Page 34 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

The 31st day of Spring, 81 AD

Dearest Clementina,

Forgive me for this latest lapse in reply; things have gone from bad to worse with my father, and he has banned me from writing to you at all. I am penning this letter surreptitiously and will pass it to Miss Maud when he is otherwise occupied. I hope that it reaches you.

My father has begun to refuse all callers, distrusting even the couriers and carriage drivers.

He has dismissed a number of our serving staff, out of suspicion that they might infect him with fever—or, I think, that they will put in my mind dreams of defiance.

I know I will suffer terribly if he somehow discovers that I am still writing to you.

I have begun feigning sleep when he visits my room at night, though even this does not dissuade him.

Presently, I have also begun to ruminate on a philosophical matter: Does grief alter one’s spirit, or does it merely reveal one’s fundamental nature?

The creature who comes to me is not one I recognize, not the father I once loved, who once read to me by the soft gleam of candlelight.

Please, Clementina, pray for my deliverance from these abhorrent circumstances. You know that I am not such a one for prayer, but I have been calling upon Saint Britomart daily. I must believe that the patroness of chastity has not abandoned me.

All my love,

A.A.

The 19th day of Summer, 81 AD

Dearest Clementina,

This may be the very last letter that I write.

My father has come down with a fever. All our servants have been dismissed, save for Miss Maud, and the physician who comes and goes, but only at my instruction.

My father says he trusts no one else but me to tend him, though he is delirious and half the time speaking gibberish.

When he is more lucid, he calls out my mother’s name.

He mistakes me for her, often. I suppose that he has for quite a long time.

As the years have passed, I have become more a wife to him, and less a daughter.

You were right, Clementina, when you said that my mother’s death marked my family for further doom. It is here now, my father’s death. Mine will follow soon after. I pray to Saint Calidore for the courage to face it when it comes. For the courage not to flinch when death knocks at my door.

All my love—and enduring beyond the veil,

A.A.

And then, with alarming quickness, the night of the Midwinter Ball was upon them.

Effy had half expected the university to cancel it, but Dean Fogg had instead sent a missive about the importance of keeping tradition alive in the face of a crisis of morale. Meanwhile, she had done little in the past weeks other than read Letters & Annals and sleep.

She had never been able to sleep during the day before, but now she realized that all she had to do was take a sleeping pill or two or three and she could knock herself out like a light.

Hours would pass while she drifted in the dreamless dark.

She had begun to feel out of sorts in the real world, mechanical in her motions. More like a ghost than a living girl.

But Effy wasn’t sure if she would have prepared for the ball any better regardless. Preparing would have involved calling her mother and asking her to send a dress, and she felt that she’d sooner jab splinters under her nails than pick up the phone.

Luckily, Rhia was there again to rescue her.

“I put together several options for you,” her roommate said, opening up her closet and flipping through the hangers. “It’s a shame we don’t have time to get anything tailored, but I’m confident that at least one of these will work.”

Rhia flung three dresses onto the bed, one after another, where they landed with very soft thuds. Effy picked up the first one. It was a buttercup yellow with a ruffled taffeta skirt, but the size of the bodice didn’t look promising. She gave Rhia a grim shake of her head and put the dress aside.

The second was moss green and made of heavy draped velvet. The color was so similar to the dress of Angharad’s she had worn at Penrhos. Effy flinched at seeing it. The girl she had been felt to her like a stranger now, and it caused a deep ache in her chest.

“Not this one,” she said hurriedly. “Not—not green.”

Rhia nodded, and kindly didn’t ask her to elaborate. “Well, the last one is my favorite anyway.”

Effy didn’t feel too hopeful as she lifted the dress off the bed. The fabric unfurled from her hands.

It was an ankle-length, A-line dress with two layers.

Underneath was a sleeveless shift of pale pink silk, and over it, a swaddling of baby-blue tulle.

The effect was that it looked like the sky at sunrise, a filmy mass of tender dawn hues.

Crystals were woven through the tulle, giving it a very subtle shimmer when the fabric shifted. Effy let out a quiet breath.

Clearly, that was all the encouragement Rhia needed. She grinned and began to rummage through her large jewelry box.

“I thought you could wear it with these,” she said, holding up a delicate string of seed pearls. “I have matching earrings, too.”

Fifteen minutes later, Effy was buttoned up into the dress and Rhia was helping her twist her hair into a loose chignon.

It had been weeks since Effy had worn her hair pulled back, smooth instead of in tangled waves around her face.

There was something of a relief about it, a literal weight lifted from her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said to Rhia, in a very heartfelt way. “Truly—I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Would do , Effy thought, but didn’t add.

“It’s nothing,” Rhia said, waving a hand. “I never would’ve worn this anyway. Not my color season.”

Effy finished the outfit with her own nude, patent leather heels and white elbow-length gloves. And when she regarded herself in the mirror, she didn’t entirely hate what she saw. Indeed, she even managed to force a small smile onto her face.

Rhia had, of course, put together her own elaborate outfit. The dress was a strapless gown with a tightly laced bodice and a full skirt, in a shade of rich, deep red. Over her shoulders she wore a matching gossamer shawl, with black velvet gloves and a glamorous choker of ruby and gold.

“It’s supposed to be romantic,” Rhia explained. “Like a kiss at midnight.” She paused, brow furrowing. “I suppose it’s a very loose interpretation of the theme.”

“I love it,” Effy said. “You look beautiful. Maisie will be thrilled.”

Rhia reached out and grasped her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Then they both bundled up in their coats and scarves and stepped out bravely into the night. It was remarkably still, the snow on the sidewalks banked and days old, the sky clear and lustrous with stars.

At the end of their block, Rhia departed for the music college, where Maisie waited, leaving Effy to make her way alone to the literature building.

As she passed beneath the lintel upon which the names of the Sleepers were carved, Effy thought of how impermanent it all was, in the end.

Every bit of marble would one day crumble.

Every engraved name would be erased by weather and time. Every hero’s light would fade.

In a sense, she was lucky that her own heroes were already lost to her. She was so accustomed to the grief that she almost felt like she had been made for it. She knew it as well as she knew the bragging of her heart.