Page 33 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
The man who I thought had saved me was in truth the one who had caged me. With that epiphany, I drifted and was lost. There is no bleaker darkness than that found when the light of love is snuffed out.
AS WAR WITH ARGANT INTENSIFIES, LLYRIAN GOVERNMENT ORDERS RESTRICTIONS ON CULTURAL ACTIVITIES
Last week, as the Llyrian army launched a new offensive that aims to breach the border with Argant, the Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of Culture released a joint statement announcing a nationwide restriction on all activities that could be seen as dissident.
This includes a curtailment of certain publications, including this newspaper’s planned exposé on Emrys Myrddin.
At the beginning of winter, two students from the university of Caer-Isel contacted the paper with documents that, they claim, prove that Emrys Myrddin is not the author of the seminal novel Angharad and possibly other work attributed to him.
Our editorial board has vetted these materials carefully and initially planned to publish the findings by the end of the year; however, this new measure by the government has delayed our article indefinitely.
Emrys Myrddin is the seventh Sleeper of Llyr, interred at the museum only this past year following his death.
His consecration was widely viewed as a boon to Llyr’s war effort, providing the army with a much-needed boost in morale, and—if the government and the more superstitious among us are to be believed—bestowing Llyr with a boon of magic.
But the recent controversy has cast a pall over the nation, allegedly weakening this enchantment and enervating morale at a time when, according to the missive from the Ministries of Culture and Defense, “it can hardly be afforded.” The newspaper reached out to the office of the culture minister, Stuart Skirclaw, for further comment.
“This is the moment for the nation of Llyr to unite in common cause,” Minister Skirclaw said.
“It is of grave importance to conclude this war as quickly as possible, with as few casualties on either side, and this temporary ban on seditious activities is intended to minimize the cost of this prolonged conflict. Indeed, the sooner Argant surrenders, the sooner full civil liberties will be restored.”
When asked whether the missive was specifically targeting the press, Minister Skirclaw replied, “Naturally, some cultural institutions will be more affected by these restrictions than others. Our ministry understands and acknowledges that newspapers will bear the brunt. However, we ask that you hold tight for the sake of your fellow countrymen, and pray for an expeditious end to this war.”
The Times and other newspapers are not the only institutions that have been forced to make swift adjustments.
At the University of Caer-Isel, a number of classes have been canceled for being “detrimental to the spirit of national unity,” and others have had their coursework modified to ensure “conformity with the new restrictions and unflagging loyalty to the government and the war effort.” The Times reached out to the university’s dean, Quincy Fogg, but his office did not respond to our request for comment.
Other measures that have been implemented at the university include a ban on correspondence; the porters’ lodges have reportedly been told to stop accepting post marked for Argant, and to turn away any mail coming from the enemy nation.
The Times spoke to one university student, Domenic Byron Southey II, son of the 8th Baron Margetson, who said that these measures are “long past due.”
“The university has fostered an overly permissive environment where sedition has festered among its student body,” Southey said. “Hopefully with these restrictions we will see these traitorous elements silenced.”
Two weeks had passed since those first planes flew overhead. Since then, the sky had rumbled almost incessantly with the sound of jet engines, like encroaching thunder. Yet, on the ground, the entire city of Caer-Isel seemed to be blanketed in a fearful silence.
It was the small things that preyed on Effy.
The way the corner store had stopped selling flowers, its winter camellias wrapped up and put away, as if it was seditious to even appreciate beauty.
The way the menu at the Drowsy Poet had shortened to include nothing more than black tea, black coffee, and plain scones.
The way the smoking spots on campus all seemed to be abandoned; where crowds of students had once gathered to enjoy their cigarettes between classes, the pavement was now gray and empty.
Nearly a third of the university’s classes had been shuttered, including the one Preston had been helping Gosse to teach.
“Probably for the best,” Preston had said, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette.
“Southey and his little cabal can’t get at me now.
” But Effy didn’t miss the faint tremor in his voice.
Effy’s class hadn’t been canceled, but she didn’t know if the curriculum had been adjusted. She hadn’t shown up to Professor Tinmew’s lecture in almost three weeks.
She hadn’t meant to stop attending entirely.
But the more days that passed, the more frightened she became.
Everything felt terrifying, even the brief walk from the door to her seat.
Her mind generated a thousand catastrophes: that she would be tripped, that she would be laughed at, that she would be mocked or prodded with pencils, summoning up memories of primary school bullies.
Some of these worries were more rational than others; Effy just couldn’t distinguish them.
Again— again —the line between fear and reality was blurring.
Preston didn’t know that she was skipping class.
Every morning, they would see each other off, and Effy would walk vaguely toward the literature college building until she was out of Preston’s sight.
Then she would creep surreptitiously back toward her dorm and crawl into bed, pulling the covers over her head and opening up Antonia Ardor’s book beneath the sheets.
It had become the only thing that held her attention in the waking world. In truth, she had become rather obsessed with Antonia’s writings, the way she once had with Myrddin’s.
The 1st day of Spring, 81 AD
Dearest Clementina,
I know it has been some time since I last wrote, but it was not for lack of news, nor for lack of love for you, my oldest and most cherished friend.
It is only my own defects that have stopped me from lifting my pen.
Yet now I feel as though I am at last emerging from a dense and debilitating fog, the mists of my misery cleared.
I grieve my mother still, of course. There is no grief which mere time itself can erase; my soul has only strengthened with the passing months, growing hearty enough to bear it.
As the first flowers of spring bloom, those purple hyacinths we once picked and put in our baskets, I feel I have almost become a new creature entirely.
I am writing to you today, on the first day of spring, for I know that the courting season has now commenced.
I remember how we schemed and planned for this moment, how we awaited it so eagerly, imagining what color dresses we would wear and how we would weave ribbons in our hair!
We practiced the steps of our dance together and envisioned our future mates, these dream-conjured men we hoped would ask for our hands.
And yet now I find myself in the regrettable position of having to renounce these dreams.
I have not come to this position easily, nor has it been my choice.
After these past months, and the terrible toll my mother’s death has taken on him, my father has become a fearful and distrusting man.
He is racked with terror that I, too, will be taken from him, his only surviving family, his only daughter.
I understand: it has been the closeness of our bond that has weathered him through his grief; he has only slept easily when I am at his side.
And so, he says, he cannot entertain the thought of my leaving.
My dear Clementina, I have wept over this, and, in secret, only within the lockbox of my mind, I have even raged.
I have grown weary of my own grief and wearier still of my father’s.
I do not wish to be a spinster, locked in this manor with only him for company.
I can only hope that next year, when the courting season comes again and the purple hyacinths bloom, that he will have exorcised this spirit that seems to possess him, this grim specter of neurosis and fear.
And I do hope, in the meantime, that your own dreams are fulfilled.
All my love,
A.A.
The 7th day of Spring, 81 AD
Dearest Clementina,
Thank you so much for your swift and gracious reply. Just as I hoped, it is still true that you understand the inner workings of my soul better than any other living being.
The same certainly cannot be said for my father, whose temper seems to worsen by the day, even by the hour.
Just last evening I tried to go for a stroll about the grounds, relishing in the newly warm temperatures, but before I could even put on my walking shoes, he was upon me.
He told me that springtime was the time for ripening illness, that fever comes in blooming with the irises.
He said the physician has warned him against too many hours spent out of doors.
.. so now it has been near a week that I have not been permitted to leave the manor.
Miss Maud has been taking my letters and bringing my meals to my bedroom door.
I have begun to feel—not feverish, but sick in a different manner, nauseous with fettered anger.
Yet every night when my father comes to me I cannot refuse him.
It would only make his temper worse. And so, I will continue to bear through it all, and hope that I might begin to subtly dissuade him from these fixations and fears.
All my love,
A.A.