Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(39)

Shadow grabbed at my cloak and started pulling again, but I was already running, and so we ran across the mostly frozen river like a bride from a nightmare, her train supported by a servant. The ice cracked near the far bank but did not break, and Bambleby grabbed me before I fell.

He tried to pull me on, but I dug in my heels and turned to watch the spectacle unfolding on the opposite shore. The white tree itself was still, dreamlike, while beneath it the roots writhed with impotent rage. The river ran too deep; they could not burrow beneath it.

“I want a piece of the bark,” I said suddenly.

He gave me such a look of disbelief that I pressed on, “For the paper! We need illustrations, Wendell. Exhibits. How else do you expect people to understand—”

“We can go back there, and you can watch that thing crack my skull open and fill it with monstrosities,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll sit for an illustration after—what do you think?”

“If I went alone, given that it paid me no mind before—”

He took me by the shoulders and shook me. “What is the matter with you? You are many things, which I will be happy to enumerate later, but obtuse is not one of them.”

At that, my old habit, carefully honed, reasserted itself, and I gripped the coin in my pocket. The strange desire that had filled me receded, and I knew that, of course, if I went back, the white tree would seize me, and Wendell would have to come to my aid.

I withdrew my hand from my pocket. But I saw no evidence of the chill that had gripped me when my fingers brushed the leaf. Only—my third finger trembled. I put the hand away again before Bambleby noticed.

“What does the king want with you?” I said, not needing an answer but merely voicing my thoughts as they thumbed through the well-worn stories. “Of course—to possess you. He has no substance left that is not tree.”

“No doubt.” He was shivering so with the cold that I was a little sorry for him. “I felt him reaching for me the moment I stood above his roots. He is very ancient. His people locked him up in that tree because—well, I don’t know. He believes it horribly unjust, naturally. He has been sitting in there fantasizing about revenge and murder and all the rest of it for centuries.”

I wondered that he could be so dismissive, when he was exiled royalty himself, but his lack of sympathy seemed quite genuine.

“Fascinating.” I watched the roots writhe, already piecing together the entry in my encyclopaedia. Note to self: I must needs enquire after this manner of faerie gaoling; is it a feature in other tales of the Hidden Ones? “No doubt the Folk of Ljosland stay far away from him.”

Bambleby was gazing at the tree with an unreadable look. “He is very powerful. He would let me use that power, after whatever bloody rampage he has been plotting.”

“You are not thinking of going back?” I said, terror gripping me. “You are bewitched.” Oh, God—how would I stop him if he was?

“No,” he said, and it seemed to answer more than my question. He turned away, a strange sort of melancholy in his eyes. “No. Let’s go home.”



* * *



—

Bambleby was nearly silent on the long, tedious journey back, which was most unlike him. I wondered if he was self-conscious after revealing himself to me, but of course that wasn’t it. I don’t think Bambleby would be self-conscious if he were stripped naked and paraded through the streets of London.

As soon as we got through the door of the cottage, he collapsed into one of the armchairs, nearly insensible. I got his boots off him and discovered that his feet were so white as to be shading into blue. His face, too, was white, and he could not move his fingers. His eyes were very dark, barely any green in them at all now—an interesting phenomenon that I had a mind to examine further, but I managed to quell the scholarly impulse. Only when I had built the fire to roaring and helped him into three blankets did he become himself again, and begin moaning about tea and dinner and chocolate. I would not have obliged his veiled demands, only I was genuinely worried about him, and so I put together an adequate dinner for both of us from the leftover stew Aud had donated in the morning and Poe’s latest confection. I even, against my better judgment, gave him the last of the sheep cheese that I had been saving for my own supper—I’ve grown rather fond of it.

“Your blood is too thin,” I said—gloatingly, I’m afraid, for it is not every day that one proves oneself stronger than a faerie prince. “I suppose the Irish Folk are only adapted to dreary rainstorms and the occasional frost. And more rainstorms, of course. Do they have other weather in Ireland?”

He glowered at me from behind his mug—I had made him the chocolate after all. “We cannot all be made of stone and pencil shavings,” he replied.

After supper, he fell asleep in the chair, and I helped him to his bed. To my great amusement, one of his conquests showed up shortly thereafter, apparently for a prearranged rendez-vous, a pretty, dark-haired thing, yet another of Thora’s granddaughters. I was sorely tempted to show her the state of her paramour after a hike of only a few hours, and not a particularly difficult one, for Ljoslanders appear to prize hardiness above all things, amusing myself imagining the dent it would put in Bambleby’s appeal.




Skip Notes

* There are, in fact, several stories from France and the British Isles which describe this sort of enchantment. In two of the Irish tales, which may have the same root story, a mortal maiden figures out that her suitor is an exile of the courtly fae after he inadvertently touches her crucifix and burns himself (the Folk in Irish stories are often burning themselves on crucifixes, for some reason). She announces it aloud, which breaks the enchantment and allows him henceforth to reveal his faerie nature to whomever he chooses.