Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(3)
“In a sense,” I said, hoping to discourage this line of questioning with vagueness. I am not really young for a professor now, at thirty, or at least not young enough to astonish anyone; though eight years ago I had indeed been the youngest professor Cambridge ever hired.
He gave an amused grunt. “I’ve got to be getting on with the farm. Can I help you with anything?”
He said it perfunctorily, and looked to be on the verge of slipping away sideways through the door even as I replied quickly, “Tea would be lovely. And firewood—where would that be kept?”
“In the wood box,” he said, puzzled. “Next to the fireplace.”
I turned, and saw the aforementioned box immediately—I had taken it for some sort of rudimentary armoire.
“There’s more in the woodshed out back,” he said.
“The woodshed,” I breathed with relief. My fantasies of freezing to death had been premature.
He must have noticed the way I said it, which unfortunately had the distinct cadence of a word never spoken before, for he remarked, “You’re more the indoors type, are you? I’m afraid such folk are rather thin on the ground around here. I’ll have Finn bring the tea. That’s my son. And before you ask, the matches are in the matchbox.”
“Naturally,” I said, as if I had noticed the matchbox already. Damn my pride, but I couldn’t bring myself to enquire as to its whereabouts after the wood box humbling. “Thank you, Mr. Egilson.”
He gave me a slow-blinking look, then drew a little box from his pocket and set it upon the table. He was gone in a swirl of icy air.
20th October—evening
After Krystjan left, I barred the door with the plank that must have been set against the wall for that purpose, and which, like the damned wood box, I had failed to note before. Then I spent an entirely unproductive twenty minutes scrabbling about with the wood and the matches, until there came another knock.
I opened the door, praying that this visitor’s relative politeness boded well for my survival.
“Professor Wilde,” said the young man on the threshold in that faintly awed tone I have encountered before in rural villages, and I nearly melted with relief. Finn Krystjanson was a near–mirror image of his father, though narrower of midsection and with a pleasant set to his mouth.
He shook my hand eagerly and tiptoed into the cottage, starting a little at the sight of Shadow. “What a handsome beast,” Finn said. His English was more heavily accented than that of his father, though still perfectly fluent. “He’ll give the wolves something to think about.”
“Mm,” I said. Shadow takes little interest in wolves, seeming to place them in the same category as cats. I can’t imagine what he’d do if a wolf ever challenged him, other than yawn and give it a swat with one of his dinnerplate paws.
Finn eyed the cold fireplace and debitage of snapped matches without surprise, and I suspected that his father had already warned him of my capabilities. Indoors type still smarted.
In a few short moments, he had a hearty fire crackling and a pot of water set upon the stove to boil. He chattered as he worked, directing me to the stream behind the cottage, which I understood to be my only source of water, the cottage not being plumbed; the outdoor privy; and a shop in town where I could purchase supplies. My host would provide my breakfast, and dinner could be had at the local tavern. I was on my own for the midday meal only, which suited me well, as I am accustomed to spending my days in the field when conducting research and would pack my own light repast.
“Father says you’re writing a book,” he said, heaping logs by the fire. “About our Hidden.”
“Not just the Hidden,” I said. “The book is about all known species of Folk. We have learned much about their kind since the dawning of this era of science, but no one has yet ventured to assemble this information into a comprehensive encyclopaedia.”[*1]
He gave me a look that was both dubious and impressed. “My, but that sounds like a lot of work.”
“Yes.” Nine years of it, to be specific. I have been working on my encyclopaedia since earning my doctorate. “I hope to complete my fieldwork here by spring—the chapter on your Hidden Ones is the very last piece. My publisher is eagerly awaiting the manuscript.”
The mention of a publisher seemed to impress him all over again, though the furrow in his brow remained. “Well. We have plenty of stories. I don’t know, though, that they’ll be any use to you.”
“Stories are of great use,” I said. “Indeed, they are the foundation of dryadology. We would be lost without them, as astronomers cut off from the sky.”
“They’re not all true, though,” he said with a frown. “Can’t be. All storytellers embellish. You should listen to my grandmother when she gets going—she’ll have us hanging on every word, yes, but a visitor from the next village will say they don’t know the tale, though it’s the same one their own amma tells at her hearth.”
“Such variation is common. Nevertheless, when it comes to the Folk, there is something true in every story, even the false ones.”
I could have gone on about faerie stories—I’ve written several articles on the subject—but I didn’t know how to talk to him about my scholarship, if what I said would be nonsense to his ears. The truth is that, for the Folk, stories are everything. Stories are part of them and their world in a fundamental way that mortals have difficulty grasping; a story may be a singular event from the past, but—crucially—it is also a pattern that shapes their behaviour and predicts future events. The Folk have no system of laws, and while I am not saying stories are as law to them, they are the closest thing their world has to some form of order.[*2]