Page 59 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

The swirling surf shielded the king’s death,

His body buried in its salt grave, the tide to pick his bones—

For so great a man, he was made small in his ending,

Small as any peasant, low as any serf.

He had no song to sing, no [...] to behold,

It was only his daughter, lonely Dahut [ sic ], who trilled on,

In the swell of the Sea [ sic ], yearning still for her lost lover.

Her song was love, and it was eternal.

—from The Neiriad , as attributed to Aneurin the Bard, date unknown

Preston had three appointments that day, and a fourth if he could make the time.

The first was with the optometrist, to replace his glasses.

It would not do to continue stumbling about the city half-blind.

He was fitted with a new pair within the hour, and when he put them on, the world was clear and bright again, all its edges sharp.

He had to blink, to adjust his eyes. In the days since he had destroyed the dream world, he had grown almost used to seeing only blurred shapes and colors.

It was not only his renewed eyesight that made the city look different.

It was different, in ways that could be perceived and in others that were invisible to the senses.

The tense, fearful silence that had fallen over Caer-Isel was beginning to lift.

People spoke to each other as they walked down the street.

Gazes lifted from the ground. The snow was melting on the pavement, icicles vanishing from the eaves.

There were flowers being sold in the corner stores again.

Baby’s breath and winter camellias. He even happened to catch a bundle, inexplicably, of out-of-season daisies.

As Preston passed by the newsstand, he caught the headlines out of the corner of his eye.

LLYRIAN GROUND OFFENSIVE FALTERS—

MORALE DROPS AMONG INFANTRY AS NEWS OF SLEEPER MUSEUM DESTRUCTION REACHES FRONT LINE—

AFTER UNEXPECTED LOSSES, DISCUSSIONS OF ARMISTICE RENEWED—

He drew in a breath that made his chest swell with something like hope. It was as if a spell had been lifted. It was as if the whole city were awaking from a deep and heady sleep.

His next appointment was at the jeweler’s. Preston had called ahead; he knew what he wanted and it had already been set aside, in a small velvet box. He paid and as he exited the shop, he opened the clasp and peeked at what lay inside. The chain gleamed in the midday sun like a vein of silver ore.

Preston tucked it into his pocket and walked on.

He arrived at the Drowsy Poet, which was once again serving a full menu, replete with sugary drinks and even sweeter pastries.

But he ordered his coffee black, like he always did, and sat down at one of the tables by the window.

He was just removing one of his cigarettes from the pack when the door clattered open and Lotto entered in a rush.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, dropping wearily into the seat across from Preston. “Professor Damlet was relishing the opportunity to berate me.”

“I hope you didn’t have any choice words for him in return this time.”

“No,” Lotto said. “I was as quiet as a mouse and as penitent as a nun.”

Preston looked at him skeptically.

“ Really ,” Lotto insisted. “You should have seen me. You would have been impressed. And anyway, it was enough for Damlet, because he said he wouldn’t flunk me if I could produce an abstract for my thesis in the next week.

” Without asking, he snatched up one of Preston’s cigarettes, lit it, and took a long drag, letting out a satisfied breath.

“So, that’s cause for celebration, in my book. ”

Preston plucked up a cigarette of his own, but didn’t light it. “I’m glad for you,” he said. “But that means you’ll have to get to work at once.”

“I know. And my father certainly won’t let up the pressure, either.” Lotto exhaled. “None of this is really that important, though, is it? Not in the grand scheme of things.”

The staff hadn’t allowed Lotto into Effy’s hospital room, but he had waited for hours in the lobby, just so he could walk Preston home when he was ready to go. Just so he could help him navigate without his glasses.

“It’s not exactly a matter of life and death,” Preston said, “but it matters.” He lit his cigarette. “All the little things do, in the end.”

They were both silent for a moment, smoke curling into the air over their heads. Then Lotto said, in a low voice, “It feels strange now, though. Writing a thesis on Llyrian literature when all of it has just crumbled under our feet. But I suppose you already know the feeling. Since Myrddin...”

There had been no official statements by the university, by the literature department, or by the Llyrian government.

No one guessed at the truth. And Preston was no longer arrogant enough to believe he knew what the truth was.

All he knew was that it was over. He had not heard the bells in days.

And when he did sleep, it was solid, dark, and dreamless.

When Preston finished up with Lotto, there were still a few hours left of daylight.

Long enough for him to make that fourth appointment.

He bid his friend goodbye (making him promise he would go straight to the library to work on his abstract) and walked away from the café, away from the university, toward the pier that overlooked Lake Bala.

The thick sheet of ice trapping the water beneath it had melted.

In its absence, the lake was remarkably clear, more blue than green, and holding the reflection of the cloudy sky like a mirror.

His hands tucked into his pockets, Preston made his way to the very end of the pier—not so that he could see the lake, but because from this vantage point, he could glimpse the ruins of the Sleeper Museum.

The three blocks leading up to the museum had been completely closed off, with metal barricades and endless wreaths of yellow caution tape.

Dozens of police officers lined up around it like border guards, their faces impassive.

Preston would not be able to get close enough to see anything, and he didn’t much relish the thought of being recognized by Somervell if he arrived at an inopportune moment.

But as Preston approached the end of the pier, he found that he was not the only one to have this idea. Standing there, silhouetted against the sunset, arms folded and leaning forward on the railing, was Master Gosse.

His adviser looked more than a little worse for wear.

His hair and mustache were uncombed and his left eye was swollen with a pulsing purple bruise.

A bandage had been wrapped haphazardly around his head, the dark shape of dried blood showing through the gauze.

It seemed he had made it out of the Sleeper Museum only just in time.

“Héloury,” Gosse said in a hoarse voice.

“Gosse,” Preston said, inclining his chin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Gosse.

“And where should I be?”

“Asleep,” he replied. “Dreaming.”

Preston glanced out over the water—not toward the Sleeper Museum, not yet, but toward the mountains in the distance, black peaks sharp against the gray sky.

“What did it mean for you?” he asked. “Was it just your fantasy of power, of infinite knowledge? Or was it something more?”

“What could be more than infinite knowledge?”

“Peace,” Preston said. “Safety. Love.”

Gosse let out a breath. “What a sap you are after all, Héloury.”

“Maybe.”

The water itself was uncommonly still. There was not even the faintest ripple of a current. The only illusion of movement was in the reflection of clouds, which shifted across its surface in wisps of white. A perfect imitation of the blustery sky.

“So what now?” Gosse’s tone was both bitter and plaintive.

“You’ve ruined it. Taken a brusque pen to our oldest myths and dulled the shine of all our heroes.

What are people meant to think now that the Sleepers are gone?

How are they meant to still believe in magic—when it was real, but not strong enough to save them?

When, in the end, it all crumbled at your direction?

Not that anyone will ever know it was you, of course.

They’ll call it a freak accident, a spell, an act of terror.

They won’t know it was just one boy who did it all for the sake of just one girl. ”

Preston had expected to feel anger at Master Gosse’s words. Instead, he felt pity. A twinging of grief.

“Aneurin the Bard isn’t the only hero who’s lost his shine,” Preston said.

“I used to admire you. You were so willing to do whatever it might take to uncover the truth, even if it meant tearing down Myrddin’s legacy.

But there was nothing principled behind it.

Only your vain quest for fame, glory, and power.

” He shook his head. “You’re no true scholar. You never have been.”

“Oh, and you are? No, Héloury—you’re just an ungrateful, self-important whelp from Argant who I was beneficent enough to take under my wing. You would be nothing without me.”

“And yet I was the one who dreamed your precious palace into being,” Preston said. “I was the one who heard the bells.”

“What bells?” Gosse snapped.

“Never mind.”

At last, Preston turned, just slightly, so that he could see the ruins of the Sleeper Museum.

He was shocked by what little remained. No more than the skeleton of the building, its scaffolding like a naked rib cage, and all around it, a graveyard of crumbled yellow stone.

He was not near enough to discern whether anything else was intact—the coffins of the Sleepers, their falsely preserved corpses.

But he couldn’t imagine they had survived.

When he had stood in the underwater palace and wished for the end to this story, he had wanted no epilogue, no addendum, no sequel.

A blank page, upon which a new tale could be written.