left her dorm and strode out into the wintry darkness.

I shouldn’t be so afraid , Effy told herself as she walked, the light from the streetlamps limning the icy puddles in gold.

From behind her sunglasses, the figures slouching toward her looked indistinct, fuzzy as thumbprints on a windowpane.

If any stopped a moment to stare at her, Effy merely pressed on ahead, the tip of her nose prickling with the cold.

She had defeated the Fairy King, that eldritch monster who was as ancient as the world itself.

She had turned him to ash and nothingness.

She had drowned her greatest terrors with the ruins of Hiraeth Manor.

What did she have to fear from these men and women milling about Caer-Isel?

Her enemies were mortal now, flesh and blood.

But perhaps that was the problem.

Even in her disguise, Effy still felt nervous approaching the literature college.

Most of the lights in the windows were out; the students and professors had retired for the night.

But the doors had not been locked. Effy stepped into the lobby, which was blessedly empty, and took the elevator to the third floor.

After deciding she was safely alone, she slipped the overlarge sunglasses off her face, blinking as she readjusted her eyes.

She had never been to this floor of the college.

There were no classrooms here, just the offices of professors and administrators.

Master Gosse’s was at the very end of the hall.

She did not particularly relish the idea of seeing him, but he would tell her where Preston was, and then she could be off again.

At the last door on the left, Effy raised a fist and poised it to knock. But before she could, she heard the murmuring of voices, hushed on the other side of the wood. Master Gosse’s. And Preston’s.

“And if my gambit has failed here, it must be because the proximity of the Sleepers is a necessity—”

“Perhaps. But—”

In an irritated tone, Master Gosse cut in, “Don’t interrupt me, Héloury. Just tell me what you saw.”

“I...”

Preston’s voice grew too hushed for Effy to hear. Her heart pattered in her chest as she hesitated to see if Master Gosse would speak, or if Preston would become audible again. But after several more moments of silence, she grew too anxious to wait. She gave one quick rap on the door.

There was a rapid shuffling of papers, the shifting of cloth against cloth. Master Gosse let out a loud, surly breath and muttered something unintelligible. A few more moments passed, and then the door opened, just a crack.

“Effy,” Preston whispered, eyes wide behind his glasses. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you,” she replied, frowning. She was put off by his flustered surprise. “It’s ten past six.”

“Oh.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I must have lost track of time.”

Effy tried to peer over his shoulder, but he was too tall. All she could glimpse was messy stacks of books. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” Preston said. Very subtly—yet not too subtly for Effy to notice—he maneuvered himself into a position that blocked her view entirely. “I—what are you wearing?”

Her cheeks pinked. She had almost forgotten her silly disguise. Slipping off the kerchief and freeing her hair, she said, “Rhia lent me her clothes. I was afraid there would be some reporters lurking around.” Or worse , she didn’t add. “But I think I ended up looking more ridiculous than covert.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it unremarkable,” Preston said.

“No,” she agreed. “I suppose you could say it was a failed gambit.”

At that , Preston’s face grew red, all the way to the tips of his ears. Ordinarily Effy enjoyed flustering him. But now she just felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach, waiting to see if he would acknowledge her unsubtly disguised question.

“I suppose,” he echoed at last. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry. Master Gosse just wanted to go over some of the course material for the class.”

He was always such a terrible liar.

“Don’t worry about it,” Effy said. Unlike Preston, she was able to keep her tone light, her voice unstrained. “Are you finished now?”

Preston glanced back over his shoulder. Effy still could not see Master Gosse, but of course he was there. Watching. Listening. She imagined him giving a nod of assent.

“Yes,” Preston said, turning around again. “Let’s go home.”