Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(22)

I held out a hand. “My name is Emily Wilde. When was your son taken?”

He paused, then took my hand. “Mord Samson. My wife is Aslaug—she’s on one of her walks. I thought Aud would have told you?”

“Aud told me nothing. It was simple inference.”

“I see.” He gazed at me for a moment. “She doesn’t like you.”

Something about this man, the grim lines of his face, perhaps, which had the opacity of a windowpane, prompted me to agree, “She doesn’t like me.”

He smiled at that, barely. I had the impression that even such a smile was a rare occurrence. “It was five winters ago. Ari was a baby. Barely a year old.”

Now I was very interested indeed. Already, the behaviour of the Ljosland Folk was diverging from what I knew. “A year is quite unusual. The Folk abduct newborns—I’ve never heard of one taking interest in older children. Apart from the boggarts of Scotland, of course, but they do not leave a boggart-child in place of the one stolen away.”

I realized that I sounded excited, and that Mord was watching me with raised eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” I said, and it sounded perfunctory to my own ears, yet for some reason, Mord smiled again.

“It doesn’t matter a whit to me,” he said. “That is, whether you’re sorry or not, whether you will put us in your prayers. We had plenty of prayers and sorries when Ari was stolen away, and we’ve had plenty since. Can you help us?”

“That’s—” I stopped. But something about him made me unafraid to be honest. “That’s not why I’m here. I’ve come to catalogue your Folk for the purpose of science.”

He merely nodded. “And yet you are here, and it’s clear you are more canny as to the ways of the Folk than any priest, and that gives me hope. I would invite you in, but I’m afraid that the hospitality you will find under my roof will not be to your liking. And I would not wish to frighten your handsome companion.”

He gave Shadow a pat on the head, and the dog sniffed him approvingly. “That’s fine, Mr. Samson,” I said. “He’s used to the Folk. As am I.”

Mord looked dubious, but he did not stop me as I let myself into his house.

Nothing was amiss. A humble reception room and hearth gave way to an even sparser kitchen with iron pans hung upon the wall. The screams did not recommence, nor did I observe any bloody handprints. Shadow, however, sniffed the air and emitted a grunt.

“Yes,” I said. “Stay close to me, dear.” To Mord, I said, “Will your wife be gone long?”

“A while. Walking eases her mind. She does it every day, until the snows come.” He looked out the window, and written plainly on his face was the weary certainty that the snows would not be long in arriving. “I suspect Aslaug will like you. She and Aud have never gotten on.”

I was startled into a smile. Mord motioned with his hand. “Ari’s in the attic.”

“I see,” I said, wincing a little as I remembered Bambleby’s comment about haunted houses. “Are you cold, Mr. Samson?”

He glanced down at himself. He had removed his coat, revealing another beneath it. “Aslaug and I are always cold. It never leaves us, not even in midsummer.”

I had my notebook out, and was scribbling my initial observations. Part of me was aware of how hard-hearted I must have seemed, but I was too caught up in my scientific interest to worry over it, and in any case, Mord did not appear offended by me.

I took a step towards the stairs. Immediately, they transformed. Each stair became a gaping mouth, glittering with teeth and furred with a wolf’s dense pelt. A bitter wind funnelled into the room, smelling of snow and pines. The wolves snarled and snapped at the hem of my coat.

I turned to Mord. He had started back in horror, but there was a dullness to it, and he did not cower long.

“You see such visions often?” I said.

He blinked. Annoyance came into his eyes, and he frowned at me as if expecting pity. His face softened when he encountered only dispassionate interest. “I know they aren’t real,” he said.

“I see.” I thought about living in such a place, beset by such violent illusions. I thought about days following days, and years following years.

“Mr. Samson,” I said, “would you bring me an iron nail and a little salt?”

He blinked but went to fetch what I had requested. When he returned, I asked him if the small coat I had spied hanging on a hook on the door was his son’s. He nodded.

“Thank you,” I said, and I placed the coat in my backpack. “I’ll return it, I promise.”

I mounted the stairs. Mord drew in a sharp breath. He did not follow me, which was just as well. I would have stopped him.

Shadow padded alongside me as wolves champed at my ankles. I could see the stairs through the illusion, and Shadow could not see the illusion at all—at least, I think he cannot see fae illusions. I suppose it is possible that he sees them but is indifferent.

In the attic I found a little bed and a cosy rug of undyed wool. Upon the bed sat a boy, pale as moonlight on new snow. I stopped short, for the creature was nothing like the changelings I have encountered before—ugly, spindly things to a one, with the brains of animals. The boy’s long hair was bluish and translucent, and upon his skin was a glimmer like frost. He was beautiful, with an uncanny grace, his eyes sharp with intelligence.