Page 67 of A Theory of Dreaming

And kind and just and good;

But all such virtues pale against

Thecouldandwouldandshould.

Now we say with puffed-up pride,

And none of Dahut’s pain:

She could have stayed,

She would have reigned,

She never should have loved.

—from “Wayward Daughter: A Melody for Dahut,” by Rhiannon Beddoe, 212 AD

Effy heard the frantic pounding against the door of their dormitory, and then Rhia’s loud, exasperated sigh as she went to answer it. Her footstepsshushedagainst the wooden floor. And then, after a few moments more, the door opened, and she let out a groan.

“Notyou.”

Effy pricked her ears to listen for the answer. It was a familiar voice.

“Did you know you’re the first girl who’s ever looked disappointed to see me, Beddoe?”

She would have recognized the coy and jesting tones of Lancelot Grey anywhere. Rhia made a noise of disgust.

There was another set of footsteps on the floor—and then an almost identical sound of revulsion. “Oh, Saints. What are you doing here?”

Maisie. Effy hadn’t even known she was at the apartment.

Preston, still holding Antonia’s book in his hand, sighed. “I should go see about Lotto. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, I think I’ll survive your thirty-second absence,” Effy replied, but her voice was too weary for the humor to come through.

Preston pressed a kiss to the top of her head and then darted out of the room. In another moment, she heard him say, “Lotto, this really isn’t the time.”

“Why?” Lotto asked, sounding truly dejected. It surprised Effy—she couldn’t picture a hangdog look on his face; he was always so defiant and jubilant. “I need your help.”

Preston’s reply came in a terse tone. “Help with what?”

Before Lotto could answer, Maisie cut in, “Does this conversation really have to happen here?”

“Don’t be so needlessly cruel,” Lotto said—and this time, Effy could easily envision his facetious pout. “It’s freezing outside.”

“What do you want, Lotto?” Preston prompted again.

A beat of silence. And then, in a truly uncharacteristically desolate voice, Lotto said, “My father is coming.”

At that, there were no barbed replies, no japes. In fact, a hush fell over the hallway. Even Maisie had no rejoinder.

With some difficulty, Effy stood. She pulled on a pair of trousers and a sweater, letting her damp hair tumble over her shoulders. When she stepped out of the bedroom, four heads turned at once to look at her.

“Hello, Effy,” Lotto said despondently. “I don’t mean to deprive you of Preston’s wonderful company, but I’m having a bit of an emergency.”

“So I heard.” Her voice was scratchy with disuse; she had to swallow before continuing. “Why is your father coming?”

“Apparently,” Lotto said, “my last letter was insufficiently reassuring. He’s afraid I’m on the verge of failing out. I suppose he thinks that a face-to-face visit will give me a renewed sense of purpose.” Lotto shook his head. “Or frighten me into obedience, more like. I’m not exactly anticipating an inspirational speech. It will probably be more along the lines of the threat of disownment.”