Page 22 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
With that, Effy sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs, letting the heat of the fire warm the cold tip of her nose and her fingers.
It would have been pleasant, if not for the extenuating circumstances.
Above the fireplace hung the university’s enormous coat of arms, the sigils of the original six colleges represented in evenly divided sections of the shield, which made for a rather busy design.
And the motto again, draped across in a banner: Swear fealty to no cause but knowledge.
The grandfather clock in the corner seemed to tick with agonizing slowness, but luckily Effy had come prepared for this potential circumstance.
She reached into her satchel and drew out Rockflower’s biography of Ardor, shaking off some of the dust it had gathered.
Then she flipped to the marked page and began to read.
Following the death of his beloved Claribel, Ardor became something of a recluse.
He rarely left his bedroom and—owing to his blindness—required the near-constant attention of carers and housekeepers.
This time of his life is not well-documented, but one of his maids, a woman by the name of Maud, reported that he kept the window beside his bed open at all hours, and in all temperatures.
Through the window he fingered the leaves of a nearby tree, and each morning when she came to give him his breakfast, he reported on the minute changes that had occurred to the tree overnight.
The dying of leaves, the withering of branches by the encroaching winter winds.
“His world may have been small then,” Maud said, “but it was not shallow.”
One can imagine, then, why he would have been inspired to compose “The Garden in Stone,” a work about a frozen, unchanging garden, trapped in the sinister rigidity of time.
Within the garden, the maiden sleeps and dreams, her mind at work even when her body is magicked to immortal stillness.
And, of course, there is the gallant knight who comes to her rescue, ultimately freeing the maiden and her garden from this ill fate.
Composing this poem while blind was of course no mean feat, and Ardor employed an amanuensis to accomplish it. An amanuensis—
“Dean Fogg?”
It was the secretary’s voice. Immediately, Effy’s head snapped up. Over the back of the armchair she saw the door to the office open and the dean come striding out. His gait was hurried, and his hair was shockingly white against the backdrop of shining tawny wood.
Her chest burned with humiliation and jilted anger; he had been in his office the whole time. Stumbling a bit, Effy got to her feet. Dean Fogg was approaching the secretary’s desk, and he didn’t even notice her until she practically threw herself into the path of his gaze.
“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly. “Excuse me, Dean Fogg—”
The dean inhaled sharply and recoiled from her in surprise. “Miss Sayre,” he said. Then, turning to the secretary, he asked, “What’s all this, then?”
“My apologies, sir,” the secretary said, with a brief but baleful glance at Effy. “This student entered in a hurry, demanding to see you at once. I explained that you were booked, but...”
“This is improper, Miss Sayre,” said Dean Fogg coldly. “If you wish to speak with me, you may make an appointment—”
“This is an emergency,” she interrupted. To her surprise, her voice didn’t shake. “It really can’t wait.”
Dean Fogg stared down at her, his watery blue eyes unblinking. And Effy met his gaze and did not cower or flinch. She might have— would have—once. But that cringing girl had perished at Hiraeth, along with the Fairy King. Effy tried not to think what other parts of her had perished there, too.
“Very well,” Dean Fogg said at last, and he was the one to break off his stare. To his secretary, he said, “Do I have any urgent correspondence?”
“Yes,” she replied, and reached into the marked folder.
She pulled out a single sheet of paper and held it face down, but Effy still managed to glimpse just a peek of it.
There was a seal at the top, not unlike the university’s coat of arms. She couldn’t quite make out the details, only the line printed below: From the desk of Lord Benedict Byron Southey, 8th Baron of Margetson.
Dean Fogg took the paper and folded it in his fist. Then, in an unmitigatedly disgusted tone, he said, “Come with me, Miss Sayre.”
Dean Fogg’s office was no different from how Effy remembered it—when she had sat there with Preston upon their return from Hiraeth, Master Gosse pacing about in excitement, Dean Fogg frowning over his tea.
Some time had passed, but her position, she realized, was no different.
Here she was yet again, bargaining for her humanity.
Only this time, she was not offered any tea.
Dean Fogg set the letter down on his desk and gestured vaguely toward one of the armchairs. But Effy did not sit. She stood, facing him directly, and said, “What’s taking the Llyrian Times so long?”
“Excuse me?”
“The paper,” Effy said. “You gave them Angharad’s letters and diary, and they said the editorial board was ‘vetting them for authenticity.’ But it’s been weeks now. Shouldn’t they be finished already?”
Dean Fogg’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Your entitlement is unbecoming, Miss Sayre,” he said. “The editorial board at the Times does not work according to your whims. Besides”—he cleared his throat in a meaningful way—“have you not been given enough?”
Effy looked down at her uniform, the blazer edged with the literature college’s colors.
She thought about—or at least she imagined—what Master Corbenic’s empty office would look like.
His books would be cleared out, his framed degrees removed from the walls.
The green chair would be gone. Her stomach shriveled.
Was Dean Fogg right? Was she demanding too much?
“It’s just a question,” she said, trying to level her voice. “If you gave me the phone number, I could call and ask them directly—”
“ No ,” Dean Fogg cut in, shaking his head with such emphasis that his bright-white hair grew tousled and disarrayed. After much consideration, Effy was now almost certain it was a wig. “That would be unacceptably impertinent. I won’t have you further smearing the good name of this university.”
That had always been his greatest concern—that Effy would shame the university and, by extension, its dean.
She admittedly did not know very much about Dean Fogg, but she did know that he was new at this position, relatively speaking, and eager to establish his reputation.
His predecessor, Dean Licenfed, was so old he had literally died in his office chair, in the middle of signing papers.
Dean Fogg was younger, and when he had been sworn in, he had promised progress, innovation, a farewell to stuffy traditionalism.
It was the only lever of control Effy had over him.
And yet... now he had reinstituted uniforms, had brought back legates. It was a demonstrable heel turn. Was it all pressure from the government, the Ministry of Culture, now that her and Preston’s accusations about Myrddin had been made public?
The gears in Effy’s mind began to turn. She took a step closer to Dean Fogg’s desk, until she was near enough to place her hands on the wood. Dean Fogg drew in a warning breath.
“Fine,” she said. “I suppose I’ll just have to stop by your office regularly for updates, then.”
Dean Fogg’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Very well. Goodbye now, Miss Sayre.”
As Effy left the administrative building, she found herself shockingly calm. The adrenaline had ebbed; her limbs no longer quivered. Even the wind had quelled itself and, from a distance, she could see that the iron-colored waters of Lake Bala were as smooth and still as an oil painting.
She descended the steps, passing by the stone dragons that reposed on either side. A trio of students sat astride the statues, smoking. Where their jackets flapped open, Effy could see that their blazers were edged with the yellow and blue of the fine art college.
The nearest phone booth was just down the street, its glass translucent with condensation. Effy closed herself inside, slotted in her coins, picked up the receiver, and dialed.
“Roger Finisterre, investigative reporter with the Caer-Isel Post .”
“Hello, Finisterre,” Effy said pleasantly.
“Euphemia ‘Effy’ Sayre,” said Finisterre, and she could easily imagine the smile that was stretching across his wan face. “How lovely to hear from you again. I presume you’ve changed your mind about our interview?”
“No,” she said. “Not quite. But I do have a tip for you. Something exclusive.”
“Oh?”
Effy inhaled, the cold prickling her nose as she gathered her words.
As she had leaned over Dean Fogg’s desk, she had taken the opportunity to give the letter another glance.
She had not been able to read it all, but she had gotten the gist of it.
Enough to know that it was most certainly something that Dean Fogg would not want aired publicly.
“Yes,” she replied. “Get out your pen and paper.”