Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(60)

“Emily!” Lilja called. Margret trailed behind, both of them smiling at me. “We’ve just been giving Ulfar a hand unloading supplies at the dock, and came to see if you’d like to join us for some wine. Thora’s been complaining about the drinks again, so he thought he’d try ordering a few French bottles.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I wouldn’t wish to interrupt your chores. Also, I prefer not to imbibe so early in the day.”

Lilja’s face fell. Only once the words were out of my mouth did I realize how they sounded. “I don’t mean to say that it’s too early to drink,” I clarified. “Only that I do not drink much generally, and thus it is too early for me. But those who drink frequently would likely disagree.”

They gazed at me, brows furrowed. Oh, well done, I thought. How was it that in trying to remove my foot from my mouth, I invariably managed to shove it in even deeper?

I began to sputter something else, but fortunately Lilja spoke first. “You look like you’re improving,” she said, gesturing at the axe. “Would you like me to give you a lesson?”

I almost wept at her kindness. “Thank you,” I murmured.

Looking amused, she took the axe away from me. “I’ll show you how I do it, then you can try again.”

Margret settled on another stump to watch. Lilja arranged the piece of trunk, rotating it a little in the unthinking way of expertise, changed her stance, then brought the axe down in a swift arc. The wood split, though not quite in half.

“That’s how I like to do it,” Lilja explained as she picked up the larger half and set it back on the stump. In her callused, capable hands, the axe seemed light and small. “It’s easier to split if you strike the edge, not the centre. Now I can do this—”

She swung again, and the piece cleaved in two. “And there you have it. About right for your stove?”

I nodded. I admit I would not have thought I could be impressed by this sort of rustic skill, but Lilja made it look like an art. “You must be much in demand in the village,” I said.

“I can split a full cord in an hour,” she said, not boasting, but by way of answer. “I’ve been doing this since I was seven. I wouldn’t want any other job.”

“And do you also enjoy this form of exercise?” I asked Margret, who had been sitting quietly, swinging her feet with a little smile on her face.

Margret grimaced. “I’d rather be inside at my piano, or reading a book. Chopping wood is Lilja’s job. She keeps me warm.”

Lilja blushed at her, and then she looked at me with such warmth and gratitude that I found myself asking inanely, “And are there different categories of axe?”

Lilja was very patient with me. She showed me how to grip the axe—I’d been going about it all wrong, apparently, swinging it like a hatchet.

“See these lines?” she said, pointing to the split side of a log, where a network of cracks sliced through the grain. “That’s where you aim. I’d go for this one here, myself.” She traced it with her finger. “That way you avoid the knot. See?”

“You may be overestimating my skill if you are expecting me to aim at anything smaller than the log itself.”

She laughed. “Just do your best.”

There was something in the comfortable way she said it that made me feel easier. I split the log in only two strokes. I managed to hit one of the cracks in the next piece, and it divided with a single blow.

Margret clapped. “Well done!” Lilja exclaimed, beaming as if I’d completed a marathon. In truth, I did feel rather proud of myself. It’s funny how the practice of such simple, ancient skills can put one at ease.

My progress, though, was rather uneven. My aim began to improve under Lilja’s instruction, but I did not have her strength, and I could not be comfortable swinging something so deadly about, particularly after the fiasco with Wendell. After we’d accumulated a little pile between us, she and Margret helped me cart it inside, and I found myself inviting them to stay for tea, though my notes scowled accusingly at me from the table.

“How cosy!” Margret said, and they both looked around the cottage admiringly. For some reason, I did not inform them that the cosiness was all Wendell’s making. Not once have I been complimented on my apartments at Cambridge. Well, I spend most of my time in the library or my office, so what does it matter?

Lilja asked if Wendell was in, and both looked relieved when I shook my head.

“Surely you aren’t frightened of him?” I enquired.

“Oh, no!” Margret said a little too quickly. “We’re very grateful to him for helping us.”

“Yes,” Lilja said, and I understood then that they were afraid of Wendell, very much so, and eager to avoid offending him.

I sensed Margret wanted to pursue the subject of Wendell somehow, but she said nothing more as I made tea. I was relieved they hadn’t mentioned the tavern again—I doubt I will ever be easy in such places, particularly when all in attendance insist on approaching you for a warm-hearted sort of chat, full of praise and gratitude that I have no more idea what to do with than one of Thora’s skeins of yarn and some knitting needles.

We chatted about my research and my forthcoming ICODEF presentation with Bambleby, and then as I poured the tea, Margret said in a bit of a rush, “Then you and Wendell are not—an item?”