Page 57 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

He had raised me up high and put a crown on my head, and thus when he crumbled, so did I.

My fall from heaven hurt more than all my days of living hell.

But lying there, my ribs cracked, the ashen remains of the Fairy King scattered around me like blown wheat, I drew my first true breath in decades.

Every inhale ached. And yet that was how I knew I was alive. How I knew I was free.

The white light burned her eyes when she opened them, as if she were an infant, new to the world and just as fragile.

There was no peacefulness in her waking, not as there had been when she slept.

The silent, velvet dark released her, and reality took hold again, with all its banal little pains and indignities.

The bite of the IV needle in her arm. The hoarseness in her throat. The stiffness of her disused muscles. The faint throbbing behind her temples. Effy breathed in, then out again, the air itself prickling. The antiseptic smell of the hospital made her feel vaguely ill.

Sleep had been simple. Sleep had been easy. She had not even been vexed by dreams.

She woke to Preston holding her hand, to the gentle pressure of his fingers around hers.

He had pulled her—somehow—from that oblivious, ageless darkness.

And there was his face, beautiful, familiar, streaked with the sheen of tears.

She remembered that, and only a little bit more: the words that had fallen from his lips, soft but urging.

My love. Please don’t go.

And then her own reply, in a voice hoarse from disuse:

All right. I’ll stay.

It took the better part of an hour for Effy to even manage to sit up on her own; even longer before she could take a sip of water. Preston held out the cup in front of her while the doctor watched and waited, gaze solemn but gentle.

“Welcome back, Miss Sayre,” he said.

She couldn’t croak out a reply, so she just nodded. That, too, made her head throb.

“I’m your primary physician, Dr. Quinbern. We’ll speak soon about your treatment. How much do you remember?”

Effy coughed to try to clear her throat. Her mind, still muddled, reached backward—and found nothing. She could only recall the feeling of the glass bottle in her hand, and then her cheek against the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

“Not very much,” she replied hoarsely. “Just...”

She trailed off, her chest suddenly a stricture of fear.

If she told the truth—that she had swallowed all those pills on purpose—what would become of her?

It was the greatest and most shocking act of madness, she knew, one that would doom her if it was seen for what it was.

She would be, always and forever, a mad girl, locked away, humiliated, forgotten.

This type of infirmity was unforgivable in a woman.

Yet in a strange way, almost beyond articulation, Effy felt that she had come so far from the girl she had once been.

The girl who had drowned herself in stories, who had both dreaded and craved the Fairy King’s ruinous affection.

She had dragged herself from the water, like a selkie to shore, and she was ready now at last to face the pain of it all.

The aching of a mermaid’s first mortal breaths.

She did not know if these doctors—these men—could be persuaded to see it that way. If they would see only her pain and not her strength in the face of it. If they would see only that she was broken, not that she was healing.

But—astonishingly—Dr. Quinbern seemed to read the terror in her eyes.

In a steady voice, he said, “There will be plenty of time to discuss this later. For now, focus on your recovery.” When still Effy didn’t reply, he went on, “I make a point to listen to my patients, Miss Sayre. Whatever you wish to say—or not to say—is your choice. You won’t be forced.

And in the meantime...” He glanced over his shoulder, to the door. “You have a visitor.”

Angharad’s silver hair shone under the lights. She entered slowly, cautiously, silent as she lowered herself into the chair beside Effy’s bed.

“You came.” Effy’s voice was thick.

“Of course,” Angharad said. She glanced over at Preston—a glance filled with affection. “He called, and I got here as quickly as I could.”

All this time, Preston had not taken his eyes off her for even a moment; he had scarcely shifted in his seat. Tears blurred the corners of Effy’s vision and guilt wound through her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough. That I’ve been a burden; that I’ve hurt you—”

Angharad shook her head gently. “You are strong, Effy. Look at all that you’ve done. But no one survives this world alone. I certainly couldn’t. You two saved me . And now, because of that, I’m here. To be with you.” She reached out for Effy’s hand.

Effy surprised herself, in that moment, by thinking of Antonia Ardor. Even in such bitter winds, the daisies never blow. Effy could have stayed, asleep in her own garden of stone—never grieving, but never growing. Never aching but never blooming. Tears began to roll down her face.

“I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt more than I’ll ever heal. More than I’ll ever love.”

“I think we’re all afraid of that.” Preston’s eyes lifted to meet hers. “It’s all right, Effy. Really. The fear doesn’t have to break you. You deserve to live anyway.”

Angharad nodded. “It’s all right, to be afraid. I was, too. I am still, sometimes.”

They talked for a while, low and soft, after that.

There were so many things to be said that were neither joyous nor painful; that simply were .

The seemingly interminable snowy weather.

The very questionable-looking mushy peas on the Styrofoam tray of hospital food.

The rosy pink shade of Angharad’s blouse, which reminded Effy of the sky at sunrise.

Eventually, a weariness began to overtake Effy. It was a physical exhaustion, overwhelming the thoughts in her mind and the capacity for speech. Angharad gave her hand one final squeeze and rose to go, though she promised to return in the morning. And then she and Preston were alone again.

She did nothing but look at him for a long time, unable to summon words. There was weariness on his face, dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin was paler than she could ever recall it being, his freckles faded in the insufficient winter sunlight. But his gaze was steady, unblinking, and bright.

“It was all just too much,” Effy said quietly. “I didn’t think I could bear it for even one moment more.”

Preston nodded. His throat pulsed. Then he said, “If it’s too much, then let me carry it for you. Please.”

Her mother’s words returned to her, so sharp and so quick that it almost left her breathless, like a blow to the back of the head. It’s not fair to you to take on this burden. Just because you love her doesn’t mean you can help her.

“Why did you do it?” she asked at last. “Why have you done—any of this? Why did you stay?”

He let out a breath, almost amused. “Because I want to. Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Effy felt a knot swell in her throat.

“It’s simple, Effy. Don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise. I love you. And that’s all you need to know.”

She blinked back the wetness from her eyes. They were stinging with the piercing shine of the lights. She ached all over, but especially in her chest. In her heart. After a beat, she whispered, “Will you come here?”

Preston nodded again. The next few moments unfolded in silence.

He rose, and first reached over to the light switch on the wall.

He flipped it down and plunged them into a hazy, incomplete darkness, illuminated still by the eerie green glow of the machines.

They continued to give off a low, staticky hum.

Preston sat down on the edge of the bed. Effy shifted over.

He reclined slowly, his head resting back on the pillow beside hers.

He propped up his legs. The bed was too small for there to be any space between them; his arms came around her waist and Effy raised her hands to cup his face, brushing her thumb across the bridge of his nose.

There were no small indentations in his skin.

He hadn’t worn his glasses since the night of the Midwinter Ball.

“How have you been able to see anything?” she murmured, frowning.

“I’m not sure. Well—I can’t see much. Not really. Not anymore. I suppose I need to get new glasses.”

“You don’t say.”

He laughed softly. Effy recalled the first time they had been this close.

The first time they had shared a bed—back in Penrhos, all those months ago.

She had wanted so badly to touch him but had never thought she would get the chance—had never thought he could be persuaded to love such a weak, flighty thing like her.

Now she only had to incline her chin an inch for their lips to meet, if she wished.

“Do you remember anything?” Preston’s tone took on an urgency that almost startled her in the dark. “From when you were asleep?”

“No,” she said. “It was... nothingness. Oblivion. I didn’t even dream. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. I was just curious.” His grip tightened around her waist. “You can rest now. I’m here.”

Exhaustion was making her eyelids feel as heavy as lead. “I’ll wake up,” she said, her voice slurred slightly with weariness. “I promise.”

Sleep washed over her—over them both—like the slow hushing of the tide.