Page 5 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

The stone was slow in its spreading,

And thus all the more reason for dreading

The fate of the maiden foretold.

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

Effy glumly stirred her tea, watching the milk ribbon through the water. Steam rose from the cup when she lifted it, making her eyes sting. She told herself that was the only reason she was close to crying.

“You weren’t there,” she said. “It was humiliating.”

At least she had managed to hold back her tears for the entirety of the class.

The very moment the small hand of the clock ticked to six, she had bolted from her seat and rushed to the door.

The rows of identically uniformed students had watched her furious exit with disdain, raised brows and smirking mouths, but she didn’t care.

As soon as she was out, through the lobby and into the courtyard, the world turned grayscale with the heavy streaks of winter rain, and she inhaled the crackling-cold air and felt her limbs go boneless with relief.

When finally she arrived back at her dorm, soaked to the bone, Rhia waiting with tea and a deadpan joke about the weather, Effy was overcome with a horrible sense of familiarity.

She had been here before, drenched and shivering in the corridor, her mind playing the images of so many sneering faces over and over again.

She’d been fleeing from the architecture college then—from the cruel slur penciled next to her name—from the terrifying possibility of catching Master Corbenic’s eye—

The players were different now, but the script was the same.

And somehow she had slipped back into the very same role herself, with the weary inevitability of a wheel falling into its groove.

Only this time, when Effy had reached into the morass of her own mind, searching for the perverse comfort of the Fairy King, her fingers outstretched for his bone-white hand, she had found nothing.

She was alone, adrift in an ageless, incomprehensible dark.

“So you didn’t know how to play some stupid counting game.” Rhia raised one shoulder in a shrug. “Men are idiots. They’ll probably forget by tomorrow.”

Effy doubted that very much. Especially not with today’s newspaper making its rounds through the student body, her name printed in that bleak, accusatory ink.

“It is stupid,” she replied, letting out a shakily defiant breath. “If I had known studying literature meant reciting a list of numbers—”

Abruptly she stopped herself. If she had known—then what? She would have stayed in the architecture college? Would she never have gone to Hiraeth at all? Would she have let herself drown in that basement, Preston chained helplessly beside her?

Rhia gave her a searing look, but she raised her cup to her lips rather than reply.

Not more than a moment later, there was a knock on the door.

Rhia rose and went to the corridor to answer it, while Effy stared down at the tea in her mug, transfixed by its total stillness on the surface.

She had put in too much milk, which had ruined the taste and turned the water too cloudy to see her own reflection.

From the hallway, Rhia called out, “Your partner in academic crime is here.”

“We’ve not committed a crime,” came Preston’s indignant reply.

“No, the Ministries of Culture and Defense are just investigating you for totally innocent reasons.” Effy could practically hear Rhia rolling her eyes. She rose quickly and went into the corridor, hoping to head off the inevitable bickering.

She arrived just in time to catch Preston say sourly, “They’re investigating our documents , not us.”

“Pedantic as ever,” Rhia said. “You could have at least stamped the snow off your boots.”

Preston opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Effy grasped his wrist and maneuvered him past Rhia, through the corridor, and to her bedroom. “Thanks for the tea,” she called out, before shoving Preston into her room and closing the door firmly behind them.

“I would’ve stamped the snow off if she’d given me half a minute,” Preston muttered.

“Never mind that,” Effy said. She was so glad to see him that she didn’t care that he was dripping water all over her carpet. “Here—give me your coat.”

He shrugged out of it, and Effy took it to hang in the closet.

Even soaked, the coat smelled reassuringly of him —tweed and wool and the faint lingering of cigarette smoke.

Just to hold it was comforting. She plucked a towel from the back of her door and handed it to him.

While he dried his hair—transformed to a heretofore unknown state of messiness by the rain and the snow—Effy carefully plucked his glasses from his face.

They were blurred with condensation. She could hardly imagine how he had even navigated the darkening streets in this condition.

She cleaned them off and then placed them back on his face, but not before brushing her fingers gently over the twin marks on the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you,” Preston said softly.

She nodded.

“How was class?”

She had known the question was coming, but her stomach still crinkled to hear it. “It was... ah...”

“It wasn’t all right?”

Preston’s brow was furrowed. With his damp hair curling over his forehead, standing with a slightly apologetic slouch so he could meet her eyes, he looked almost innocent to Effy in a strange way—so earnest in his concern that the last thing she wanted in the world was to disappoint him. To make him worry for her.

“It’s just—we were reading Ardor,” she said slowly, “and I suppose I wasn’t prepared—I only had time to skim it—they just started reciting... numbers.”

“Oh,” Preston said. “Line scansion. Tinmew makes all his classes scan for meter before diving into the text.”

“Scansion,” Effy repeated.

“Yes. Determining the meter of verse—based on syllabic stress.” When Effy only stared back at him blankly, he hastened to add, “It’s really quite intuitive once you get the hang of it, I promise. I can give you my copy of Ardor. It’s already been marked up.”

“Very generous of you,” Effy said. She couldn’t keep the edge of bitterness from her voice.

“That’s sort of what I meant when I said Tinmew was a formalist,” said Preston.

His tone grew soft—and Effy felt it was almost pitying.

“I should have been clearer. Tinmew cares only for the form of language, the style. Not for the historical or biographical context. The form itself is the meaning; the author and everything else is irrelevant. It presents an objective basis for evaluating literature. Like a science.”

Effy inhaled sharply. “If I had known it was all so utterly scientific , maybe I would have stayed in architecture.”

“It’s only one approach, Effy. I can’t say that I’m particularly enamored of formalism myself, but it’s useful to understand the different methods. It’s part of being a well-rounded scholar.”

“Well.” Effy was beginning to feel precisely two inches tall. “I suppose I’ll figure it out. And it’s only one class.”

“Exactly,” Preston said. “Your other classes will be less rote.”

She decided not to mention the cruel stares of the other students—what would it achieve, other than to provoke Preston’s worry?

She let her gaze wander, and her eyes landed on Preston’s satchel, which he had left rather unceremoniously slumped against the doorframe.

Then she remembered what he had been doing this whole time, and was grateful for the opportunity to change the subject.

“How was your meeting with Gosse?” she asked.

With her question, something in the air shifted abruptly—it gained a sharp quality, almost, like the wind snapping at the hem of a dress. It was very subtle, but she saw Preston flinch.

“It was fine,” he said. “Gosse is swanning in all the attention. If the Times offers him another interview, he might keel over with delight.”

“Better him than us,” Effy said. The thought of being probed by reporters—the thought of facing their flashing cameras and unblinking eyes—made her stomach twinge again. “He’s probably wishing he could put his name on the cover sheet.”

“Something like that,” Preston said. He paused, and did not elaborate further. But before Effy could probe, he added, “That wasn’t all he told me.”

“Oh?” Effy arched a brow. “What is it?”

Preston drew a breath, as if to steel himself.

Then, rather than reply, he bent down and opened his satchel.

He withdrew a bundle of black clothing and held it out to her.

In only the sullen, remote light from her bedside lamp, it took Effy a moment to recognize what it was.

She picked up the first item and let it unfold from her hands.

A black blazer, just like the ones that the other literature students had worn.

“Dean Fogg is implementing some new policies,” said Preston. “Or rather, he’s newly enforcing some very old policies. Now all students are required to wear their uniforms to classes and to other university-sponsored events.”

Effy’s heart felt crushed—first with dismay, and then with anger. “He couldn’t have mentioned that before I embarrassed myself in my very first class?”

“I’m sorry.” Preston’s voice was tight. “Apparently Fogg sent a missive, but it didn’t reach either of us in time.”

Effy met his gaze and held it. They both knew it was no accident that they hadn’t received the missive.

With the scrutiny of the government’s investigation weighing heavily upon him, Effy supposed it should come as no surprise that Dean Fogg would be more than willing to throw two of his students to the wolves.

Especially a woman and an Argantian . They were such easy prey for hungry mouths.

She took the rest of the uniform and placed it on her dresser. As she did, something tumbled from its folds and fell to the carpet, bouncing once before settling. Among the rough and stubby gray fibers, it gleamed with an uncommon brightness.

Preston knelt hurriedly—almost embarrassedly—to recover it.