Page 32 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

Hesitantly, he reached for her. Once it had felt so daring to touch her, so perilous.

He had been afraid of hurting her. Now he was afraid that no matter what he did, he could not help her.

That he was not strong enough to save her.

She had saved herself from the Fairy King; didn’t she deserve someone who could protect her in the aftermath, someone to keep her safe from the cruel realities of the world without its sheen of magic?

He understood now—perhaps better than he ever had before—how hard it was, to be without it.

How much the most mundane, most banal things could hurt, when there was nothing to paint them in gold.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Whatever’s wrong—”

“That’s just it.” She turned over at last, the tip of her nose pink and her cheeks shiny with tears. “There’s nothing wrong, especially... it’s just too much. It’s all too much.”

It would be useless, Preston realized, to prod her.

What could he make her say that they didn’t both already know?

That there were the newspapers, her fellow students, Dean Fogg, Finisterre, Professor Tinmew, Master Gosse.

.. she was right. There was nothing more to say except that it was all too much.

So instead, Preston just sank back down into the bed.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest. He didn’t speak, and neither did she.

And all the while Preston was thinking—with no small amount of guilt—that perhaps it would be all right, if only he could keep her here forever, unchanging and as still as stone.

They both managed to fall back asleep, and his slumber, at least, was finally dreamless. But when, hours later, the beams of white wintry sun snuck through the gaps in the curtains and planked across Effy’s face, she still did not wake.

Preston jostled her shoulder gently. “Effy? It’s time to get up.”

That was when he realized that she was awake; she just had not opened her eyes. She hardly shifted at his prodding. She only gave a slight shake of her head.

“Come on,” he said, keeping his tone as soft and light as possible. “There’s work to do, and you have Tinmew’s class...”

Still, Effy did not open her eyes.

A slow sense of alarm was beginning to creep coldly up Preston’s spine. “We can get coffee,” he proposed. “We can stop at the Drowsy Poet.”

Effy made a small sound of protest. Preston just watched her. Waiting. Hoping. Minutes ticked by—minutes that he could not count with his broken watch—and then, finally, Effy shifted and opened her eyes.

“Fine,” she said weakly, and nothing more.

She rose in utter silence and began to dress.

Her blond hair tumbled over her shoulders in unkempt waves, and she made no attempt to neaten or comb it or tie it back in its customary ribbon.

She just put on her uniform—it had been discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor, which left the fabric creased—and then pulled her wool coat over her shoulders.

Her movements were somehow both sluggish and overly mechanical.

Preston dressed and didn’t dare to speak. Effy wound a scarf tightly around her neck and, her voice muffled through the fabric, said, “Let’s go, then.”

They stepped out into the bright and brisk winter morning. It was too cold, even, for mist to rise from the surface of the lake. The water was frozen over in a layer of thick, solid ice.

“Would you mind waiting a moment?” Preston stopped in front of the telephone booth. “I have to give my mother a call. It’ll be quick.”

Effy just nodded, half her face hidden beneath her scarf.

Acutely aware that he didn’t want to leave her out in the cold for long, Preston hurriedly slipped into the booth, inserted his coins, and dialed.

It was going to be a brief call, just to thank his mother for sending the book and assure her that it had arrived safely.

He did not want to talk about the ring, and he was hoping that he could give an excuse to end their conversation before she brought it up.

But when his mother answered, her voice was thick with tears and threaded with panic.

“Preston? Is that you?”

“Yes,” he replied, a mirrored panic rising in him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Haven’t you read the news today?”

Preston’s heart skipped. “No, I just woke up. What do the papers say?”

“A draft.” The words came out in little more than a whimper. “Llyr has claimed that it’s planning a full-scale invasion, so Argant has decided to implement a draft.”

“That’s...” Preston started, and he had to swallow hard before he could speak without faltering, “that’s terrible, but it hasn’t anything to do with us. I have an automatic exemption, remember? Because I’m a university student.”

“No,” his mother said. He could hear the receiver rustling as she shook her head. “Not you—Ollie.”

“What? Ollie’s only sixteen.”

“I know,” she said tremulously, “but there’s been talk—talk about lowering the age of eligibility. It’s in all the papers in Argant today. Surely it’s been covered in Llyr as well.” She let out a choked half sob.

“It’s all right,” Preston said. But his heart was still skipping in his chest. “It’s going to be fine. Mother, don’t worry.”

He was as terrible a liar as he had ever been, and his mother was too far gone, anyway. She began to weep in earnest now, her breathing labored and short. He had not heard her cry this way since his father’s funeral.

The sound hollowed him, like the scrape of a carving knife against bone.

He would have said anything, done anything, just to make her stop.

Selfishly—because what assurance could he offer her that wouldn’t be false hope, a false promise?

A lump formed in his throat and his own breath became strained.

“Don’t worry,” he repeated, with difficulty. “It’s not a guarantee. Llyr’s claims are only, well, claims. We don’t know what their true plan is yet. And we don’t know if there will be a draft at all, or if they’ll really lower the age of eligibility...”

But his mother’s grief and terror was too thick; his words couldn’t penetrate it.

Eventually, she was the one who pushed him off the phone, claiming that she needed to pick up Ollie from school, that she didn’t want him out of her sight until this matter was settled, as if he might be stolen from her, too, without even giving her a chance to say goodbye.

Irrational , Preston thought bleakly. But his mother hung up the phone before he could try to talk her down.

His mind was overloaded as he stepped out of the phone booth. A numbness had spread through his body, making his skin prick with pins and needles. It was all too much.

Effy was waiting on the sidewalk, hands tucked into her pockets and her unruly hair blowing about in the freezing wind. When she saw him, her face instantly turned white. “What’s wrong?”

Preston opened his mouth to reply. But before he could speak, there was a deafening noise overhead. He and Effy both lifted their gazes to the sky.

Two fighter planes shot through the air like loosed arrows, propellers whirring.

They flew low and close, their sleek metal bodies glinting in the harsh sunlight.

They passed over the city of Caer-Isel, over the domed roof of the Sleeper Museum and the clustered stone buildings of the university, racing toward the black mountains of Argant in the distance.