Page 21 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
Swear fealty to no cause but knowledge.
—the motto of the University of Llyr, as translated from Old Llyrian
When Master Gosse had gone, taking Preston with him, Effy walked, as if in a trance, to the bathroom.
She bent over the tub. She was scarcely even aware of what she was doing as she turned the faucet, and was only jolted into complete wakefulness when she put her hand below the stream of water and felt it scald her skin. She retracted her hand, wincing.
As the tub filled, Effy stripped off her robe and her nightgown. She hung them on the towel rack, where the folds of white silk rippled like a restless spirit. Then, after testing the water once more, she stepped into the tub and sank down, drowning herself up to the throat.
Her hair rose to the surface and drifted out around her, golden flotsam on the tide.
The water seemed to caress her limbs, and the weightlessness made her eyelids feel paradoxically heavy.
Of course, there was a simple explanation for why she was so tired, though she was loath to admit it even to herself.
Last night, she had taken her bottle of sleeping pills to the bathroom—out of Preston’s sight—and placed two of them on her tongue and swallowed.
Her doctor’s instructions had been clear; she was to take only one tablet each night, just to make her tired enough to sleep, to smother the anxious thoughts that seethed and whispered in her mind.
But since returning from Hiraeth, since the vanishing of the Fairy King, one tablet had not been enough.
Two, however, was enough to put her under, to obliterate her imagination.
But the effects of the pills were slow to wane, and in the mornings, Effy felt their residual exhaustion.
It made her brain fuzzy and her movements clumsy.
It made her always on the verge of tumbling back into sleep.
So far, at least, Preston had not noticed.
He seemed to have plenty else to worry about.
As he had vanished through the door with Master Gosse, Effy could remember what it felt like to be afraid—afraid she would lose him to this strange affair, the details of which he refused to share.
Yet when she tried to grasp for that emotion, that terror, it seemed as though it were being held behind a pane of glass, out of reach.
The fear was only a memory. Perhaps even a dream.
The sleeping pills were putting a numbing distance between her and the world.
Effy did not know how long she stayed in the tub, staring blankly at the cracked plaster ceiling. It was only a knock on the door that jolted her from her reverie.
“Effy? Are you in there?”
Rhia’s voice. Effy sat up, which created a small tempest, water sloshing over the tub’s edges. Without her even noticing, it had grown as cold as ice.
“Yes,” she called back. “Sorry. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“What on earth is going on with Preston and his adviser?” Rhia asked as she buttoned up her coat and wrapped her scarf tightly around her throat. “Blackmail? Induction into a secret society?”
“The university doesn’t have any secret societies,” Effy said. She glumly gave her tea a stir. “Blackmail is more likely.”
“Have you asked him?”
“Sort of.” Effy was reluctant to admit that she hadn’t exactly been intrepid in finding out the truth. That perhaps she was better off knowing as little as possible. “He’s being rather cagey.”
“Of course.” Rhia rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m off to class. If I see any more posters, I’ll tear them down.”
“Thank you,” Effy said, in a very heartfelt way. “Truly. I’ll see you tonight.”
Her roommate left in a bustle of dark curly hair and rose-pink wool, a fox-fur muff to keep her hands from the cold.
More gifts from her overbearing father, Effy presumed.
She was in awe at how Rhia managed to shoulder that burden, how she seemed never close to breaking under its weight.
She’s so much stronger than I am , Effy thought.
A sideways glance from a classmate was enough, these days, to make her falter.
As soon as Rhia shut the door behind her, Effy abandoned her tea and went to the trash pail. She dug out one of the crumpled posters and flattened it as best she could onto the table. The photo of her was almost indistinguishable, with all the creases, and the ink barely legible.
Still, she managed to find the phone number, tucked into the bottom right corner.
They win , Effy thought as she bundled up and tied her hair back with a white ribbon.
Myrddin, Blackmar, Master Corbenic, Dean Fogg—they win if you don’t fight back.
They win if you don’t even try. She braced herself and stepped out into the sharp morning cold, the sunlight harsh enough to make her squint.
Luckily, the phone booth was only half a block away.
Once inside, Effy slotted in her coins and picked up the receiver. Before dialing, she let out a long breath that clouded the glass. She had to run through the words in her mind, practicing to make sure she would have the confidence to speak them aloud.
Steeling herself, she dialed the number and lifted the receiver to her ear. It rang only once before someone picked up.
“Roger Finisterre, investigative reporter with the Caer-Isel Post .”
“Hello, Finisterre,” Effy bit out. “It’s Effy Sayre.”
She could almost see his mouth stretching into that wide, gaunt smile. “Effy,” he said. “I’m surprised to hear from you.”
“No you’re not,” she replied acridly. “You put up those posters as a taunt. You knew that I would call.”
“I had hoped you would call,” Finisterre corrected her. “I hoped you were smart enough to discern my plot.”
“You’re not nearly as clever as you think, and nastily underhanded besides.” Anger was starting to burn in her chest, but she managed to keep her voice level, proud that she was able to remain articulate. “Can’t you get a good story without resorting to cheap tricks?”
“One man’s cheap tricks are another’s brilliant gambits. You’re talking to me now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Effy admitted, “but I’m not going to give you an interview. All of this is off the record.”
“Very well,” Finisterre said, in a perfectly casual tone. “I have no shortage of ink and printer paper.”
Her stomach squeezed with nauseous fury. “Don’t you dare.”
“All I want is an interview, Ms. Sayre. In fact, I’ll settle for as much as a tip. Something that no other paper has been able to cover yet.”
A frigid wind whipped by, so fierce that it rattled the glass panes of the phone booth. Effy shivered. Those same words echoed, threading through her mind with the steady rhythm of embroidery.
They win if you don’t fight back.
“You’re a disgrace to your profession,” she said bleakly. She was not going to let Finisterre win. Then she slammed the receiver down.
The domed roof of the administrative building rose up gray against the grayer sky, supported by six grooved columns and an intricately engraved lintel.
There were six distinct carvings in the sumptuous frieze: a stag for the architecture college, rearing its great antlered head; a mermaid for the fine art college, her tail patterned with serpentine scales; an ermine for the history college, twisting its lithe body; the dragon of literature, breathing a volute of flame; a swan for the music college, its slender neck bent into the shape of a musical note.
And then there was the unicorn of the defunct astronomy college, wearing a bridle of stars.
Effy climbed the steps with purpose, energized by the seemingly relentless surge of adrenaline. As she passed under the cornice, she glanced up at the university’s motto, etched into the stone in Old Llyrian. Swear fealty to no cause but knowledge.
In Old Llyrian, the words for knowledge and truth were the same. Fealty to truth indeed , Effy thought bitterly as she pushed through the oaken double doors and into the warm, softly gleaming lobby.
Everything was gold-hued oak, which caught and held the light from the lamps and from the fireplace.
The tongues of flame leaped and crackled, yet stayed fettered behind their iron grate.
Effy stopped to stamp the snow off her boots before she could track it onto the lovely plush carpet, and then was annoyed at herself for the urge. She was not here to be polite.
With a loud, disdainful breath, she marched over to the secretary, who sat behind a very large but uncluttered desk.
Envelopes were stacked in neat piles; papers were held together with clips or sorted into appropriate folders.
The secretary, a woman in her mid-twenties—seemingly not much older than Effy herself—looked up and gave a small but decorous smile.
“How can I help you, miss?” she asked.
“I need to speak to Dean Fogg,” Effy replied, forgoing pleasantries. “ Immediately. ”
“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary asked.
Her voice was cheery enough to grate on Effy’s frayed nerves. “No,” she replied. “But this is an emergency.”
“Well, I’m afraid he’s rather booked today,” the secretary said. “You can make an appointment for...” She opened a memo book and began to flip through its pages. “Next month?”
“No,” Effy repeated, her chin starting to quiver. “This really can’t wait.”
The secretary’s smile was still unflinchingly polite. “I have to follow procedure, miss. I’m sorry. The dean isn’t even in right now—”
“Then I’ll wait right here until he returns,” Effy cut in.
The secretary winced, as if cowed by Effy’s insistence.
Hesitantly she indicated a circle of armchairs on the other side of the lobby.
They were arranged around the hearth, their leather gleaming with firelight.
Effy turned to sit, but before she did, she gave the papers on the desk a cursory glance.
It was no more than idle curiosity, but her gaze landed on a rather tightly packed folder, which read, in careful letters across the top, CORRESPONDENCE FROM BENEFACTORS .