Page 62 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

Effy turned to look at Angharad. She had been subdued throughout dinner, though not unhappy.

She seemed merely content to watch as they talked and laughed and ate, as they drank more than they should and stayed up later than was wise.

She had her hands clasped under her chin and was resting her elbows on the table.

Effy lifted her head from Preston’s shoulder and shifted her chair closer to Angharad’s.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” Angharad replied. “Yes, more than all right. I’m happy. I only hope that you are, too.”

In this moment, it was easy to say yes. But Effy knew it would not always be so simple. She would need one pill or another. She would hear the siren song of an oblivious, dreamless slumber. She would need books and fairy tales to build a seawall around her, to hold against the vicious, rising tide.

And she would need a hand, a voice, a promise—something from the outside to pull her from the darkness. That, perhaps, was what she would need the most. Yet it was the most difficult truth to swallow. It was hard, letting go. But it was even harder holding on. Reaching out. Needing.

“I am,” Effy said at last. “I am happy. Right now. And maybe that’s all I can ask for, really. Maybe that’s enough.”

Effy’s hand was on the table, her four-fingered hand, which always seemed so freakish to her, so loathsome. In this light, though—and perhaps with the help of the wine she’d drunk—it didn’t feel quite as objectionable. It seemed... almost ordinary. Hardly worth remarking upon.

If you can learn to love that which despises you, that which terrifies you, you can dance on the shore and play in the waves again, like you did when you were young. Before the ocean is friend or foe, it simply is . And so are you.

Angharad laid her own hand over Effy’s.

Back in their dorm, Effy gave Rhia and Maisie one last weary wave and then retired to her bedroom with Preston.

Their shared exhaustion made the air feel heavy, almost fuzzy, and their movements clumsy and sluggish.

Preston shrugged off his coat and kicked off his shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed. Effy collapsed into her desk chair.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” Preston said. “How do you feel?”

“Glad,” Effy replied. “Glad for everything. Good food and good company—what more could you wish for, really? I’m tired now, though.”

Preston was silent for a moment. His throat pulsed. “Tired enough to sleep?”

“I hope so,” she said, biting back a smile.

While Preston undressed further and settled beneath the covers, Effy turned around to her desk.

Letters a mermaid perched on a rock; a maiden with seashells in her hair.

These statues are all rendered in such immaculate detail that they seem to be more living things, magicked to immortal stillness, than objects carved from stone.

I walk through the halls and observe still more statues.

There are great glass windows, through which I can see the shifting green waters of the sea.

It is a sunken palace, a forgotten structure beneath the waves.

With each dream I strive further, exploring more of this mysterious place.

I have found thus far a library of waterlogged books, and a greenhouse where a number of the most exquisite white flowers grow.

I must confess that I am stunned that my own imagination could conjure such a vast and elaborate fantasy!

I am eager now each night for sleep, anticipating the chance to see more of the world my mind has built for itself.

My favorite of all the statues is that of a knight robed in armor, kneeling penitently and holding a single rose.

I feel emanating from him a sense of nobility, of sacrifice, and of love.

He is a hero who will rescue the girl in the tower and swear to her his unyielding devotion.

He will cut away the thorns that ensnare her; he will wake her from her infinite slumber with a kiss.

I have begun to take great solace in these dreams, Clementina.

Where I have not known such love in the waking world, I can indulge in it now; I can drown myself in it.

This is not the life I planned for myself when we were girls, giggling and braiding daisy chains—I had never imagined I would be twenty-eight and a spinster, with little else to show for my time on this earth than some contributions to my father’s work that will never be acknowledged.

And yet... I can still dream. This is a power that no man, no mortal force, can take from me. While the sickness corrodes my body, it has left my mind untouched.

So here I am, in some ways still the girl I was all those years ago, hoping, believing. I am feeling quite well just now. When I close my eyes, I see that grand palace, those statues with their mysterious virtues, their pulsating sentiments; indeed, their love. Their beauty is all around me.

I must mark this as a peaceful and happy hour.

Affectionately yours,

A.A.

That was the very last page. A small footnote indicated that Antonia Ardor had passed away in her sleep not long after this final letter was written. Effy traced her finger over her initials, A.A. , as if she might feel some of Antonia’s peace, some of her love.

But Preston’s voice broke her from her reverie.

“Effy,” he said, “won’t you come to bed?”

And, with one last glance back at the book, she did.