Page 56 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

“Yes,” Master Gosse said. “Human caprice and greed lie beneath what is supposed to be a just and noble war.” He shook his head in a vaguely revolted way.

“All the more reason to seek your refuge here, no? Son of Argant. Son of Llyr. This is the only world where you will ever truly belong. In this world, you might very well be king .”

Something thickened in Preston’s throat. He had to swallow hard before he could manage to reply, “I don’t want to rule. I just want...”

He was cut off by a deafeningly loud crack . One of the bells had broken, right down the center, and it now ceased its ringing.

Master Gosse let out an exasperated breath. “It’s her, isn’t it? You would give this all up for her?”

Preston looked down at Effy in his arms. Her body had gone very still again, and her grip on his shirt had slackened. She felt limp, and a thrill of fear went through him. Her eyes had fluttered shut.

“Yes,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet Gosse’s. “I’d give it all up. I’d give everything.”

“Everything,” Gosse echoed. “ Everything? ”

His eyes flickered somewhere over Preston’s left shoulder. Preston turned. Standing behind him, in a pool of bleary light, was his father.

Preston’s heart stuttered. “Tadig ...”

His father did not reply. He did not move toward him; he only smiled in that familiar way, his cheeks dimpling.

It was the same smile that Preston had seen grace his face when he won a game of chess, when he glimpsed a rabbit on the lawn, when he kissed the top of his mother’s head before retiring to bed.

“So?” Gosse asked. “Surely you don’t want to give up everything this world has to offer.”

Tears blurred Preston’s vision as he stared at his father, mere steps away.

The instinct to reach out to him was great.

He wanted to be taken into his father’s arms, to be held again, to be loved by someone who knew him to be more than an Argantian saboteur and a stodgy literature student and a man who would not allow himself to weep.

He wanted to be held like a little boy again, a little boy who lived half in dreams.

But that boy was gone and so was his father. This was a story that had reached its final page.

“I’m sorry,” Preston whispered. “I’m sorry. I love you. Da garout a ran. ”

His father didn’t answer. He just kept smiling, but love emanated from him, in a warmth that was almost visible, like a pulsing of light.

Preston tightened his hold on Effy. Her body felt heavier now, more pliant. Her breathing was low and labored.

He turned back toward Master Gosse.

“I suggest you wake up, professor,” he said. “This dream is coming to an end.”

Preston drew his gaze upward, and Master Gosse’s eyes followed.

The glass ceiling was cracking like a sheet of ice.

And, beyond it, the floor of the Sleeper Museum was cracking, too.

There was a rumbling sound, loud and close, and as the marble walls of the palace began to break and shatter, so did the walls of the museum.

Pieces of plaster rained down on Master Gosse’s sleeping body.

His adviser stammered out a noise of alarm. “Héloury—”

“Wake up, professor,” Preston repeated. “Unless you want your sleep to be eternal.”

He did not wait to hear Master Gosse’s reply. Preston only closed his eyes. The bells were too broken to keep ringing. But in the moment before he was thrust back into the waking world, he felt the water begin to pour in all around him.

He woke with his cheek still pressed to the sheets, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly—slowly—he raised his head.

The white room was bewilderingly fuzzy. Preston blinked and blinked, as if he could clear the glaze from his vision, but it all remained a blur of colors and shapes.

He could not make out the numbers on the beeping machines, or the words on the cover of the book Angharad had left on the bedside table.

He could not even see the details of Effy’s face.

Effy.

Preston rose and shifted to the head of the bed, leaning over, his own breath close enough to feather Effy’s cheek. Close enough that he had the privilege to see this: her eyes, fluttering open.

A sob choked from his throat. “Effy.”

Her green gaze was still muddled with sleep. But her pale lips parted and she whispered back, “Preston.”

Had she seen it all? Did she know? There was no recognition in her filmy stare, no unspoken question. Had she already forgotten everything: the emerald-hued torches, the statue in her likeness, the glass coffin, the confrontation with Master Gosse?

The bells?

Preston couldn’t hear them. Not even the faintest, most distant ringing. And so he knew it was over. He knew, too, because he couldn’t see anymore. He needed his glasses again. He almost laughed. What a mundane thing to happen, in the end.

He bowed his head and clasped Effy’s hands in his. Her skin was warmer now. The pale blue color had receded from the tips of her fingers.

“My love,” he murmured. “Please don’t go.”

Effy’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. In a scratchy, almost inaudible voice, she replied, “All right. I’ll stay.”

A single tear ran a path down Preston’s cheek. They were not safe. Perhaps they never would be. But the walls had crumbled and they were free.