Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(41)

“Come down to the tavern,” he said after dark had fallen.

“No, thank you,” I said, glancing up from the dryadology journal I was jotting notes from—I was working on the bibliography for my encyclopaedia. “I’d like an early night.”

“You don’t have to stay long. You’d rather sit here with your nose in a book?”

“Vastly,” I said, and he shook his head at me, not in disgust but utter bemusement.

“Very well, you strange creature,” he said, and to my astonishment he took off his cloak and settled himself in the other chair.

“You don’t have to stay. I’m perfectly content by myself.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

I shrugged. I didn’t mind him staying; I am in fact used to having him around, not only here but at Cambridge, where he is always poking his nose into my office. He took up that blasted sewing kit of his and attended to his cloak, tucking one leg boyishly beneath him and leaning into the chair.

I am largely incapable of making conversation of a personal nature. I rarely have the inclination, fortunately, but I have had occasion to resent the lack of this particular human skill, as I did then. How many scholars have had the opportunity to question a ruler of the courtly fae? Not one, or none who lived to tell of it.

And yet I could not make myself ask. I suspect that, if I could have convinced myself that my interest was of a purely intellectual nature, I could have managed it. But it was not. This was Bambleby, after all—my only friend. (God.)

“Em,” he said without looking up from his work, after I had snuck yet another glance in his direction, “either you are plotting how best to have me murdered and stuffed for one of your exhibits, or you are still concerned that I am bewitched. You are so contrary that I would not be surprised by both concurrently. Perhaps you could set my nerves at ease.”

“I am only wondering what in God’s name you are doing,” I said, taking refuge in the familiar banter.

“What does it look like? You and your hairy accomplice ravaged my cloak.” He added a few more stitches and ran his hands over the fabric, folding it this way and that—I could not make out precisely what he was doing. “There.”

He tried the cloak on, nodded. If anything, it looked even more magnificent than before, with an elegant billow in the hem, as if the weaver had cut the pattern from his shadow. He saw the expression on my face and raised his eyebrows.

“I can do yours if you like.” He grimaced slightly. “And that—that dress.”

I looked down at my woollen shift. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothing.”

“It doesn’t fit you.”

“Of course it does.”

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something that I couldn’t hear, apart from the distinct words paper bag. This offended me not at all, as I afford less than an ounce of importance to my appearance, and still less to his opinion of it.

“You said before that needlework ran in your family,” I said after he’d settled himself again.

“Ah,” he said, “yes.” To my surprise, he did not seem as eager to talk about himself as was generally the case. “Well. I suppose I must gird myself for mockery. I have a very little amount of brownie ancestry, you see. On my mother’s side.”

I stared. A slow smile crept across my face. “A very little,” he repeated severely.

“The oíche sidhe,” I said, naming the Irish house fairie who, like many of their ilk, operate as a sort of friendly housekeeper, stealing out at night to clean and tidy and make repairs. The well-known tale “The Golden Ravens” is of Irish origin and offers an example of typical oíche sidhe disdain for mess and disorder. I include the most famous version of the story in my encyclopaedia—I shall append a copy to this journal.

“Is that usual?” I said. “For a prince to have common fae ancestry?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “How did— Ah, I see. Poe told you. If you are not careful, Em, that creature will come to love you so that he will not let you leave.” He went back to his sewing. “No, it is not.”

“And is that why you were forced into exile?”

He raised his eyebrows at me, looking amused. “Do you want the whole story?”

“Obviously,” I said, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice. “Every sordid detail, in fact.”

“Well, I am very sorry to tell you that there is little of that,” he said. “Ten years ago, my father’s third wife—my mother was his second; the first was barren—decided that she would prefer the sight of her own flesh and blood on the throne. You know how it goes.”

I nodded. This sort of ruthlessness is a common occurrence with many of the courtly fae. “Have you siblings?”

“Five, in fact. All older. These she had executed. She sent me alone into exile.”

I frowned. “Because you were a youth?”

“No,” he said. “It is simply what is done.”

I understood. In the tales of the Folk, regardless of origin, no victory or loss is ever certain. There is always a loophole, a door that you may find, if you are clever enough, to lead you out. To twist the story. Wendell’s wicked stepmother could not kill him because doing so would close the last door to her own defeat.