Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(29)

“I have absolutely no idea how to achieve that.”

“I know.” He thunked his chair down and gave me a considering look. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you, only that we must not let on to Aud. We need to work through this before we go much further in our research. The villagers were evasive with me last night whenever the subject turned to the Hidden Ones. My friendship with you means that I will not get much from them, either.”

I groaned. “Can’t you charm them into giving you what you want, as you usually do?”

“Probably. But that will take time. Do we have it to waste? As you are so fond of reminding me, we have only a few weeks.”

I stared at my hands. Thora would speak with me, but I could not base my research on the testimony of a single person.

I have always hated this sort of thing. I would sooner interview a dozen bloody changelings than navigate my way through this thicket of social conventions. I thought to myself that perhaps I should simply avoid conversation altogether going forward, seeing as I always make a mess of it.

“My dear Emily. I’ve never seen you look so dejected.” He was regarding me with affection—and something else, but it was gone before I could name it. “Why don’t we go for a stroll? You can entertain me with a list of your demands. Then I can find a nice place for a nap whilst you hunt for some common fae to harass.”

“I wish to see the lake,” I said, already on my feet. I wanted more than anything to put the conversation from my mind. “You say you found a footpath?”

He groaned a little at that, but I was already out the door, and so he donned his coat and followed.





31st October


I arose to darkness and silence. Bambleby’s enthusiasm for early rising, it seems, was short-lived—well, fine; I shall have plenty of quiet to write in my journal. I have just opened the shutters; a landscape of white and shadow gazes back at me as I pen these words.

Bambleby and I made it to the lake yesterday after a steep climb. It was one of those scenes that froze me in place, a little cup of velvety blue between towers of rock. At our backs was the furious arctic sea, thick with ice, too much of it visible from that height. Too much rather summed up the place, I thought as I hurried after Bambleby, who apart from giving the volcanic stones scattered here and there a few desultory kicks seemed barely conscious of the feral nature of the surroundings. The wind yanked on my bun and sent the loose strands lashing against my face.

Though we found only tenuous evidence of the nykur—misshapen prints in the frozen muck by the water’s edge, which I photographed—I returned with my spirits improved. As Finn had informed us that the weather was changing, evidenced by the looming cloud upon the horizon, I determined to make the most of the sun and set off on another survey of the eastern peaks, whilst Bambleby, despite lacking any visible signs of fatigue, pleaded exhaustion and retired to the cottage.

Solivagant, I misjudged the distance and returned in the dark, the stars a thick glittering above me like a spill of treasure. I could not help pausing to stargaze, a pastime I indulge in but rarely in Cambridge, the nights there being blurred by gaslight and hemmed in by trees and towers. By the time I clambered up the little mountain path to the cottage, our students had returned from their sojourn at the pub rather the worse for wear and had gone to bed early to sleep things off.

I hardly recognized the cottage whereupon I stepped in from the windy night. The fire merrily crackled, and the whole space was illuminated by strategically placed oil lamps that had not been present before. Woollen rugs scattered the floor, and the windows were hung with curtains. And there were things atop the mantel: pretty things that seemed to have no purpose at all. I recognized one from Bambleby’s office, a little jewelled mirror that flashed merrily in the firelight, but others seemed to be artefacts of Hrafnsvik, including a Madonna carved from whalebone and a little seascape painted on a scrap of driftwood.

Bambleby himself was seated at the fire, mending a curtain. He explained to me that he had borrowed most of the furnishings from Krystjan, including the curtain that he was presently repairing and which he intended to be strung up in the kitchen.

I hardly heard any of it through my amazement. “You are darning curtains? You?”

“My family has a talent for needlework,” he said merely, his fingers moving with an improbable deftness.

I informed him that the cottage had been perfectly satisfactory as it was, to which he replied that the place had been so dank and cheerless as to be suitable only to bats and unsociable gargoyles brooding over their books, and he would sooner put his eyes out than endure weeks of such wretched environs. I contemplated unleashing Shadow and his muddy paws upon Bambleby’s efforts, but the truth was that even I could see that our humble abode was much improved, with a sense not only of warmth but of safety, an enveloping cosiness whose source I could not wholly put a finger on. I settled for brooding over my books for the remainder of the evening, ignoring him completely, which he hates above all else.



* * *



—

I’m afraid that, since writing the last, things have turned upside down.

Finn was late with breakfast, which did not at first alarm me, given the conditions. I pulled a chair up to the window and watched the snow fall as I brewed tea. I had not forgotten my promise to Poe, and did not look forward to plunging into those drifts, though I estimated the snowfall at less than a foot.