Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(24)

I did not leave Mord and Aslaug wholly unprotected, of course. I told them about the inside-out trick I had used with my clothing—this would not prevent the visions, of course, but it would lessen their hold over them. Aslaug, returned from her walk, welcomed me with a warmth I did not expect, but she was an unsettling sight—far too thin, her eyes shadowed, and her hair lank. She hummed almost constantly, and at times seemed to become lost in herself, oblivious to conversation until Mord went to her side and squeezed her shoulder. While I am first and foremost a scientist and value my objectivity, I would have helped them if I could. But I saw no way of doing so.

I returned to the cottage to compile my notes. It was empty, though I could see two tiny specks upon a distant mountainside that I recognized by the colour of their cloaks as Lizzie and Henry. I caught the flicker of a spyglass and guessed they were observing the rock formations below. As for Bambleby, I had no idea. Perhaps he had drowned in the spring.

I decided to venture thither myself. I wished to pay my respects to my new friend; one can never predict the effects of being kind to the common fae, and I still hoped to earn his confidences.

The spring was deserted, but I was content to remove my boots and wait. I splashed my face with water, and then, after a quick glance over my shoulder, plunged my head under.

I scrubbed my hair for the first time since arriving in Hrafnsvik, dislodging dirt and leaves that I hadn’t even realized were there. When I finished, I squeezed it out and tied it back up, feeling infinitely better. It was as if I had washed off some of the darkness from the farmhouse.

The afternoon held the sort of borrowed, ephemeral warmth that interrupts the advance of winter sometimes, and I found myself wondering what summer was like in this place. With the sun filtering through the trees, I was feeling quite content. I ate my lunch while I waited, after first restocking the faerie’s candy. He had not liked the caramels one bit, complaining that they stuck in his teeth. The chocolates, though, he had instantly taken to. I would have to write to my brother for more; no doubt sweets at Groa’s shop would cost me their weight in gold.

The brownie—whom I have taken to calling Poe in my head, in honour of the tattered ravenskin he once wore—took longer to show himself than usual. When he appeared, it was on the opposite bank of the spring, and his form so blended with the forest floor that I could see him only when he moved.

“Good day,” I said politely. “Is something the matter?”

“Your friend was here,” he said hesitantly.

“Bambleby? Was he rude to you?” Damn him to Hell if he was. I had not spent days building trust with this creature only to have him ruin it.

Poe shook his head. “He brought me peppermints. I like peppermints.”

“What, then?”

Poe kept shooting me anxious looks. His needle-fingers went tappity-tap like rain upon the damp grass. Finally he burst out, “I don’t wish to see him again!”

“Then you shan’t,” I said. “I shall instruct him to stay away.” Oh, would I.

The faerie’s eyes grew huge. “You can command a prince?” He rushed on before I could speak. “I don’t wish to make him angry. He was kind, but I fear him. My mother always said to keep out of their way. The high ones, the queens and kings and great lords. They will trample you under their boots like mushrooms, little one, she always told me. Keep your head down. Keep to your tree. When he asks me questions, I have to answer them. I don’t like his questions.”

I had gone very still. The brownie had used a word in the faerie tongue that has several definitions—it can mean lord or sir, or another simple mark of respect. But I knew, said in that manner, with a slight lilt down the middle like a fold, it meant only one thing.

“You say he is a prince,” I repeated, clearly enunciating. “You’re certain of this?”

The faerie nodded. He came very close, close enough for me to smell the sap on his skin, which mingled strangely with the familiar smell of my old beaver hat—this he had torn apart and woven into a lumpy coat. Quietly, he said, “He wanted to know about the doors.”

Little shivers were scudding down my back. “The faerie doors? That lead into your world?”[*]

He nodded. I sat back, my mind wheeling. I have long suspected that Bambleby is part of the faerie aristocracy. That he is—or was—in line for one of their thrones is something I had not guessed, though that was not what alarmed me.

What does he want with faerie doors? Are his questions mere academic curiosity?

“Did he ask you anything else?”

Poe shook his head, and my suspicion grew. “What did you tell him?”

The faerie was almost sitting in my lap now, his long fingers curled possessively about my cloak. “That there are no doors here, in this forest. I’ve never seen one. Maybe the doors move with the snows, with the high ones. Maybe they carry them hither and thither as the wind blows down from the north.” He frowned. “They will be here soon.”

My hands tightened on the grass. “How did my friend react to this information?”

“I don’t know. He left after. I am glad he’s gone.”

As the brownie seemed distressed, I reminded him of the chocolates I had given him. In truth, my kindness was partly out of concern for my cloak—now striped with holes from Poe’s touch—as well as the leg underneath it. He hastened to check on his little hoard and then disappeared into the forest, returning with a loaf of bread still warm to the touch. He seemed calmed by the ritual, and by my appreciation of him. I promised to return on the morrow—alone.