Page 8 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)

All those years I cowered in the eternal night and yearned for the reprieve of the day, but I had forgotten that the light has a certain cruelty of its own.

One can shrivel on an arid shore as easily as one can drown in deep waters.

I had become a creature of the dark, an ephemeral shade, ill-fit for the waking, sunlit world.

She didn’t know what had come over Preston. What had evoked such an urgent, unexpected fear. He always fretted and brooded, but this felt different. Sharper and more sudden. It seemed to have stuck him through like a silver blade.

He did have cause to worry, Effy supposed, just not about the perils of the ice. As she’d passed the newsstand, she had glimpsed today’s headline: MASS DESERTION AT THE FRONT LINE PROMPTS NEW RECRUITMENT CAMPAIGN FROM THE MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, REPUDIATION OF RUMORS ABOUT MYRDDIN’S WORK.

Belly churning, Effy had turned away. She thought of that first day at Hiraeth, when she had accused Preston of trying to undermine Llyr’s war efforts, of being a saboteur. She flushed with embarrassment at the memory. How cruel—how deserved —it was to now be accused of the same thing herself.

She shook her head as if to clear it, and climbed up the library’s curving stairs, to the circulation desk.

It was currently manned by a very surly-looking librarian, so Effy decided to brave the labyrinth herself.

She passed through the door, rode the tiny, clanking elevator, and then, with a deep breath, stepped into the half-lit maze of stacks.

Unlike the vast reading rooms with their shining brown wood and cathedral ceilings, this part of the library was decidedly unglamorous.

Shelves stretched out in all directions, the narrow aisles between them illuminated only by weak fluorescent lights.

The smell of dust and old leather was overpowering in the windowless space.

Effy coughed, and the sound was echoed eerily back to her.

She paced slowly through the stacks, fluorescents buzzing and flickering.

This empty, shadowy, silent place was precisely where the Fairy King might have appeared to her, a whisper in the musty air or a flash of black hair between the shelves.

And she would have been afraid, but the fear was hers—locked inside the safe box of her mind or within the water-stained pages of Angharad .

Now, without the Fairy King, without the stories, the world was vast and beyond her understanding, beyond her control. It was frightening, and so very wearying. It piled on her like stones.

Despite wishing she were back in bed, asleep, anchored in Preston’s arms, Effy persevered through the aisles until she found what she was looking for.

Ardor’s corpus took up an entire shelf of its own, dozens of books both new and old.

She plucked up the first one, a rebound edition of his collected poems, excepting his magnum opus “The Garden in Stone.” The note in the front matter told her that “Garden” was too long to be included, and had its own separate edition, supposed to be part of a matched set.

Someone—probably another first-year—had checked out that copy of “Garden.”

Effy tightened the ribbon in her hair to keep the loose strands from falling into her face, then slid down to the floor and opened the book in her lap.

The Collected Poems of Laurence Ardor, Lord of Landevale (Part I)

There was a short introduction, written by a scholar named Francis Rockflower.

The famed Laurence Ardor, future Lord of Landevale, was born Rhodri Morwent II, to a family of modest means in Marshsea.

His father was a parish priest who was deeply committed to education, both religious and secular.

The senior Rhodri Morwent used his church connections to secure his son a place at Locksley, a private secondary school which, at the time, only served children of Northern aristocratic extraction.

One might imagine that the young boy felt an interloper within this affluent and opulent world, but he was quick to adapt to the social mores of the upper class and became popular with his schoolmates.

By his third year, he adopted the Northern name Laurence, and had also begun a relationship with Claribel Ardor, the beloved only daughter of the 1st Baron Landevale.

One might also imagine that an affair between individuals of such disparate backgrounds would be challenged and contested, but Laurence was well-loved by the baron, and he and Claribel were married with much joy and fanfare the week following his graduation.

Several years later, the baron took ill.

From his deathbed, he named his son-in-law the new Lord of Landevale.

Thus, one of Llyr’s most celebrated and illustrious literary figures was born.

Effy closed the book, her heart racing. According to Tinmew’s stodgy formalist approach, none of this background mattered—yet how could it not?

Already rich images were filling her mind, visions of a young boy, knock-kneed and trembling, approaching Locksley’s imposing iron gate.

She saw him take a quill and scratch out the name Rhodri and etch Laurence in its place.

She saw him, from under a mop of untidy black curls, lock eyes with a young girl.

She saw them lace their hands together in a field, a secret meeting place, a crown of flowers woven through her golden hair.

She conjured up half a dozen more of these visions, each more vivid than the last.

Enthused, Effy dug through her satchel for her copy of “Garden.” The words of the poem had grown dull to her, grayed out by the dreariness of numbers and rote recitation. Now they felt alive again.

But when she opened the book, she was shocked to see that every page had been inked, every syllable now marked with a number. It took her only a moment to recognize the scrawling but precise penmanship as Preston’s.

He had done the scansion for her, last night while she slept.

When the numbness of shock wore off, Effy was surprised to find that she felt angry.

She had confided in him, admitted her embarrassment, but she hadn’t asked for his help.

Certainly she hadn’t wanted him to just do it all for her, as if she were incapable herself.

A part of her knew she was being unfair. Preston only wanted to make things easier for her, to protect her. But it seemed like a strange sort of betrayal, and bitterness wound around her heart like copper wire.

Jaw clenching, Effy clamped her copy of “Garden” shut and stuffed it back into her satchel. Then she dug out a pen and wrote the name of the author of the introduction, Rockflower , on her palm. She waited until the black ink dried before she closed her fingers into a fist.

At last, after slamming the other book back onto the shelf, she marched through the aisles, into the ancient elevator, and out of the library, her face so hot that she barely felt the biting cold.

She pushed past crowds of tourists, shuffling like yoked oxen toward the Sleeper Museum, and past students hustling to their classes or to coffee and a scone at the Drowsy Poet.

She did not stop until she reached the end of the pier.

Effy stood at the edge of Lake Bala, hands braced on the railing.

There was a superficial coat of ice over the water, stippled with black-veined cracks.

Her reflection, warped and tiny and distant, looked like little more than a passing shadow.

Behind her there were the perfunctory sounds of the city: cars crunching down the asphalt, pedestrians shuddering and shouting, store awnings flapping in the wind.

But Effy stared down at the ice until her eyes stung.

Once she had looked at the water and wished to hear the bells, the precious signs of life, the proof that magic was real and there was some mystic order to the world. Now she was comforted by the fact that nothing moved below the surface. It had the perfect, shimmering stillness of a dream.

With great reluctance, Effy walked back down the pier, toward the literature college building.

It seemed wretchedly unfair that she would have to return to Professor Tinmew’s class today, although at least now, with the uniform and with Preston’s help, she would not embarrass herself quite so terribly.

Ducking beneath a store awning gave her a slight reprieve from the wind, just enough that she could untie and retie the ribbon in her hair, which seemed determined to keep coming loose.

The building, with its great cornices and curling dragons, seemed no less intimidating to her now.

Perhaps more now that she had faced such immediate humiliation within it.

But she averted her gaze from the names of the Sleepers and, keeping her head down, began to scale the steps.

It was only when she heard her name shouted from behind—like a rough jab to the back—that she turned around.

“Euphemia? Euphemia Sayre?”

Not two paces away was a tall, slim man dressed in a beige coat, with a hat that was—impressively—holding fast to his head despite the wind. He had a very gaunt face, hollowed cheeks that whittled down to a blade-sharp chin. He absolutely reeked of cigarette smoke.

“Yes?” she replied. “Who are you?”

“Roger Finisterre, with the Caer-Isel Post .”

Immediately, Effy tensed. The Post was a gossip rag, known for its sensational (and not thoroughly fact-checked) headlines.

In theory, journalism was a noble profession, but the Post seemed determined to quash that notion.

After one young actress’s tragic suicide, Effy remembered, the Post began pushing stories that she was involved in a cult, prompting the actress’s family to send a seething cease-and-desist letter, and release public statements decrying the vulgar conspiracy.

Because of this, Effy’s voice was flat and unfriendly when she replied, “What do you want with me?”

“I’d like you to respond to the rumors that you were involved with the dismissal of the architecture college’s dean, Master Corbenic.”

Her chest seized. “I...”

Finisterre had taken out a notepad and pen. He inched closer to her and said, “Is it true that he was fired because of your affair?”

“That’s not—” Effy’s face was warm, her heart pounding. “Who told you that?”

“I’m a reporter, Ms. Sayre. It’s my job to know things like this.” His dark eyes gleamed like knifepoints. “There is no shortage of rumors about you, and plenty of people with grievances willing to talk. This is your opportunity to set the record straight. I’ll give you a fair shake.”

Students were milling around them, clambering up the steps to the college, bumping against her in their stiff wool coats.

Several of them stopped to flash her unfriendly, irritated looks.

A great gust of wind came again, blistering her cheeks, and Effy had to raise a hand to shield her eyes.

Which was good enough, because there were tears, hot and humiliating, gathering at their corners.

Even still, she was of sound mind enough to know when she was being manipulated.

“I don’t have any comment,” she replied sharply. “And I have to get to class.”

“Ah, yes,” Finisterre said. “The first woman admitted to the university’s literature college.

There are a great many people who find that.

.. displeasing. You have more enemies than perhaps you even know.

But one interview could be enough to quell dissent and assuage fears.

I could do a whole spread. You look like you would photograph well. ”

“ No ,” Effy bit out. It was crude, Finisterre’s manipulation, and she hated that it was working on her, just a little—terror was turning her stomach into an icy pit. “Leave me alone.”

“Are you sure?” Finisterre had his pen poised above the notepad, one brow raised.

“You must be aware that I’m not the only journalist after your story—I’m just the first. And, I might add, the most sympathetic.

I think you’re a rather courageous young girl.

My piece would be very favorable. I don’t think you’re a conniving harlot or a sly political saboteur. ”

At that, anger cleaved immediately and forcefully through her fear.

“No,” she repeated, lifting her chin. “No, thank you. I’ll take my chances with your peers. Surely there’s another reporter from a more reputable publication.”

Frustratingly, Finisterre did not react at all to her slight. In fact, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Very well,” he said. “But it’s a pity. We could have worked so nicely together.

And, as I’m sure you’re aware, the schedules of first-year literature students are publicly accessible.

My peers are certainly not above using that information.

Their reputable publications use the same tactics as my—what is the favorite invective about the Post ? — slimy little gossip rag .”

Effy’s mouth went dry. On the steps, as the wind shrieked and howled, she felt herself turn to stone.

Finisterre’s smile broadened. “Last chance, Ms. Sayre.”

A pair of students dashed past her, brusquely slamming into her shoulder with enough force that she almost toppled backward.

Preston would have a fit of panic if I fell , she thought, remembering his fear-stricken pleading for her to be careful on the ice.

It was precisely this thought that made her turn away from Finisterre, though instead of continuing up the steps, she fled the literature building altogether.

As she paced briskly through the courtyard, maneuvering her way into—and then out of—the press of students, she was walking into the wind.

Her face burned with cold, and the tears that fell froze on her cheeks like tiny pearls.

And, at last, the wind succeeded in its cruel task: her ribbon was ripped from her hair, snatched up into the sky, and flung out of her sight, lost within moments to distance.