Page 53 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
“We are gathered here to discuss the matter of the recent misconduct and physical altercation between two of the university’s students, Preston Héloury and Domenic Byron Southey the Second.
Over the past weeks, the board of administrators has thoroughly examined the facts of the occasion and is prepared to make its recommendation for how to proceed with the punishment phase.
Today is merely an opportunity for each student to make his case for leniency, or to advocate for a particular outcome.
” Dean Fogg paused, as if he expected some interruption, some protest, but even Lotto remained silent.
Then, turning to the left side of the room, he said, “Mr. Southey, you may go first.”
With a toss of his head, Southey rose, and strode confidently up to the witness stand. He gave Dean Fogg a deferent nod, bright blue eyes gleaming with the assurance of his victory.
“This recent incident has left me physically scarred and shaken,” he began, in a tone so level that it belied his professed distress.
“I fear that further attempts might be made to harm me, if the student in question is to remain on campus. The university has already failed its duty to protect me and to ensure that I can learn and thrive in an environment without intimidation, threats, or violence. I am appalled that the safety of its students is not the university’s top priority, particularly in this moment of political strife.
I do not believe it is a stretch to imagine that Mr. Héloury could become even more hateful and potentially vengeful as his home country is forced into surrender.
And so I call upon the board of administrators to deliver a decree of expulsion, effective immediately. ”
As he spoke, Preston wondered where the slavering idiot he had perceived Southey to be had gone. He realized that he had been naive to think of him that way, to believe that bigotry and fanaticism could not be cloaked in eloquent language. And perhaps that misbelief would be his downfall.
When he was finished, Southey drew in a breath and puffed out his chest, as if he expected to be showered with applause. Instead, Dean Fogg merely nodded and said, “Thank you, Mr. Southey. You may sit now. Mr. Héloury, you will speak next.”
But before Southey could even depart the witness stand, the baron rose noisily to his feet.
“Excuse me, sir ,” he said, “but I must protest the entire premise of this so-called hearing . My son is the victim. The facts are plain. Why are you allowing his aggressor a platform to defend himself? He should have been expelled on sight.”
Dean Fogg’s face turned a pale shade of purple. “Well, my lord, I am merely following the disciplinary process outlined in the university handbook. Whenever there is an altercation between students—”
“This was no altercation! This was an act of unprovoked violence that ought to have been considered a matter for the police!”
Somehow, in the midst of this, Preston felt himself begin to slip.
Perhaps it was pure exhaustion. He could scarcely keep his eyes open.
His gaze muddied and then sharpened and then muddied again.
Rising up around him were marble statues and marble pillars, the unreal world layered translucently over the real one.
He wasn’t afraid of it anymore. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to dream.
It was the earl’s voice that broke him from this reverie.
“If you’re so certain of your righteousness,” he said, “then why not give the boy a chance to speak? Surely, if you are correct, the judgment will land on your side regardless.”
Across the room, the gazes of the baron and the earl met, with a crackling like static.
There was a long stretch of silence as they both stared at one another, these two great men, armored in their ancestral titles and robed in clothing that likely cost more than the monthly lease on Preston’s mother’s house. Not even Dean Fogg dared to speak.
Finally, the baron bit out, “Fine. Speak, then. Argantian. ”
Preston cast a look of gratitude at the earl and then rose to his feet.
His gait felt unsteady as he walked to the stand, but he wasn’t sure if it was just his own perception, his own vision still slightly blurred.
He was all too aware of the eyes of the administrators on him, all too aware of his own loudly beating heart.
And when he reached the stand at last and looked out over the room, he felt a sense of despair and loss that was almost overwhelming.
Lotto was there, and—still hard to believe—so was the Earl of Clare, his most unexpected ally. But otherwise his side of the aisle was empty, poignantly and painfully empty. His father was gone. His mother and brother separated from him by that unbreachable border wall. And Effy—
Preston squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying not to think of her pale, still body in the hospital bed.
What did any of this matter if he lost her?
If he couldn’t save her? It all felt not only hopeless but also pointless.
Learning and wisdom and reason and scholarship, these things he had prized for so long beyond measure.
.. it all crumbled in the face of love.
When Preston opened his eyes again, to the chamber’s dim, recessed light, and to all those unblinking, ambivalent stares, he said, “Lord Southey is right. The facts are plain. I won’t dispute what I did or justify violence. And maybe”—he paused and swallowed—“maybe I don’t belong here.”
He heard Lotto make a choked sound of protest, but Preston didn’t glance over at him. He stared down at the wood of the witness stand, following the pattern of grain with his eyes, yet not seeing it. Not really seeing anything at all.
Dean Fogg cleared his throat bewilderedly. “So are you saying you’ll accept a decree of expulsion, Mr. Héloury?”
“I...”
Very faintly, in the back of his mind, he heard the ringing of the bells.
Then there was another sound—utterly out of nowhere, but most certainly real. A side door opened beside the dais, and Master Gosse stepped into the chamber.
“My apologies,” Gosse said in a breezy voice, “I overslept.”
That, Preston realized, was probably true.
His adviser’s face looked uncommonly pale, the normal ruddiness of his cheeks blanched and faded, and there were gray circles under his eyes.
His hair was not combed and his mustache was not gelled.
And there was a bleariness to his gaze that Preston recognized at once, with a jolt of alarm: it was the leftover haze of a dream.
My body will be as still as those in their glass mausoleums, but my mind will be so alive as to rend the world apart.
Had Gosse managed to do it? Had he parted the veil on his own?
“ Well ,” Dean Fogg said, disgruntled, “it’s good of you to show up, though you may be too late. Your student has just told us that he will accept his expulsion.”
“Oh,” Gosse said, with the calmest of smiles, “that would be rather unwise.”
Master Gosse strode to the center of the chamber and paused in front of the dais. Then he turned to face the benches, hands open and palms skyward, looking like an orator from ancient times. And when he spoke, it was with all the passionate articulation of a robed philosopher.
“Mr. Héloury is my very best student,” he said.
“He may well be the very best student that this university has ever seen. Not only has his groundbreaking scholarship uncovered a conspiracy regarding one of Llyr’s most prestigious authors, but his current work, on the subject of Aneurin the Bard, promises to be even more revolutionary.
For the past weeks we have been pursuing the greatest academic project of our age.
This is a project that will bring the university fame and fortune beyond measure, and of course reflect highly upon its current dean and faculty.
But I assure you, I will not be able to continue this endeavor without Preston’s help. ”
“This is nonsense,” Baron Southey cut in. “The ramblings of an eccentric lunatic.”
Master Gosse only smiled placidly at him. “Small-minded traditionalists always reject what they don’t understand.”
“Cedric,” Dean Fogg said hurriedly, clearly hoping to prevent an open shouting match, “you’ve never mentioned this new research topic to me. If it is indeed so groundbreaking, why keep it a secret?”
“‘All precious things shatter, if they are found too soon,’” Gosse replied.
A quote from Ardor’s “The Garden in Stone.” “My work has already brought prestige to this university. Surely you can trust me to deliver yet more quality scholarship, given time. And,” he added meaningfully, “given the proper assistance. You see, Mr. Héloury is essential to my research. It is only with his aid that I was able to develop what I am tentatively calling A New Theory of Dreaming .”
Preston’s heart began to beat crookedly. He wanted to speak, but no words would come.
“A farce!” the baron bit out. “No scholarship should come at the expense of a student’s safety!”
Dean Fogg’s gaze wavered back and forth, between Gosse and the baron, between Preston and Southey, between the administrators and Lotto and his father. His throat bobbed and the silence grew thick.
Then, astonishingly, the Earl of Clare rose to his feet.
“Dean Fogg,” he said, “I see that you are struggling with how to resolve this difficult matter. Allow me to make it simpler for you: I am prepared to provide a generous donation to the university, if you are to drop the charges against Mr. Héloury, expunge this from his record, and restore his full status as student.”
All that happened next unfolded in a blur.
Voices ran over Preston, muffled and distant, as if he were trapped below water.
He was only vaguely aware of being ordered from the witness stand by Dean Fogg, of the administrators standing and filing out of the room, of Southey and his father charging toward the dais to register their snarled protests.
He was aware of Master Gosse fishing in his pocket for a cigarette.
Numbly, Preston approached Lotto and the earl. He opened his mouth to croak out a thank you , though it seemed insufficient. And before he could, the Earl of Clare gave him a gentle but bracing pat on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it, Preston,” he said. “That Baron Margetson is a real bastard, isn’t he? I always have thought so.”