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“and these students are nothing but opportunistic rabble-rousers. One of them is a woman, for Saints’ sakes, and the other is an Argantian.”
Competent was not enough. She had to be exceptional.
Effy had slain monsters and survived drowning. She had beaten back the dark water, she had vanquished ancient evils, and she had wrested the truth free like drawing a sword from a forgotten stone. She could endure this, too.
Do not shrink for them.
What a small battle this was by compare. Effy lifted her head and willed her hands not to shake
Numbers, her old nemeses,
The storyteller is a liar, but the story he tells is true.
Thinking of her was always like this: a rush of fondness, and then a bolt of fear.
And so Preston was alone in the knowledge, which felt sometimes like being alone in the world—because he had, unwillingly and with great trial, stepped into a realm that was not governed by reason, where truth and wisdom cracked apart and gave way only to darkness.
“Ah, so you’re saying she is mad.” “No,” Preston said forcefully. “I’m saying she did what she could to survive.”
Gosse was quiet a moment.
i’m sorry, gosse, but i think you should know that i call you goose in my head.
Whoever could prove such a thing would bring this whole country—this whole island—to its knees.”
“In the immediate future, my time might be better spent focusing on writing my thesis,” said Preston. “Not, ah, proving the existence of magic and making governments tremble before me.”
“So you didn’t know how to play some stupid counting game.” Rhia raised one shoulder in a shrug. “Men are idiots. They’ll probably forget by tomorrow.”
From the hallway, Rhia called out, “Your partner in academic crime is here.” “We’ve not committed a crime,” came Preston’s indignant reply.
“Well.” Effy was beginning to feel precisely two inches tall.
“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.”
“There,” she said softly. “Do you feel distinguished? Exalted? Ennobled?”
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.
Did he think she would crumble—like weather-weary, ancient stone?
That was the moment he realized he was dreaming.
The air was still, and so was she. This house—this castle—was infinitely beautiful, and so was she.
Whatever passed outside this place, and beyond this moment, was so unimportant that it began to feel unreal.
The dream was just a dream.
How cruel—how deserved—it was to now be accused of the same thing herself.
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.
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.
i love love love the Drowsy Poet
In theory, journalism was a noble profession, but the Post seemed determined to quash that notion.
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.
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.
Who wears cuff links to class? Preston thought peevishly.
Anyone else who heard his ramblings would have laughed. Would have left.
One must operate always under this assumption: that the author himself is an enigma, and only the words on the page are real.
