Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(59)
“This is all your fault,” he said. “If we had only pretended to go after those two, like I wanted—”
“Lilja and Margret would be dead or worse,” I said. “Is that what you wanted?”
He took his time in thinking it over. “No, it isn’t. Though I can’t imagine the thought troubles you much, Em. Lilja came by twice to thank you, and will be back again, count on it. I did not bother to tell her that your motives were not kindhearted at all.”
I felt a prickle of disquiet. After all, it was true that I had rescued Lilja and Margret not for their own sakes, but for scholarship. From that perspective, there was nothing to thank me for; indeed, I had as much reason to thank them for getting themselves captured and allowing me the opportunity of witnessing the Hidden Ones’ fair.
I went back to drumming my fingertips. Something was nagging at me. I recognized the sensation, though I knew not what it signified, other than that I was missing something important. There was a pattern here in Hrafnsvik; I could feel the edges of it.
I needed time with my notes.
“Oh, God,” he said. “I know that look. What dreadful imposition is in store for me now?”
Trust Bambleby to think himself always at the centre of my thoughts. “There is no imposition. I would like you to leave me in peace for a few hours, if that is something within your capabilities.”
“I suppose so,” he said grudgingly, though I was not flattered by his reluctance to leave my side; Bambleby hates to be without company to talk at. Well, no doubt he would find ready listeners down at the tavern, if he grew bored.
He surprised me, though, when he informed me after breakfast that he intended to go for a stroll.
“I thought you had given up hope of finding your door here,” I said. For so I had assumed, given that he had made only the most cursory of efforts.
“Did I say anything about a door?” he said over his shoulder as he pulled his cloak on.
I groaned. “What is the point in being mysterious now? Are there any secrets of yours I don’t know?”
“Oh, I’d say there are a few outstanding.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to my notes. I couldn’t be bothered with him now. “Well, don’t go harassing poor Poe again. You’re not likely to find such a door in the Karr?ars–kogur. The courtly fae of Ljosland move their realm about, yes? But only spatially; they dwell forever in winter. The door you seek must be fixed, given that your own realm is fixed—I say must, though I am speaking in theoretical terms, of course, as I have never encountered such a phenomenon myself, and can only extrapolate from the literature—so it stands to reason that if it is anywhere, it will be in a place of permanent winter. Namely, a glacier or high peak that never loses its snowpack. I should note here, of course, that I think it highly unlikely that a door such as the one you seek is in this country; there is too little affinity between your realm and that of the Hidden Ones. It is most likely to be found in a similar woodland landscape, green and wet with plenty of oak groves to drink in the small magics of the common fae and create spaces for such portals to manifest—if indeed their existence is the result of mere accident or chance. These sorts of rabbit hole doors—back entrances, if you like—are often said to be accidental, in the stories. Northern Europe is the most likely location; perhaps one of the warmer forests of Russia.”
He stood unmoving with his hand on the door, staring at me.
“Yes, I know that’s a lot of conjecture,” I said, misreading the look on his face. “I’ve not had time to give it much thought.”
He smiled at me, his eyes shining a little too brightly in the way they sometimes did. “We are going to make a very good team, Em.”
I snorted to cover the heat rising in my face. “So far, our teamwork seems rather unevenly distributed.”
“I may be of use to you yet, my dear dragon.” He left me, pulling the door shut softly behind him.
23rd November
After paying a visit to Poe this morning, I returned to find Bambleby vanished yet again. Clearly, he is still looking for his door—why does he bother being so bloody secretive about it? And why not enlist me to help?
Feeling put out, I wandered about the cottage for a while, eyeing the various knickknacks he’d cluttered the space up with and wishing I could be more offended by them. I ran my finger over the mantel—not a speck of dust. I recalled how dingy the place had been when I moved in, yet I’d never observed him dusting.
Perhaps in anticipation of my displeasure, he had left several completed diagrams of basalt rock formations on the table, those which the villagers said were inhabited by the “little ones.” This section of the paper I’d assigned to him—at least he had gotten something done. I read over the summary he’d left beneath the diagrams—it was brief, but acceptable.
I sat down to work but found my mind wandering. The weather outside had a quality of softness one finds only in winter; clouds drifted in and away, dreamlike, loosing handfuls of white. The wind was from the north and carried the smell of sulphur from some invisible mountain spring.
I put my pen down and pulled on my cloak and boots. We had a healthy supply of wood, but I wanted some exertion.
The first log split eventually, though I had to take a few swings at it. The second was riddled with knots, and it went flying sideways when my axe struck it. As I went to dig it out of the snow, I heard the soft press of booted footsteps.