It was too late to save Angharad. Perhaps it was too late to save herself. But it was not too late for another girl who might wander into Master Corbenic’s office and sit down obliviously in that green chair.
“I will consider it,” Dean Fogg said at last, every word wrenched out through gritted teeth. “We have a great deal more to discuss, as it is. If it puts your mind at ease, once you are officially enrolled at the literature college, you will never have to see Master Corbenic again.”
Once upon a time, she would have taken that as enough of a victory. She would have left, escaped that awful stuffy room and just hoped that she would never have to catch a glimpse of Master Corbenic in the halls. But that could not be guaranteed, and she was not going to enter any more slippery, slanted bargains with men who believed themselves to be beyond burden or blame.
Effy got to her feet. She had done enough sitting.
“No,” she said. “It’s not enough. And I’m not bluffing. If you don’t fire him, I’ll tell the whole country. I’ll tell the whole world.”
Dean Fogg just stared at her, his eyes turned to angry slits. A mere month ago she would have shrunk under his gaze, her mind slipping out of her and her body following, fleeing the room as quickly as she could.
But she had faced down the Fairy King in all his eldritch power. She had made him crumble into a handful of dust. This battle was easy by comparison.
“All right,” he said. His voice was a low snarl. “I’ll acquiesce to your terms, ludicrous as they are.”
Master Gosse chuckled. “I enjoy this girl, Fogg. I look forward to instructing her.”
Preston stood then, too. “We’ll have to speak about a publication schedule, make revisions. And of course sign the papers to transfer Effy from architecture to literature.”
“Of course,” Dean Fogg said sourly. “My office will be in touch. Now, both of you, get out of my sight.”
Effy kept her lips pressed shut until they had left the dean’s office, gone down the hallway, and burst from the building into the cool afternoon. Everything was bright, drenched in sunlight, making Preston squint behind his glasses as he looked at her.
There was a wonderful tightness building in her chest, and at last it bubbled out in a laugh.
“We did it,” she said. “We really did it.”
The promise he had made to her all those weeks ago, that they would write a paper that gained her admittance to the literature college, that he would stare down Dean Fogg and fight for her, had finally been fulfilled. It was the foundation upon which Effy could build a new life.
And then, unexpectedly, Preston pulled her into an embrace and lifted her into the air. He spun her around for a brief moment before putting her down again, his cheeks flushed, looking bashful.
Effy laughed again. “I thought you weren’t a romantic.”
“I wasn’t,” Preston said, cheeks still pink. “Until you.”
Now he was making her blush. Effy cupped his face. “I think we should celebrate.”
When they arrived back at Effy’s dormitory, she realized Rhia had been underselling herself. For a last-minute party, there was an impressive selection of liquor, an impressive number of guests, and even a hand-lettered WELCOME HOME sign that had been stuck to the wall using hairpins and a bit of thread.
Rhia dragged Effy and Preston into the center of the kitchen and immediately barraged him with questions. Effy could only watch in quiet amusement as he stumbled to answer them. This was not the kind of test that any amount of studying or natural intellect could help him pass.
Rhia had borrowed （stolen, she confessed, after two rounds of drinks） a record player from the music faculty. It turned on and on, needle wearing very gently against the vinyl. When a slow song came on, Preston took Effy’s hand. They danced （which was mostly just swaying, as Preston, too, was several drinks deep）， her head on his shoulder. When the song ended, she felt only a twinge of grief.
Then Preston encountered a fellow literature student, and Effy saw him truly in his element for the first time. He was more patient than she remembered him being, when they’d met that day on the cliffs. Even as the other student argued that “The Dreams of a Sleeping King” was unfairly maligned, Preston listened, and made his counterarguments without a trace of smugness.
All around her Effy could feel walls coming up, rising out of the earth like a tree from its roots. But they didn’t feel stifling. The architecture of her new life was taking shape, and there were windows and doors. She did not need to slip through cracks in order to escape. If she wanted to leave, she could. If she wanted to stay, there were repairs that could be made. The foundation would be strong. Effy was sure of that.