Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(20)
When I admitted Finn this morning with our breakfast, he looked predictably disappointed not to be greeted by Bambleby.
“He’s still asleep,” I said, my stomach rumbling at the sight of breakfast, which consisted of two perfect loaves, the requested half dozen eggs, an array of marmalades without any seaweed in sight, smoked fish, and lamb sausages. “Do you have any coffee?”
Finn’s face fell. “He takes coffee?”
“Yes, and the stronger the better.”
“Ulfar might have some,” Finn said thoughtfully. “It isn’t common around here.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s very particular about breakfast.” I felt a little guilty, but I was the one who would have to listen to Wendell’s complaints, not Finn.
Naturally, Finn found this charming rather than aggravating, and smiled. “It’s not a bad thing to be particular about.”
Lizzie and Henry rose soon after and ate their fill, then drifted about at loose ends, looking for something to do. I was already fed up with having so many people underfoot, so I sent them both out to chop more wood. I regretted not having something more educational for them to do, but if they were put out by such a menial assignment, they gave no indication, which told me everything I needed to know about what they were used to from Bambleby.
He showed himself some time later, long after I’d begun seriously considering setting off without him, our agreement and ICODEF be damned. Had I asked him to come here? No. Did I need his assistance? Of course not.
“Morning,” he yawned upon emerging from his bedroom, looking resplendent in a black dressing gown that somehow managed to connote the robes a king might wear to a masquerade, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by his golden hair, which went in all directions.
“Finally,” I said, but before I could go on, he held up a hand.
“Not before breakfast, Em,” he said. “Please.”
“I was merely going to point out the coffee,” I said. Bambleby was allergic to serious conversation—or indeed, any work at all—that took place before breakfast. We ate it together at Cambridge whenever we were both on campus, and had done ever since he found out that I didn’t ordinarily bother with it. He’d reacted with a horror befitting a confession of murder and immediately swept me from my office to his favourite café on the university grounds, which was nearly hidden by a conclave of oak trees and overlooked the River Cam. A full hour later, after what he referred to as a “lean” breakfast of eggs, fried tomatoes, several rashers of bacon, toast laden with butter and blueberry jam, and a baked oatmeal with pears, together with copious amounts of black coffee, which he drank sweet enough to set your teeth on edge, he had declared himself satisfied. I had thought that perhaps he had some philosophy about it the way people have about tea, how it can make every problem less grim or the day seem brighter or some such, but he just blinked at me when I asked him about it and replied, “Oh, Em. What isn’t so important about breakfast?” Well, it’s true that I don’t have headaches in the morning anymore, since falling into the breakfast habit, and I suppose my stamina is improved, but really, to carry on so about a meal.
“You say this is coffee?” he said, flipping open the tin pot, which Finn had left on a rack over the fire, along with the kettle and toast, to keep warm.
“Yes. Ulfar had some beans, apparently. Though I understand from Finn that they are of uncertain provenance.”
“This will be a long winter,” he said, and helped himself to the tea. I ate too, slathering marmalade on toast and having a go at one of the goose eggs, for despite my hunger I’d eaten little earlier, being preoccupied with thoughts of the day—it’s not uncommon for me to forget to eat when I am buried in some academic mystery. Bambleby tried everything, including the smoked fish that I did not consider a breakfast food, declaring it of a high standard.
“I think I’ll wander up to the hot spring Finn was describing,” he said with a satisfied stretch after he had finished his third cup of tea. “Wash off some of the ferry.”
“I thought we could go over the plan for the day,” I said evenly. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour.”
“Have you? Well, you’re welcome to join me.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He reached over and plucked a grass blade from my hair—which, as usual, was already half out of its bun. “Of course you are.”
“We haven’t even established our research design. We have three months, Wendell. How are we supposed to work together? That is our agreement, is it not?”
“I don’t recall any formal agreement. I recall a great deal of scowling and a few attempts at impugning my character, but that could characterize many of our conversations.”
I folded my arms.
“My research tends to have a certain flexibility,” he said, swallowing a bite of toast. “I don’t like being too rigid in my approach to fieldwork.”
I had guessed he would say that. “In this case, my preference is for naturalistic observation as a primary method of data collection. I’ve already made a rough map of the study area—roughly ten square miles of wilderness—noting suspected faerie features. I intend to return to as many as possible to attempt to observe the common fae in their native environment. It’s unlikely we shall have a chance to do the same for the courtly fae, given their skill at evading human detection; thus we shall have to base our analysis of their ways and habits on ethnographic interviews with the villagers. There is a woman in Hrafnsvik who has been mistreated by the courtly fae—Au?ur Hildsdottir. If I have the time, I plan to visit her today, along with another household that I believe is home to a brownie. This alone would be a significant discovery, as the literature suggests that the Hidden Ones dwell within the natural landscape only.”[*1] I paused. “I wish to accomplish two objectives—firstly, to identify the species of Folk that dwell here, and second, to describe their interactions with the mortal inhabitants.”