Page 44 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

She was like a mermaid for her beauty,

And kind and just and good;

But all such virtues pale against

The could and would and should .

Now we say with puffed-up pride,

And none of Dahut’s pain:

She could have stayed,

She would have reigned,

She never should have loved.

—from “Wayward Daughter: A Melody for Dahut,” by Rhiannon Beddoe, 212 AD

Effy heard the frantic pounding against the door of their dormitory, and then Rhia’s loud, exasperated sigh as she went to answer it. Her footsteps shushed against the wooden floor. And then, after a few moments more, the door opened, and she let out a groan.

“Not you .”

Effy pricked her ears to listen for the answer. It was a familiar voice.

“Did you know you’re the first girl who’s ever looked disappointed to see me, Beddoe?”

She would have recognized the coy and jesting tones of Lancelot Grey anywhere. Rhia made a noise of disgust.

There was another set of footsteps on the floor—and then an almost identical sound of revulsion. “Oh, Saints. What are you doing here?”

Maisie. Effy hadn’t even known she was at the apartment.

Preston, still holding Antonia’s book in his hand, sighed. “I should go see about Lotto. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, I think I’ll survive your thirty-second absence,” Effy replied, but her voice was too weary for the humor to come through.

Preston pressed a kiss to the top of her head and then darted out of the room. In another moment, she heard him say, “Lotto, this really isn’t the time.”

“Why?” Lotto asked, sounding truly dejected. It surprised Effy—she couldn’t picture a hangdog look on his face; he was always so defiant and jubilant. “I need your help.”

Preston’s reply came in a terse tone. “Help with what?”

Before Lotto could answer, Maisie cut in, “Does this conversation really have to happen here?”

“Don’t be so needlessly cruel,” Lotto said—and this time, Effy could easily envision his facetious pout. “It’s freezing outside.”

“What do you want, Lotto?” Preston prompted again.

A beat of silence. And then, in a truly uncharacteristically desolate voice, Lotto said, “My father is coming.”

At that, there were no barbed replies, no japes. In fact, a hush fell over the hallway. Even Maisie had no rejoinder.

With some difficulty, Effy stood. She pulled on a pair of trousers and a sweater, letting her damp hair tumble over her shoulders. When she stepped out of the bedroom, four heads turned at once to look at her.

“Hello, Effy,” Lotto said despondently. “I don’t mean to deprive you of Preston’s wonderful company, but I’m having a bit of an emergency.”

“So I heard.” Her voice was scratchy with disuse; she had to swallow before continuing. “Why is your father coming?”

“Apparently,” Lotto said, “my last letter was insufficiently reassuring. He’s afraid I’m on the verge of failing out.

I suppose he thinks that a face-to-face visit will give me a renewed sense of purpose.

” Lotto shook his head. “Or frighten me into obedience, more like. I’m not exactly anticipating an inspirational speech.

It will probably be more along the lines of the threat of disownment. ”

“Surely this can’t come as a surprise,” Maisie said flatly.

Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail, and her arms were folded across her chest; with her impressive height and her neatly pressed uniform, she gave the impression of a disdainful schoolmistress.

“Perhaps if you spent less time bedding half the university—”

“My irresistible charms are both a blessing and a curse.”

Maisie snorted. “ Irresistible is one word for it.”

“Enough,” Preston said tiredly. “What do you want me to do?”

Lotto cleared his throat. “Ah, well, I thought that maybe you could—if you were so inclined—perhaps you wouldn’t mind speaking to him for me. Explaining the situation.” Lotto looked at Preston, bald pleading in his eyes. “He likes you quite a lot. More than he does me.”

“That’s not true,” Preston said. But, as always, he was an unconvincing liar.

Effy could well imagine that the earl would hold Preston in high esteem.

Top literature student, Master Gosse’s favorite, legate, consummately responsible and frustratingly brilliant.

He was a son any father would be happy to have.

At least, before he met her. Now he was suspended, likely to be expelled. The thought made a lump form in her throat. She was dragging him down, burdening him with her ineptitude and her sadness. He didn’t deserve that—and she didn’t deserve him .

“It’s at least half true,” Lotto said. His brow wrinkled. “Please?”

Several moments passed in silence. Preston looked at Lotto, and then glanced over at Effy, as if for permission. She nodded, even as the lump in her throat grew and nearly choked her.

“All right,” Preston said at last. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

The five of them made their way into the kitchen.

Rhia, ever the enthusiastic hostess, put on a kettle for tea.

Lotto slumped into one of the chairs, not even bothering to shrug out of his coat.

Preston pulled out a chair so that Effy could sit, and then he sank down beside her.

Maisie stood slightly off to the side, arms still folded peevishly across her chest.

The table was a cluttered mess of papers. Frowning, Effy began to thumb through them. There were some torn-out notebook pages, covered in Rhia’s hasty scrawl, but most of it was sheet music. Effy lifted one paper from the pile.

“‘Wayward Daughter,’” Effy read aloud. “‘A Melody for Dahut.’ What is this?”

“Oh,” Rhia said, turning away from the teakettle. “That’s my piece for the showcase. Was my piece. They canceled the showcase because they were afraid that not everyone would perform banal songs of patriotism.” She rolled her eyes.

Effy bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” Rhia said. “And it’s not your fault. I could still let you hear it, if you want.”

But before Effy could reply, Preston had snatched the page from her hand. She was too surprised to be offended. He squinted his eyes—still managing, somehow, without his glasses—and then looked up at Rhia with urgency. “You’ve heard of Dahut?”

“Well, yes,” Rhia replied. “And so have all of you. She’s King Neirin’s daughter. I know that Aneurin doesn’t give her a name in the Neiriad , but in our Southern folktales, we call her Dahut.”

“And your song is about her?”

Rhia nodded. “I always thought Aneurin never gave her a fair shake. Her portrayal is rather one-dimensional, his version. The evil girl with the traitorous heart. But in a lot of the folklore of the South, Neirin is portrayed in a less favorable light. He’s crueler, especially to his daughter.

So when she flees, it’s to escape her tyrannical father.

And the city falls in retaliation for Neirin’s crimes. ”

“And what happens to Dahut?” Preston asked.

“The saints take pity on her and, instead of drowning her, they turn her into a mermaid,” Rhia said. “I wrote lyrics about that. And the youth that she loved. Their story seemed as much a tragedy as the city falling.”

“Silver,” Preston murmured.

Rhia cocked her head. “What was that?”

“Silver,” Preston repeated, more clearly this time. “In your Southern iterations of the myth, is the youth silver-clad , the way he is in the Neiriad ?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Rhia frowned. “And he’s not a prince or an enemy soldier in disguise. He’s just an ordinary boy who falls in love with the proverbial princess in the tower. Why?”

“Because.” Preston lifted his gaze, his voice grown solemn and deep. “We have the same version of the myth, in Argant.”

There was a silence, inflected only by the burbling of the kettle. Rhia moved it from the burner and onto the counter, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“That can’t be,” she said at last. “It’s our story—no offense. The story of the last king of Llyr.”

“Allegedly,” Preston said.

And then it was Maisie who broke in, exasperatedly. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” said Preston, “I think we’ve all been lied to.”

Another swelling of silence. Effy glanced over at the paper in Preston’s hand. Rhia had penned in lyrics beneath the musical notes. My love, come away with me / to the palace ’neath the sea. With a start and sudden catch of her breath, Effy realized that she recognized them.

“That’s from ‘The Garden in Stone,’” Effy said, pointing. “That line. ‘My love, come away with me / to the palace ’neath the sea.’ Is that where you got it?”

“‘The Garden in Stone?’” Rhia echoed, a furrow in her brow. “No. I haven’t read it. That’s just what Dahut says, when she calls out to her lover’s spirit. At least, in the myth that I grew up with.”

Effy’s mind lit up—wonderfully, painfully. It had been weeks since she had felt this way. Alive.

“It was Antonia,” she said. “Ardor’s daughter... she must have heard the Southern version of the tale somewhere. Maybe from her father. Ardor was a Southerner, remember? He was born Rhodri Morwent. And Antonia identified with Dahut—a girl kept prisoner by her tyrant of a father.”

At that point, everyone in the room was staring at her with rather blank expressions. All except Preston. He was smiling a proud and affectionate smile.

Lotto, who had his chin resting on the table, let out a breath that made the papers rustle. “So what does it all add up to? That Aneurin the Bard embellished a bit? The Neiriad isn’t real history. We all know that.”

“Yes, we do,” Preston said. “All of us in this room, and likely everyone at the university. But not everyone in Llyr. And that’s what matters.

With each day that passes, with each man killed on the front line, the greater incentive there is to conflate myth with truth.

Because the truth is detrimental to patriotism, to national unity, to everything that supposedly makes Llyr great and strong and enduring and exceptional.

And everything that makes Argant its one-dimensional enemy. ”