Page 41 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

Still, Tinmew didn’t speak, but, suddenly blustery with confidence, Effy met his stare. The only sound in the room was his teaching student, shuffling and clearing his throat.

At last, Tinmew said, “This class operates under the theory of formalism, Miss Sayre, in case you’ve forgotten.

These outside influences—Ardor’s illness, his relationship with his daughter—are all irrelevant to analysis of the text.

Your paper should be focusing on grammar, syntax, meter, rhyme.

.. not this supposed ethical dilemma. It is beyond the bounds of this class’s subject matter. ”

Effy felt a twinge of frustration. “I think that the circumstances and the means of composition influence the work produced. In inextricable ways.”

“Then I imagine you will enjoy the pedagogical approach of some of my colleagues far more,” Tinmew said.

He arranged the papers on his desk in an inane way, as though to signify his boredom with their conversation.

“This is an introductory lecture. It is not for you to debate philosophies or take aim at entire schools of thought.” He looked up and raised a brow.

“I’m aware that you’ve already established a reputation for yourself as a maverick in the field, but please leave your puffed-up ego at the door.

You’ve done your dirty work against Myrddin; I don’t think that Ardor needs to receive the same injurious treatment. ”

Effy was stunned into silence. The teaching assistant gave a choked little gasp of shock.

“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” she said, and then quickly added, “Sir. I was just enthusiastic about the subject matter. I’m not trying to take aim at Ardor...”

Yet Antonia’s words echoed in the back of her mind.

Please—free me—free me—how much longer must I endure this posthumous existence? Did her agony at her father’s hand not matter at all? Was it possible for her pain to coexist with the great art it had produced?

Was there any way to protect books, poems, paintings from the ugly, banal reality in which they were composed?

She had discovered the truth, about Ardor, about Myrddin, but at what cost?

It was not just the soul of the nation she had wounded.

It was her own heart, her own mind, all of it going to ruin now, because there was nothing left that she could love without a footnote or an asterisk.

Perhaps there was something to be said for Tinmew’s formalist approach. Effy didn’t think she could bear it. Not again, not anymore. Not another girl.

She was so tired.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tinmew replied, in a tone of icy condescension.

“But I suspect that you haven’t actually been attending my lecture in quite some time.

If you had, you would be aware that the syllabus has been modified.

We are now studying Colin Blackmar’s seminal work ‘The Dreams of a Sleeping King.’”

Effy was so taken aback she could no longer be bothered to playact politeness. “ What? ”

“Surely you’re aware that with the government’s new restrictions, the university has imposed temporary measures to prevent loss of morale.

” Tinmew leaned back in his chair, now steepling his hands over his stomach.

“Dean Fogg saw it as imperative to adjust the curriculum of our class accordingly. Ardor’s work, while influential, lacks the strongly nationalist character of Blackmar’s. ”

“But he’s a joke,” Effy broke in. “We studied that poem in primary school.”

“Yes, well, we all must suffer the costs of war. This is a relatively minor burden to bear. Particularly compared to the trials put upon our enemy. The draft and all that. What a pity.” His voice reflected no pity at all.

Effy’s skin prickled. She thought of Preston emerging from the telephone booth, his expression one of blank horror, of shock. She swallowed down the rising knot of anger in her throat and, with a pointed stare, she said, “It’s always a tragedy when young men die in an old man’s war.”

She was perversely pleased to see a faint flush appear on Tinmew’s face. He stiffened and sat up, placing his palms flat on his desk with force.

“I believe we’re finished here, Euphemia,” he said.

“Why don’t you make an appointment to return when you’ve come up with an essay topic on ‘The Dreams of a Sleeping King.’ And I’d suggest putting in a bit more effort to show your face in my lecture hall.

I don’t enjoy failing first-years, but there are always exceptions to be made. ”

Effy stood, cheeks heating. She gathered up her book and her bag, and stalked out of the room without another word.

“Do you want to tell me about the meeting?” Preston asked as she emerged from Tinmew’s office.

“No,” Effy said. The last thing he needed to know was that she had burned seemingly yet another bridge at the university. How long would it be, she wondered, before Dean Fogg had enough of a reason to suspend her, too?

She was only slenderly protected by the attention of the media; she could always take her grievances to Finisterre again and shame him.

But as time wore on, and as the war effort intensified, the less powerful that trump card became.

The more readily she could be painted as a saboteur , and any empathy for her cause would evaporate.

“All right,” Preston replied, tone uneasy. “Shall we get something to eat? Some coffee, at least?”

Effy had not felt truly hungry in weeks. She wondered whether her weight loss had become noticeable. To put off Preston’s worry, she replied, “Yes. Fine.”

As they walked past the Drowsy Poet, its lights turned low inside, Effy paused to catch her reflection in the window. Once she would have seen the Fairy King, rising up behind her in his robes of black, colorless eyes flashing and clawed hands reaching. She would have been half horror, half relief.

Now she saw... nothing at all. Just her own face staring back, pale and gaunt, and, even with Preston at her side, alone.