Page 38 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

When they reached Dean Fogg’s office, they found Southey already waiting for them.

His eye had swelled to a degree that would have been funny in another circumstance, the rough size and blue-black color of a plum.

His other eye was narrowed to a slit. As they entered the room, he drew in a breath, as if preparing to speak, but he was cut off by another voice.

“Good to see you decided to turn up.” Master Gosse’s tone was light, almost nauseatingly so.

He leaned back against Dean Fogg’s desk and fiddled with an unlit cigarette.

“Imagine my surprise, to receive a call in the middle of the night that my favorite student and advisee had landed himself in such an unfortunate and compromising situation.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Lotto shot back. “Southey was being his usual self, an unabashed prick. He was taunting him.”

“Have you mistaken this university for a seedy pub, Mr. Grey?” It was Dean Fogg who spoke now, and his tone was all ice.

He rose from his chair and walked around his desk, gesturing to the chairs that had been set before it—four of them, in a neat row.

“Do we settle our disputes with drunken brawls? Sit. All of you.”

Muttering to himself, Lotto dropped into his seat. Effy followed, lowering herself slowly into the middle chair, and Preston filed in after her, perching stiffly on the edge of his seat. Southey watched them balefully before at last taking the chair to Lotto’s left.

“I don’t expect I’ll get the full truth out of any of you,” Dean Fogg said.

“But the porters relayed to me what they observed. Mr. Southey approached Mr. Héloury, who were both inebriated. Brief words were exchanged. And then Mr. Héloury tackled Mr. Southey to the floor.” Dean Fogg’s gaze fixed on Effy.

“The porters said it was a fight over a girl.”

“That’s a lie,” Effy bit out. “Preston was drinking, but he wasn’t drunk .

But Southey was practically slurring his words.

He was taunting him. He called him—” Effy cut herself off, her throat suddenly too tight to speak.

Remembering the way Southey had sneered Argantian scum made her skin prickle with rage.

“Regardless,” Dean Fogg said, “it’s clear that Mr. Héloury was the one who escalated the situation to physical violence.”

All the eyes in the room turned to him. For the entire time they had been inside Dean Fogg’s office, Preston had not said a word. At some point, he had folded back into his seat, bent over with elbows on his knees, hands obscuring his face. Even now, he didn’t so much as flinch.

“Héloury?” Master Gosse prodded. “Suppose you explain your side of the story?”

There was a long beat of silence.

“It’s like you all said,” Preston whispered at last. “Southey taunted me. I attacked him.”

This time, the silence was not quite so long, but it was infinitely more uncomfortable. Effy felt her stomach churning. Dean Fogg’s gaze flickered in a bewildered way.

“And do you have any defense for your actions?” he asked.

“No.” The word dropped like a cold stone.

“I want him expelled,” Southey snarled. “Once my father hears about this—”

“Oh, shut up about your father,” Lotto said, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you fight your own battles?” He paused, and then with a snicker and a glance at Southey’s eye, he went on, “Evidently not.”

“That’s enough , Mr. Grey,” Dean Fogg cut in. “The porters’ story has been corroborated. I’ll have to call a meeting of the disciplinary board, who will decide upon a course of action. Until then, Mr. Héloury, I have no choice but to suspend you.”

“ What? ” Effy leaped to her feet, with so much force that her chair toppled to the floor. Her heart was pounding in her ears. “That’s completely unfair.”

“Sit down, Miss Sayre,” Dean Fogg said.

“ No. ”

She had been here before, in this very same room, in these very same chairs, fighting for Angharad.

For herself. Preston had helped her fight then, but now—he still sat in that same hunched position, his hands over his face, the only sign of life the faint rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.

“You should hear what he said to me.” Her voice shook, but she didn’t relent. She looked over at Southey, who was glaring defiantly back. “The disgusting things he—he proposed . He should be suspended at the very least, too.”

“Yes,” Lotto spoke up earnestly. “Punish him for being a lout and a bigot.”

But it was Master Gosse who replied, ignoring both Effy and Lotto entirely. “Chin up, Héloury. A suspension isn’t the worst thing in the world. Take the time to clear your head. Perhaps you’ll emerge from this fallow period a changed man, as a flower blooms from desolate fields of ash.”

Effy was in no mood for whimsical and overwrought metaphors. “It’s not fair,” she repeated. “Preston wouldn’t have done it if not...”

If not for me. The thought, as it occurred to her quite suddenly, made her almost sick with revulsion.

Revulsion for herself, because here she was again, a burden.

If Preston had never known her, had never loved her, none of this would have happened.

She—in some indirect way—was responsible for this. For hurting him.

Mollified by the realization, Effy sank back down into her seat.

“Leave now,” Dean Fogg said. “All of you. And for the sake of all the Saints, stay out of trouble for at least the next two weeks. The board will reach its decision by then.”

Effy returned to her dorm feeling empty.

She was a shell that had been scraped clean, worn to translucence by the relentless, tossing tide.

All she wanted was to sleep. But, with great effort, she gathered up her clothes and her towel and headed for the bathroom.

After last night—and with Preston’s blood still staining the crevices of her palms—she needed a shower.

For some reason, she had not been expecting Rhia. She had assumed she would sleep over at Maisie’s, and it was only just after dawn. But she bumped into her roommate on the way to the bathroom.

Not even the shock of seeing her there made Effy startle. She was beyond—or perhaps beneath—the basic instinct of fear. But alarm crossed Rhia’s face at once.

“Effy,” she said. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Her roommate was still wearing last night’s ball gown, lipstick smudged. She had divested herself only of her gloves and shoes and jewelry, and the pins that had held back her thick curly hair. All the remains of joy and merrymaking. Beside her, Effy felt like a ghost.

“Ah, well...” Effy began.

She would have to tell her. Rhia would see the blood on her borrowed dress. And already she knew her friend saw the haunted look in her gaze. She could not hide.

But Effy was past the point of tears, too.

Her eyes remained dry as she told Rhia everything, her voice monotone and growing quieter and quieter, until it was little more than a whisper.

And while she felt no emotion—at least none she could discern or put a name to—she did feel some part of her slipping away, like a spirit vacating its vessel.

She was not even a specter. She was a body without a girl inside it.