Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(18)
Probably. Wendell Bambleby’s research is all flash and dazzle, and he has an uncanny knack for uncovering outlandish new faerie rituals and enchantments that turn much of the related scholarship on its head—a knack I have often found less uncanny than suspicious.
Shadow placed his head on Bambleby’s knee, and he reached his long fingers down to stroke the dog’s head. In the early days of our friendship, Bambleby had been unsure of Shadow, often appearing to have little idea of what to make of him, so much so that at times I wondered if he had ever seen a dog before. But Shadow had no such hesitancy. From their first meeting, he regarded Bambleby with a thoughtless and entirely undeserved ardour that would have filled me with jealousy had I not already been so secure in Shadow’s affections. As time went on, Bambleby grew accustomed to offering hesitant pats in return, and now—to my chagrin—they are old friends.
“This book of yours is important to you, isn’t it?” he said. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of neatly typed pages. I recognized the excerpt I had sent him last month, comprising the first fifty pages or so.
“You’ve read it?” I demanded.
“Of course.” He riffled the pages—they were much marked-up with his elegant scrawl. “It’s quite remarkable. I’d like to see the rest once you’ve had it typed out.”
I was startled by the flush that crept up my neck at his words. I’ve never attached particular consequence to Bambleby’s opinion of my work, but I suppose it wasn’t just about his opinion. The encyclopaedia has been mine alone for the better part of a decade. It is one thing to think highly of one’s own research, quite another to hear that opinion corroborated.
“Remarkable?” I repeated.
“Well—it’s never been done before, has it? An encyclopaedia of faeries? This will form a cornerstone of all scholarship on the subject for years to come. Probably it will lead to the formation of new methodologies that will enhance our core understanding of the Folk.”
He said it without any hint of flattery. I could only reply honestly, a little overwhelmed, “Yes, that was the intention.”
He smiled. “I thought so. You don’t need the chapter on the Hidden Ones, you know.”
“It will be less impressive without it.”
“And who is it you are wishing to impress? Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “The faculty position. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“And if it is?” I couldn’t interpret the look on his face. “You don’t think I have a chance?”
“Well, you’re a little young—”
“And you’re not?” Cambridge had given him tenure two years ago, the bastard.
“I’m an exception.” He said it absently, looking down at the pages, and a smile came over his face. “When is old Sutherland retiring?”
“This fall.” I was leaning forward, twisting my fingers together. “I plan to put my name forward when I return. It would give me money. Resources. I wouldn’t have to scrape together the funding for a one-month expedition; I could run multiple field studies at once if I chose. Think of the discoveries I could make, the mysteries I could solve. And—” And I would never have to leave Cambridge, I almost said.
“Yes.” He flicked another page. “And you shall shut yourself away forever in those old stones with your books and your mysteries like a dragon with her hoard, having as little association with the living as possible and emerging only to breathe fire at your students.”
He has an irritating way of understanding me, at least in part, which is more than anyone else does—no doubt some faerie gift of his. “You intend to stay here, do you?” I said, to change the subject.
“Where else? This is not the sort of place for a hotel, is it? I received your host’s assent to my enquiry the day after I wrote to you, and departed Cambridge immediately thereafter. I assumed he would have told you.”
I winced. “Egilson and I have not been on the best of terms.”
“What?” He gave an exaggerated affectation of surprise. “Dear Emily. Don’t tell me you’ve had trouble making friends.”
My scowl was interrupted by the creak of the door. As before, Krystjan strode into the cottage without knocking. I could tell by his expression that Bambleby’s message had been as well received as I had guessed. Lizzie trailed behind him, looking uselessly apologetic.
“Mr. Egilson!” Bambleby was on his feet immediately, his smile broadening. “I see that you don’t stand for formalities, my good man. How refreshing. I must convey how much I appreciate your hospitality at such short notice. I had heard tales of the warmth and generosity of your compatriots, but you have gone above and beyond.”
He said all of this in accented but fluent Ljoslander. It stopped Egilson in his tracks, but only for a moment. “Professor,” Egilson said warily, accepting the proffered hand. I could see his frostiness melt a little upon exposure to the onslaught of Bambleby’s charm, but he was a hardy man, and his smile was tight. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You’re welcome here, but unfortunately, we aren’t in a position to provide meals—beyond the essentials at breakfast, of course. I run a large farm—you understand.”
He had responded in English, which Bambleby acknowledged with a grateful smile that somehow managed to convey an admiration for Egilson’s fluency. I detected a distinct hint of amusement in his gaze that, fortunately, seemed to evade Krystjan’s notice. “I understand entirely. I hope you don’t think I expected you to prepare our repast. I was, of course, offering to cook for your family.”