Page 6 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
“What is that?” Effy asked.
“Oh, this...” His cheeks grew faintly pink. “Another one of the old policies that Dean Fogg is implementing. It’s inane, really. Gosse has made me the student head of the literature college. A legate, as it’s called. He claims it’s just a ceremonial role. A line on my résumé.”
The object lay flat on Preston’s open palm.
It was a pin—no larger than Effy’s finger—in the shape of a dragon.
Its serpent’s body curved, in bends and arcs that were too uniform to look real, and its mouth was slightly ajar, frozen in a silent grimace.
It was nearly identical to the dragon that decorated Llyr’s flag—and its war banners.
It seemed to gather all the room’s meager light, holding it within its golden scales, and its emerald eye was so bright it almost burned, like water doused in a witch’s oils.
It was at least half as old as the university, yet it glittered as though it were new. No dust had gathered on it; no rough handling had marred it. Effy had the strange sense that if she touched the pin, her thumb might come away pricked.
Preston, too, seemed unnerved. His fingers quivered a bit as he held it.
“What an honor,” Effy said, and tried a smile. “Though it does seem like a conflict of interest. I expect you’ll have to report all our nefarious doings to Master Gosse.”
“We’re hardly doing anything nefarious ,” said Preston. “And like I said, it’s only a formality.”
“So very modest. Shall we see how it looks on you?”
“All right,” Preston said. His voice was low.
Carefully—and not without a moment of hesitation—Effy took the pin. It did not prick her finger, and it did not burn, the way that iron did when it brushed the immortal flesh of the Fair Folk.
She ran her thumb gently along the collar of Preston’s shirt, his throat bobbing with the nearness of her touch.
She smoothed the lapel, and then, with clumsy, tremulous ministrations, fastened the pin to the fabric.
When she laid her palm there beside it, flat against his chest, Effy felt Preston’s heart skip once, before returning to its steady bragging.
“There,” she said softly. “Do you feel distinguished? Exalted? Ennobled?”
“High marks for vocabulary.” Preston laid his hand over hers. “No, I feel...”
At that moment, a high, warbling tune echoed through her bedroom’s thin walls.
Effy almost laughed, for the utter inopportuneness of it. Preston’s brow furrowed. “What is that?”
“Rhia,” she answered, unable to bite back a smile. “She’s practicing for the music college’s showcase. Their version of a final exam.”
“Oh,” Preston said. “Does she practice at all hours?”
“Why?” Effy bit back a smile. “Do you find it... distracting?”
She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes, her mouth a hair’s breadth from his. His fingers curled around hers, tightening his grip on her hand, which was still laid flat against his chest. Over his heart. She felt it judder and skip again as she leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut.
But the theater behind her eyelids was not dark, nor was it dashed with red for her wanting, her love for him.
Instead, the faces of the other students came bright and clear in her mind.
Their scowls and sneers, the fixed probing of their gazes.
And then the words from the poem appeared as they had been, ink on the page—and then, astonishingly, echoed in a deep and sonorous voice that was not her own.
I found my deathless death in dreams.
It was not the voice of the Fairy King, either. Effy flinched and stepped back, almost as if struck.
“What is it?” Preston’s voice tipped up with immediate concern. “What’s wrong?”
She let her hand slip from his. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
Preston inhaled. Effy both wanted and didn’t want him to ask again.
She both wanted and did not want to be held, to be touched, to be comforted.
She was afraid of wanting becoming needing .
And she was afraid, so terribly afraid, that if she needed him, it would be the moment that he slipped away, like twilight dying into total dark.
“I’m fine,” she said, when Preston still did not look convinced. “Really. I’m just tired.”
“All right.” Preston stood stiffly, hands clenched at his sides, as if he, too, feared to touch her. Did he think she would crumble—like weather-weary, ancient stone? Did he think his touch uniquely ruinous, or her especially fragile?
These questions exhausted Effy. She could have circled the same ones endlessly, her mind an ever-turning gyre. Or, she realized, she could simply sleep.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said. The words came out in a gentle lilt—the idea was even more delightful to speak aloud than it was to articulate in her own mind.
Preston frowned. “It’s four thirty.”
Was it? The hours seemed to have compressed, folded in on themselves and then around her, like a black shroud. Effy stepped lightly over to her bedside table and picked up the glass bottle of sleeping pills. It was nearly full, and the heft of it in her hands was by itself a relief.
Preston did not speak as she plucked out one of the tablets, placed it on her tongue, and swallowed.
He only watched, throat pulsing, as she turned to undress.
The space between them—no more than a few feet—took on a bleary feel, as if he were looking at her through the glaze of a half-remembered dream.
At last Effy lay down. She pulled the covers up to her chin and turned away from Preston, facing the wall. Unlike the pink pills, the sleeping pills rarely failed her. Within moments, she was steeped in exquisite, oblivious darkness.