Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(19)
Egilson blinked, his reserve dissolving into amazement. “You were.”
“Oh, God,” I muttered. “Please say yes.”
Bambleby clapped Egilson on the shoulder. “Of course. It’s customary in Ireland for the guests to prepare at least one meal for their hosts. As a token of appreciation. What is your preference? We have some supplies here.” He stormed about the cottage, collecting the smashed remnants of the cabbage and carrots along with the smoked fish I had purchased, managing to convey a cheerful but manic energy. I could see from Egilson’s face that he was envisioning Bambleby unleashed upon his kitchen.
“I— While I appreciate—” Krystjan began.
“Say nothing about it. I’ve a recipe for spice cake that’ll set your mouth on fire. That’s how we like it in Ireland. And as for the mains…”
“Truly, Professor, it’s all right.” Krystjan was smiling—a grudging but very real smile, not his customary smirk—as Bambleby stomped about, radiating good cheer. “You’ve only just arrived. I couldn’t trouble you to cook for my son and me. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.”
Bambleby stilled, blinking. Cabbage leaves swirled in his wake as in a contrary wind. “Really? Well, if you—”
“Finn’s putting together a stew. We’ll send some down to the cottage. If that’s all right.”
“Of course, my friend,” Bambleby said. Then, to my astonishment, he added, “And I’ve no preference between the bread pudding and the apple tart.” He snapped his fingers. “How rude of me! Emily, dear, which would you rather?”
I found myself suppressing a laugh. “Apple tart would be lovely.”
“There we are.” Bambleby smiled at Krystjan, who blinked as if trying to clear his vision. “And we’ll talk tomorrow, won’t we? It’s my custom to interview the townsfolk—those of stature, you understand—at the outset of these investigations. It’s good to get a lay of the land. I’ve no doubt you’re inclined to be helpful?”
As he spoke, he moved closer to Egilson, taking the man’s hand again.
“Of course,” Egilson murmured, helplessly staring. Bambleby’s eyes are not actually black, but the green of a forest at dusk, something you notice only when you are very close. I have seen people become lost in that gaze, foolishly wandering about and entangling themselves in thorns and God knows what else—Krystjan was certainly not the first. He should have looked away, counting to ten or focusing on his breathing or other mundane distraction, but of course he has no experience in evading the tricks of the Folk.
I cleared my throat. Krystjan blinked at me as if only just realizing I was there. “Thank you, Krystjan,” I said. And I suppose some of Bambleby’s mischief must have infected me against my will, for I added, “And we’ll take a half dozen goose eggs with breakfast tomorrow.”
Krystjan nodded like a man struck over the head and exited the cottage, politely pulling the door shut behind him.
“Spice cake?” I said.
Bambleby tumbled back into his chair. “How hard could it be?”
“Have you ever made spice cake?”
“I’ve certainly eaten it.”
“Have you ever made anything?”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
I snorted. My stomach gave such a growl that Bambleby wrinkled his nose. It had been days since I’d had a proper meal, I realized.
“Could we build the fire up?” Bambleby said, indicating by means of the plural first person Henry and Lizzie.
Henry strode gallantly over to the wood box, where he frowned. “It’s empty.”
Wendell looked alarmed. I said, “You’ll find more out back. There’s a woodshed. My axe is in the garden.” Still buried in a stump from my last attempt, but I saw no need to clarify.
“Ah,” Bambleby said, “the woodshed,” in precisely the same tone I had used upon my arrival. And thus we commenced our partnership.
Skip Notes
* The scholarly community has long since moved past such dated distinctions as seilie or unseilie, light or dark, in reference to the Folk, recognizing the general tendency towards malevolence that exists even within seemingly beneficent fae (see de Grey and Eichorn’s Tutelary Spirits). But there are certainly those whose chosen sport is to frighten and spread misery wherever they go.
29th October
Egilson was prompt in preparing our supper, which was accompanied by a dozen buns and, perhaps as a form of apology for the lack of apple tart, a basket of greyish-blue fruits aptly named iceberries. Finn delivered the lot, along with his apologies—there were no apples to be had in Hrafnsvik, and he had no experience with bread pudding, but he hoped we would enjoy his bri?supa, which he and Krystjan guessed to be the closest Ljoslander approximation. It was made with rye bread and plenty of cinnamon, cream, and raisins, and smelled divine. Bambleby exclaimed over everything, and he and Finn were soon chatting up a storm, for Finn, it seemed, had nursed a secret desire to visit Ireland since boyhood. Such quarry posed a negligible challenge to Bambleby’s quiver of charms, and indeed, Finn ended up drawing up a chair and joining us. The cottage echoed with the sounds of their merriment, with the occasional comment thrown in by Lizzie or Henry. As for myself, I was happy to eat a hot meal without the burden of conversation, as Bambleby well knew, and he did me the kindness of ignoring me. And I don’t know how he managed it, but somehow the evening ended with Bambleby retiring early whilst Lizzie, Henry, and Finn heated water and cleaned the dishes. With only the slightest twinge of guilt, I too retreated to my room, my absence unremarked upon and, I suspect, barely noticed.