Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(50)

I seized it abruptly, indignant. It was my jumper! “How—what have you—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking up from the flicker and flash of the needle. “But you cannot expect me to live in close proximity to clothing that barely deserves the word. It is inhumane.”

I shook out the jumper, gaping. I could hardly tell it was the same garment. Yes, it was the same colour, but the wool itself seemed altered, becoming softer, finer, without losing any of its warmth. And it was not a baggy square anymore; it would hang only a little loose on me now, while clearly communicating the lines of my figure.

“From now on, you will keep your damned hands off my clothes!” I snapped, then flushed, realizing how that sounded. Bambleby took no notice of any of it.

“Do you know that there are men and women who would hand over their firstborns to have their wardrobes tended by a king of Faerie?” he said, calmly snipping a thread. “Back home, every courtier wanted a few moments of my time.”

“King?” I repeated, staring at him. And yet I was not hugely surprised—it would explain his magic. A king or queen of Faerie, the stories say, can tap into the power of their realm. Yet that power, while vast, is not thought to be limitless; there are tales of kings and queens falling for human trickery. And Bambleby’s exile is of course additional testimony.

“Oh.” He tucked his needle and thread back into his sewing box. “That. Well, it only lasted a day. My coronation was promptly followed by an assassination attempt—and then, you see, my dear stepmother forced me to flee to the mortal world.” He lay down and closed his eyes. “It was an eventful day. I did your other cloak, too.”

“God.” But he was already asleep, so I could not harangue him further, allowing me the relief—I suddenly wondered if that had not been his intention all along—of being too angry with him to be frightened anymore.




Skip Notes

* First described by Annabelle Levasseur. Exceptionally powerful fae enchantments that, uniquely, can be cast not only by the courtly fae but also the common fae and mortals (though their power is greatly diminished in this latter form). No one knows the origin of the Words of Power. At some point, some powerful faerie enchanter (an awkward term, for the Folk have magic to a one, but I simply refer to a faerie particularly skilled at enchantment), possibly the Ivy Smith who forms a prominent motif in the faerie art of southern England, created the Words, telling them to only a few favoured friends and allies. The oddest thing about the Words (as Levasseur discovered in her interview with a dying member of the courtly fae) is that they can be forgotten by the Folk who learn them, if they are not cast often enough. This is likely why they remain so obscure, even to the Folk—otherwise, why would every power-hungry monarch not know them by now and deploy them against their enemies? (Not that all the Words have an obvious utility.)





—? November


Much as I hate to sully these pages with melodrama, the reality is that these may be the last words I write. I don’t know how much time I have, nor how much longer I shall be able to hold this pen, so I will attempt to be concise.

Last night (if last night it was; the movement of time is impossible to gauge in Faerie), I woke to the sound of the accursed tree Bambleby summoned scraping at the fabric of the tent, and the echoes of the bogles in their death throes, as if the tree had gathered up their screams and kept them like souvenirs. Well, try sleeping after that.

I fumbled for my pocket watch, and found it was not yet six. Dawn was a long, long way off.

I looked round for Shadow, and found the turncoat curled up against Bambleby. The dog lifted his head, though, at the sound of my stirring. Wendell was little more than a pile of blankets—he had the lion’s share of them, and still awoke complaining of the cold. I could just make out a tuft of gold sticking out from a crack between two quilts.

I went outside, thinking that I might rouse the fire and have an early breakfast. The horses were pressed up against each other, their rumps facing the banked coals.

Above us, the aurora was bleeding.

I stood frozen. The long ribbons of white unfurled all the way to the ground, growing filmier as they went. The green and blue of the aurora was unaffected. It was as if something were drawing the silvery whiteness to earth, like fingers pulling paint down a canvas, to a place just beyond the curve of the mountain—less than a mile away.

For several minutes, I did nothing, merely stood there, carding through possibilities and plans. Once I had chosen a course, I thought on it for several minutes more. Then I ducked back into the tent and dressed, tucking my notebook into my pocket out of habit. I took out the golden chain I kept tucked at the bottom of my book bag, which I had managed to keep hidden from Bambleby this whole time. It has long been a source of amusement to me that he’s never had any suspicions about Shadow.

I placed the collar end of the chain around Shadow’s neck. He sat up, perfectly silent, understanding my intention in that uncanny way of his.

Wendell did not stir, and given his habits, I doubted he would anytime soon. I draped my own blankets overtop him, to further increase his comfort. In addition to his hair, an elbow, a cheekbone, and a dark-lashed eye were visible.

I brushed my fingers through his hair—partly because I’d always nursed a foolish desire to do so, and partly by way of apology. After all, I might not return from my errand, and if so, he would never forgive me. He might not forgive me if I did, but I could not risk taking him along after that display of his yesterday. Like all the Folk, Wendell is unpredictable, and I had no way of knowing if he would fly into another deranged fury if one of the courtly fae laid a finger on me, and land us in trouble from which we could not extricate ourselves. He had admitted before that he didn’t know if he was a match for them. Despite his power, there was only one of him—and that could easily be one too many, given his utter lack of self-control.