Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(31)

“Well, this is not Dublin, and I’m not getting anywhere. You have to help.”

“I do not. Give it one of your scowls; it will split itself in two.”

“God!” I went to impale the axe in the ground in frustration. Unfortunately, Bambleby, contrary creature that he is, had just stepped forward to remove it from my possession. I redirected my swing just in time to avoid relieving him of his arm, but not fast enough to save his sleeve.

“Dammit!” He pressed his hand to his arm, and at first I thought it melodrama, but then the snow beneath him began to turn pink.

“I knew it,” he snapped as blood leaked through his fingers. “I knew you would be the death of me. I wish you had chosen my foot. This is my favourite cloak.”

“Hang your cloak!” I shoved him towards the cottage. “Get inside! You’re bleeding!”

“I will not bleed any less indoors, you utter madwoman.”

But he allowed me to shove him inside, leaving behind him a trail of blood like tiny red footprints. To my horror, the pot of snow I had set over the fire had unbalanced itself during the melting, falling onto its side and extinguishing all but a few embers. Shadow, having been roused from his nap by the fireside, sat sneezing in the smoke.

When we peeled away Bambleby’s cloak, we found that the iron of the axe had bit deep, down to the bone. A scrap of flesh hung loose like a ghastly piece of cloth. As there was no water to wash the wound, I settled for a temporary dressing using scraps of my scarf. By the time I finished, Bambleby’s arm was blood-soaked, and his face was white.

“Just stay there,” I said.

“Oh, must I? Let’s head up to the fells again.”

“Quiet.” I was a storm of anxiety—the missing students, the rapidly cooling cottage, the water pot, the blood everywhere. It took me twice as long as it normally did to light the fire again, and I was forced to use the last of our logs. Then there was the business of heating more snow in the pot, which I was now in terror of overturning. I was equally concerned by the dearth of quips from Wendell’s direction. I went to examine the wound again and was alarmed to find a puddle of blood on the floor.

“Why are you still bleeding?” I demanded, absurdly offended.

He let out a breath of laughter. He was resting his head upon his uninjured arm. “Em. You nearly severed my hand.”

I shook him. “Tell me what to do!”

“I have no idea.” His voice was faint. “I have never been injured before. I don’t much care for it.”

I let out a string of curses. My mind ran through everything I knew about the Irish Folk, flipping through stories like the pages of a book. There was the tale of a faerie lord injured in battle who had been tended by a mortal girl, after which he turned her hair to gold and she lived as a queen, buying herself a new house with every new inch of hair she grew. Another story of a faerie maiden turned into a tree which a woodcutter half cut down, only to realize his mistake when the tree began to sob. There were plenty of stories of Folk nursed back to health by mortals, but none ever explained how; they were told because people loved hearing that the Folk ever needed mortal aid and about the lavish rewards they granted after.

“I need stitches, I think,” he said.

“Can you do it yourself?”

“No.” He sounded so certain that I did not think to question him. I tightened the scarf and helped him to his bed, then I ran.

I went first to Krystjan’s door, but no one answered my frantic banging, and I was left to assume they were off in some fold hunting their errant sheep. I then ran to the village, and must have looked an utter fright when I clattered through the door of the tavern, for Aud, standing by the counter with her frowning husband, exclaimed, “My God, Emily! Who did this to you?”

She grabbed me by the shoulders. I was so astounded that I could only stare at her, which seemed to alarm her even more. Realizing that she was referring to the blood on my hands, I pulled myself together and explained the situation.

Aud listened with a stillness that reminded me of the mountains. In Ljoslander, she said, “Ulfar, Thora, Lilja, come with me.”

“Já,” Thora said, taking up her cane and drawing herself to her feet. “Eventually.”

I don’t remember much of the walk back to the cottage. I recall Aud holding my arm and murmuring, “He’ll be all right, don’t worry. He will.” Then we were at Wendell’s bedside, and the sheets were soaked in blood. His skin was the colour of old ashes, and his eyes were closed, his golden hair flame-bright against the pallor.

Ulfar tossed herbs into the water, and Aud washed Wendell’s arm. She sewed up the wound with the same steadiness and was done before Thora stomped up to the door. The old woman laid her hand on Wendell’s forehead and clucked her tongue.

“What?” I demanded, overloud. There was a ringing in my ears.

“Nothing,” Thora said. “You must have nicked a vein. He’s lost plenty of blood, but that’s no death sentence. He should recover once he gets some food in him.” She gave me a wink. “He’s prettier when he’s asleep, eh? You don’t notice that big mouth of his.”

She shuffled into the kitchen and began banging pots and pans. Someone must have summoned Groa, for she appeared shortly after with a basket of meats, vegetables, and cheeses, greeting me with her customary cheerful indifference. The kitchen din intensified, but still Bambleby did not stir.