Page 20 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

Yet in the back of his mind, the bells rang and rang.

“I know the one,” his mother said. Her voice had grown small and muffled. “Yes, I’ll send it to you.”

She didn’t ask why, and Preston was relieved.

It was cruel of him, almost, to prod at this wound.

He knew it and still he had done it. Something heavy settled into the pit of his stomach, a slippery weight like black water.

He did not like the person he felt as though he was becoming, so easily moved to frustration, so quick to begrudge and to hate.

But if he found these answers—if he could stop the damned bells from ringing—he could snuff out these frightful passions.

He could be that remote and reasonable man again, steady enough for Effy to lean on, strong enough to carry her.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “ Da garout a ran. ”

He was awoken from a deep and dreamless slumber by the sound of brutal, frenzied knocking. Preston shot upward in bed, while Effy stirred more slowly beside him. The knocking ceased for a moment, and then started again with greater fury.

“What in the name of all Saints—” Preston started.

As he drew the covers off and stumbled out of bed, he realized the knocking was not on Effy’s bedroom door. It was on the front door, though the racket was reverberating so loudly down the hall that it seemed just nearby. Preston pulled on a shirt and pants, and Effy wrapped herself in her robe.

He was in such a rush that he almost forgot his glasses, and snatched them at the last second from the bedside table.

Effy started first down the hall, and Preston followed, but someone else beat them there.

Rhia, dressed quite a bit more appropriately in her school uniform, was standing on her tiptoes and looking through the peephole.

“It’s some deranged-looking man with a black mustache,” Rhia said. “Do either of you know him?”

Dread swelled up in Preston’s chest. “Yes,” he said in a tired voice, “I do.”

“Well, tell him that decent people are trying to sleep at this hour.” Rhia gave him a withering look. “And tell him I can smell booze through the crack in the door.”

Preston let out a breath. With one last glare, Rhia turned on her heel and walked back down the hall. As she passed, Effy mouthed, “ I’m sorry. ”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhia said softly back. “It’s his nutter, not yours.”

“Unfortunately,” Preston muttered. Through the peephole, he saw Master Gosse raise his hand to knock again. Before he could, Preston hurriedly jerked open the door.

“ There you are, Héloury,” Master Gosse said, and without preamble, pushed his way into the corridor.

“I went to your dormitory, but your roommate informed me that you were likely to be with your paramour instead.” He gave Effy a long, probing glare.

She flushed and pulled her robe tighter around herself. “Miss Sayre, if you don’t mind—”

“What are you doing here?” Preston cut in sharply. He angled his body so that he was firmly between Master Gosse and Effy, obscuring her from his adviser’s view. “It’s first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been up all night. After you left me so abruptly last evening, I spent hours ruminating, researching, probing the libraries for all they might offer, scouring the city for any hints and clues that might be useful—”

“And drinking?” Preston prompted.

“It helps oil the gears of the mind,” Master Gosse responded primly. “Anyway, I need you, Héloury. Now.”

Preston inhaled, and with his breath, he felt his anger return to him.

The same anger he had felt yesterday, when Southey had poked and prodded at him all through class; the same anger he had felt when Master Gosse had dragged him to his office, forcing him through the motions of this ridiculous ritual.

The same anger that had kept Master Gosse at a distance, trapped outside the palace walls, asleep but incapable of dreaming.

Did he really have that power?

Real power, he thought drearily, would be to make Gosse wither and vanish on the spot.

Preston wanted nothing more than to shut the door in his face, retreat into Effy’s bedroom, and hold her for just a little bit longer, as the morning light washed over them and turned her hair the hue of bright, untempered gold.

Instead, he said, “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

He managed to maneuver Gosse back through the door, but before he could close it, Gosse held out his arm and tapped his watch meaningfully. “Well, hurry up. I don’t have all the time in the world.”

Preston felt too weary to even reply. Once Gosse had been herded out, he turned to Effy and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Gosse seems to be in a... curious mood lately,” she replied.

Preston would have called it obsessive , demented , harebrained , or loony before curious . Sighing, he told her, “I know. He’s always been prone to flights of, ah, fancy.”

He wasn’t sure exactly how much Effy had overheard of their conversation in his office.

Preston had already made the decision to keep her out of all this—well, he still didn’t know what all this even was.

But he did know this was a burden she shouldn’t have to bear.

She had fought so hard to free herself of the Fairy King and all the evils of the unreal world.

What right did he have to plunge her back into it?

Effy’s throat bobbed, and she stared for a moment at the floor. Then, looking up again, she asked, “This sounds silly, but... he isn’t harming you, is he?”

It was a question that Preston found unexpectedly difficult to answer.

“No,” he said, his voice a bit thick, “no, he’s just dragging me along with his whimsical schemes. He’s eccentric, but he’s harmless. It’s no worse than being at the mercy of Ianto Myrddin.” He tried a gentle smile.

Effy didn’t smile back. “I would hope that we didn’t just trade one capricious tyrant for another.”

“Capricious, maybe.” Preston reached for her hand, his fingers swanning through the silk of her robe and the lace-edged folds of her nightdress. “But not a tyrant. Just a fanatical dreamer.”

I should have known.

It was all Preston could think as Master Gosse led him, still bleary-eyed with sleep, through the streets of Caer-Isel.

The morning after a mild snow, the streets had the icy sheen of danger, and he was shocked that Master Gosse was able to navigate them so confidently, given the shakiness of his sleepless night and—from what Preston could smell—a truly astonishing amount of alcohol.

But Preston was so tense with adrenaline that he could hardly feel the cold. And he knew, even before he saw the domed roof of the Sleeper Museum rising up against the gray sky like the scute of a sea monster, that they were returning to the site of the first successful ritual.

This world has been built for you—

It was too early for the museum to be open, which meant the streets and the path up to the main doors were empty, but Master Gosse did not lead him up the main staircase. Instead, he took a sharp turn around the corner of the block and brought him to a small side door.

“What—” Preston began to ask, but before he could finish, Master Gosse was removing a key from his pocket and fitting it into the lock.

“Somervell was kind enough to give this to me,” Master Gosse said, and Preston figured he meant the museum curator, “so I could visit the exhibit at my leisure. A right good chap. He thinks I’m authoring the definitive paper to refute your claims about Myrddin.”

Master Gosse laughed, and Preston’s stomach churned with bile. He could not remember the last time he’d eaten.

The back entrance led them down a narrow, dark corridor, which smelled strongly of bleach and other preserving chemicals.

After several moments of walking, they passed a door on the left.

Through the door’s small window, Preston saw a lectern, made of shining oak.

A very ancient-looking book was laid open on top of it, and it was encased in glass.

Otherwise, the room was completely empty.

“What is that?” Preston asked.

Gosse paused in his brisk forward march, looking irritated.

“The original copy of the Neiriad , of course. It used to be on display, but Somervell said he had some concerns about its integrity. They’re bringing in a professional restoration artist to try and keep the parchment from crumbling further.

Poor timing, of course. The people and the government of Llyr could certainly use the reassurance of looking upon such a sacred text.

The Ministry of Culture must be stewing in frustration. Now come on.”

Preston began walking again, but he cast one last glance at the book. He could see only the faintest lines of text, faded ink in Old Llyrian, too far away to make out. An odd chill shivered through him, making the skin rise on the back of his neck.

At last they reached the chamber of the Sleepers.

It was unchanged—of course it was. Most of these men had lain here for decades, for centuries.

He followed Gosse over to that same place, between Myrddin’s coffin and Aneurin’s, where they had knelt the first time.

Just as before, Gosse opened his satchel and began to spread the papers about.

Pages of Angharad’s diary, the essential quotes circled and underlined.

A low, nauseating rage simmered within Preston. He felt the defilement of Angharad’s work like a slow torment of his own, splints jammed under his nails, the constant drip-drip-drip of water meant to drive him mad. This was wrong. It was all wrong.

“Kneel, Héloury,” Master Gosse commanded.

Reluctantly, mutinously, he did. The coldness of the stone floor bled through and into his bones.

“Close your eyes.”

At that, Preston did not hesitate. He should have been thinking of magic, of those long-gone, youthful years when he had believed in more than what he could see in front of him.

But instead he was thinking of how Southey had smirked at him, goaded him, how Master Gosse had jerked him forward by his collar, as if he were no more than a rag doll to be arranged at his amusement, and about the words of Aneurin the Bard— the savage pillagers who spoke the demon Ankou’s tongue .

Ankou was one of Argant’s patron saints. His father had a small, carved-wooden idol of him on his bureau. Since his death, it had accumulated a concealing shroud of dust.

Preston inhaled, breathing deeply air that smelled of salt and smoke. In the not-so-distant distance, the bells were ringing their resonant song. But before he could even open his eyes, he felt a gentle hand close around his arm, hauling him to his feet. Once again, his glasses were gone.

At last Preston opened his eyes. His father stood before him, smiling a gentle but canny smile. Master Gosse was nowhere to be seen.

“ Degemer mat ,” his father said, clapping his other hand warmly against Preston’s shoulder.

Welcome home.