Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From A Theory of Dreaming by Ava Reid Return to the immersive, lush, and dreamlike world of the dark academia fantasy A Study in Drowning. By Ava Reid | Published on June 10, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Ava Reid’s A Theory of Dreaming, the second book in the YA dark academia fantasy duology that began with A Study in Drowning—out from HarperCollins on July 29th. Effy learned that when she defeated the Fairy King. Even though she may never know exactly what happened at Hiraeth, she is free of her nightmares and is able to pen a thesis with Preston on the beloved national fairy tale Angharad. She has finally earned a spot at the literature college, making her the first woman in history to enroll.But some dreams are dangerous, especially when they come true. The entire university—and soon the entire nation—is waiting for her to fail. With the Fairy King defeated and Myrddin’s legacy exposed, Effy can no longer escape into fantasy. Who is she without her stories?With Effy under threat, Preston is surprised to discover a rage simmering inside him, ringing in his ears like bells. He begins to dream of a palace under the sea, a world where he is king—visions that start to follow him even in waking.As the war between Llyr and Argant explodes, Effy and Preston find themselves caught in the crossfire: Effy losing her dreams and Preston losing himself in his. The ballroom was already packed when they arrived, abuzz with voices, the mass of bodies shifting beneath the gleaming golden lights. Drinks were raised for toasts, and women lifted their gloved hands to cover their mouths when they laughed. From the corner where the orchestra sat, there was the twanging of harp strings and the warbling of the violins. Preston and Lotto checked their coats and then Preston cast his gaze across the ballroom, squinting as he searched. His vision still felt oddly blurred. He took off his glasses and was cleaning them with the tail of his shirt when he heard her voice. “Hello.” He put his glasses back on hurriedly and turned. Effy stood before him, her golden hair gathered and pinned up in a shiny chignon, her throat ringed with pearls. Her lips were painted the soft color of a just-budded rose. And her dress—a floaty, delicate mesh of sky blue and pale pink, shimmering in subtle, clever places between the folds of fabric. It looked like sea-foam, like the ocean at dawn. It was as if she had come right out of the water, a mermaid with her tail magicked away, taking her first hesitant steps to shore. She belonged more in that palace beneath the waves than in this bleak, banal human world. He felt it was rude, almost cruel, that somehow she had been forced into it. Preston’s breath caught in his chest. He could not say everything he was thinking, much less everything he was feeling, and so he said what was simplest and the truest: “You’re beautiful.” “Thank you.” A faint flush colored her cheeks. “It’s all thanks to Rhia, really. And her magical depthless closet.” Preston reached for her gloved hand. But before their fingers could touch, Lotto was bullying his way between them. “Effy Sayre,” he said, and he took her hand, raising it to his mouth for a polite kiss. “What my good friend Preston means to say is that you look ravishing, sublime, ethereal—” “If only you could apply this eloquence to your coursework,” Preston interrupted. He was surprised by the faint tremor of anger he felt. He knew there was nothing threatening about Lotto’s shameless flirtation, and yet— But Effy was smiling good-naturedly. “You heard him, Mr. Héloury. If you don’t lavish compliments on your date, Lancelot Grey will do it for you.” Preston let out a breath. “You have no idea how utterly true that is.” Lotto led the way into the ballroom, and Preston took Effy’s hand at last and walked in with her. He was grateful that the other students were already far too deep into their drinks to pay any mind to them, though he couldn’t stop scanning the room, trying to make sure he and Effy weren’t the target of any glares. He saw the top of Southey’s white-blond head, but his attention was elsewhere, with his friends and the bottom of his glass. Preston exhaled quietly with relief. “Shall I get us drinks?” Preston asked. Effy bit her lip, hesitating. He knew she rarely drank and he didn’t want to force her. After a moment, she said, “All right. But no scotch or whiskey, please. Something… something sweet.” “I suppose I could ask the bartender to spike your drink with six sugars, just the way you take your coffee.” “Oh, be quiet.” Preston bit his lip on a smile, then leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.” Buy the Book A Theory of Dreaming Ava Reid Buy Book A Theory of Dreaming Ava Reid Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Effy nodded, but Preston couldn’t help hesitating, for just a moment. The room had been adorned in false vines, ribbons of green silk that draped over the paintings and the wall-mounted candles. There were artificial trees placed at the chamber’s edges, their branches spreading, garlanded with fairy lights and synthetic moss—all of it to, rather dubiously, fit the folklore theme. When he saw Effy standing among it, shadowed slightly by the tree canopy, and close enough that the hanging vines nearly brushed the crown of her head, a tremor of unease ran through him. He thought of her at Hiraeth, in the damp, verdant woods beside the cliffs, eyes wide and wheeling as she tried desperately to convince him that the Fairy King was real. That he was coming. He had been so fearful of losing her then, to magic or to madness. And now the memory struck him through like an arrow, piercing him with the very same fear. But he could not speak it aloud. What good would it do to remind her of it, to poison her with his paranoias? Blinking away the memory, Preston turned and maneuvered through the crowd, toward the bar. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, but he ended up catching an elbow to the shoulder, and a girl in a bright purple dress turned around and glared at him. Then her date turned, too, and before Preston could hurry away, he thought he saw recognition flash in the other boy’s eyes. He ordered drinks—a whiskey, neat, for himself, and a gin with soda water, syrup, and lemon for Effy—and leaned against the long oak bar to wait. With the sound of the music and all the muffled conversations, he couldn’t make out any individual words, any invectives against him. It was only when the bartender returned, sliding the drinks across the counter, that Preston found himself confronted. “Argantian?” the bartender asked. Preston blinked. “Excuse me?” “Your accent,” said the bartender. He was a man who looked to be in his middle twenties; unlike the porters, he had the affect of the middle class. “You’re Argantian, aren’t you?” Preston had taken hold of the drinks, and the glasses suddenly felt very cold against his palms. He had always prided himself on the subtlety of his accent, had thought that it was scarcely noticeable. Especially in this loud, overcrowded room, how had the bartender managed to discern it? Once he might have felt flustered. “None of your damn business,” he bit back. He only felt angry. The force of his rage surprised and terrified him. And then, before the bartender could reply, he turned and shoved his way back through the crowd. His pulse was pounding in his ears, drowning out even the sound of the music. He willed himself to calm down before he reached Effy. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him out of sorts. To see him enraged. She had pressed herself against one of the far walls, kneading her gloved hands together. Relief blossomed on her face as he approached. He handed her the gin cocktail and said, “Something sweet.” Effy took it. They clinked glasses, and then each took a long drink. With only one sip, her cheeks had already begun to pink. “Now it’s a proper party,” she said. “Better than Blackmar’s banquet, I’ll give you that,” Preston replied. “Well, you do have a suit that fits this time.” She smiled over the rim of her glass. “And at least one friend.” Effy tilted her head toward Lotto. He had already amassed a small crowd as he slouched against one of the busts of a previous college master, one arm thrown over the statue’s shoulder, wineglass in his hand. He gestured animatedly, clearly telling some theatrical tale, and the men and women around him watched with transfixed stares. “He better not be trying to steal someone’s date again,” Preston said, with a weary shake of his head. “Did he really do that?” “Yes. Last year. There was nearly a full-out brawl.” Effy glanced up at him, then at Lotto again, then back to Preston. A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “You love him, don’t you?” “Well—” Preston started. He looked over at Lotto, who now appeared to be miming some sort of rugby move, head down, shoulders raised and in a pouncing pose. “I suppose. Unfortunately. And against my will.” “Unfortunately?” Effy echoed. “It would be easier,” Preston clarified, “if I didn’t care at all. If I could choose… I certainly wouldn’t have chosen someone who was so determined to sabotage himself at every turn. So unable to hear reason.” Effy fell silent, and it seemed, for a moment, that she had taken the music and the conversation with her. He couldn’t hear anything aside from the uneven beating of his heart. Reminding him, with every beat, that he was alive, and that one day he wouldn’t be. That all this would be gone. “I didn’t realize it was so torturous for you,” she said at last. “Maybe I should just go.” “No,” he said quickly. “Effy, no. That’s not—I would love you even if it was killing me slowly. Even if it ruined me. Don’t you know that?” Her gaze dropped to the floor; she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t want to ruin you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it’s difficult to love me.” “It’s not difficult. It’s the easiest thing in the world.” His voice lowered. “Sometimes it’s the only thing I’m certain about—that when I’m with you, it’s the right place for me to be.” Effy brushed her eyes with the pad of her thumb, though Preston didn’t see any tears. At last she looked up at him again. “I don’t believe you. You’re always looking for the discrepancy. The exception. You don’t think that anything is so simple that it can be boiled down to an axiom.” Preston had never really thought about himself that way. But he supposed that, in a sense, she was right. He had always needed an escape hatch. There were no universal truths. And it made him feel so very tired, tired of being in his own head. “But perhaps that’s how I know that I love you,” he said at last. “Because it is simple. Because all the quibbling in my mind goes silent when I look into your eyes.” And it was true. When he looked at her he knew—he knew—beyond the shadow of a doubt, even when everything he did was always couched in exceptions, in what-ifs—that it was exactly where he belonged. Golden light danced in her eyes, and they gleamed like the green-fire torches in his underwater world. In his palace, where he worshipped her like a saint. His fairy-tale girl. “I mean it,” he said softly, when Effy still didn’t reply. “Can’t you believe me? You know what a terrible liar I am.” She believed in fairies, in monsters, in magic, but she couldn’t believe that he loved her completely and without reserve? It made him tired, too. And mournful. “I’ll try,” she replied finally, her voice little more than a whisper. “All right,” Preston said. What more could he ask? He took the last sip of his drink and then set it down on a nearby table. “Will you dance with me?” Effy nodded. She put down her glass, still half-full, the ice melting, and took his hand. He led her out onto the dance floor, surrounded by swaying couples, sequins glinting in girls’ dresses and fabric swishing, wool against silk. Preston braced his arm around her waist, and she curled hers around his shoulder. For several moments, they danced in silence, keeping pace with the couples around them. The music lulled and then swelled. It was a slow song, and a sad one, at least to Preston’s mind. His face was so close to Effy’s that he could see the fluttery shadow of her lashes against her cheek, the single strand of golden hair come loose and now feathering against her jaw. He could see the way the pearls gleamed against her skin, smooth and marble pale. “Do you remember,” she said, “the last time we danced?” “Of course. Blackmar’s party. After Marlowe…” “You saved me,” Effy broke in. “I felt safe with you. It was the first time I realized—the first time I knew that I wanted… you.” Preston smiled. “Then you were slower to come around than I was.” “Oh?” “I told you,” he said. “I wanted you since the very first day. Since I wrote your name on that paper.” He felt his cheeks warm. He knew it was silly, to be embarrassed by that now, but he went on, “I almost kissed you that night, at Blackmar’s.” The corner of her mouth quivered. “Why didn’t you?” “I was afraid, I suppose. Afraid that you wouldn’t want me to. Afraid that I could hurt you.” “Well,” she said slowly, as the song neared its end, “you don’t have to be afraid of that now.” She pushed herself up, onto her tiptoes, and Preston dipped his head, lowering his mouth to hers. All around them, other couples dipped and whirled. But in the filmy darkness behind his eyelids, it was only Effy’s face he saw, her golden hair, her wide, dreaming gaze. She was sheltered here, in his arms, at least for the moment. When he opened his eyes again, the candles on the wall seemed to burn faintly green. He blinked, and the illusion vanished, but the sense of contentment remained. Effy was safe in that underwater palace, in the realm where he was king. He would keep her safe in this world, too. At any cost. Excerpted from A Theory of Dreaming, copyright © 2025 by Ava Reid. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>A Theory of Dreaming</i> by Ava Reid appeared first on Reactor.