Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(63)

“I need his name,” I said as soon as we were indoors. “The changeling’s true name. How do I make him tell me what it is?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, I doubt you ever will.”

I threw up my hands. “Just tell me.”

“I don’t know how. That’s why I said that if you haven’t figured it out by now, I—”

“Oh, God.” I threw myself into one of the chairs. “You couldn’t be any less helpful if you tried. I think you are trying.”

“Not especially.” He sat opposite me. “Why does it matter what the creature’s name is?”

I told him what I’d told Aud and Thora. He groaned.

“So now we have to rescue the entire village, do we?” He folded his hands and scowled. “Thank you, but I’ve had my fill of philanthropy.”

“It isn’t philanthropy. We still know nothing about this changeling—where it comes from, why it’s here. It’s a gaping hole in our research. If we can fill it—”

He waved his hand. “We’ve made enough discoveries already to impress the entirety of academia. ‘Further research needed, blah blah blah,’ we will write in our conclusion.”

“This isn’t just about the paper! It’s about my book, Wendell. Our knowledge of changelings is inchoate—not just those of Ljosland. There is more to be learned here, and I cannot leave without turning over every stone.”

He made no response to that, only gave a tremendous sigh and put his head in his hand.

“In the stories, Folk are tricked into revealing their names,” I said. “The one of Linden Fell, for instance—his wife pretended to give birth and then brought him a lamb wrapped in swaddling clothes to look like a child, all so that he would write his name on the baptismal certificate.”

Wendell laughed. “I’d sooner freeze to death than write my true name in ink, even if my wife hurled a dozen brats at me. These things are not as easy as they are in stories.”

I got up and paced. “We could threaten him.”

“Threats must be buttressed with deeds. I’m not interested in tormenting children, no matter how much their parents deserve it.”

He frowned at me as he said it, which I ignored, as I was not about to be lectured by Bambleby on matters of morality. I felt little regret over my initial interrogation of the changeling, given the anguish he had inflicted upon his foster parents.

I stopped at the table, playing absently with one of the parcels Aud had delivered. “These are for you, by the way.”

He only sighed again. “I told you, I can’t accept their gratitude.”

“I chose them,” I said. “Not Aud. You may think of them as gifts from me.”

He looked intrigued and a little alarmed. “From you? Are they covered in thorns?”

He unwrapped the mirrors first, exclaiming over them. They were indeed handsome, as I had requested, with frames made from sun-bleached driftwood carved with intricate patterns of leaves complete with pearl dewdrops. Aud had been clever in her selections, I thought. Wendell spent nearly an hour working out where to hang them, first setting them in one location, then moving them elsewhere. Naturally, they looked beautiful everywhere, and when he was finally finished, the room was even cosier than it had been before.

“Oh, Em,” he said, gazing into the mirror he’d hung behind the fireplace, which trapped the flickering light and turned it into something golden and summery—doubtless not an effect mortal hands could have achieved. “You do have a heart after all, somewhere buried deep. Very deep.”

“There are also these,” I said grudgingly, hoping to head off any mistiness. Unfortunately it was not to be, for Wendell was no sooner gazing at the silver sewing needles than he was brushing away a tear.

“They are like my father’s,” he said wonderingly. “I remember the flicker of them in the darkness as we all sat together by the ghealach fire, with the trees surrounding us. He would bring them everywhere, even the Hunt of the Frostveiling—that is the first hunt of autumn, the largest of the year, when even the queen and her children roam through the wilds with spears and swords, riding our best—oh, I don’t know what you would call them in your language. They are a kind of faerie fox, black and golden together, which grow larger than horses. My brothers and sisters and I would crowd round the fire to watch him weave nets from brambles and spidersilk. And all the moorbeasts and hag-headed deer would cower at the sight of those nets, though they barely blinked at the whistle of our arrows.” He fell silent, gazing at them with his eyes gone very green.

“Well,” I said, predictably at a loss for an answer to this, “I hope they are of use to you. Only keep them away from any garments of mine.”

He took my hand, and then, before I knew what he was doing, lifted it to his mouth. I felt the briefest brush of his lips against my skin, and then he had released me and was back to exclaiming over his gifts. I turned and went into the kitchen in an aimless haste, looking for something to do, anything that might distract me from the warmth that had trailed up my arm like an errant summer breeze, and settled for preparing a light repast from the remains of our provisions.

After we ate, I watched him play with the mirrors. When he touched them, strange things appeared—for an instant, I saw a green forest reflected back at me, boughs swaying. I blinked and it was gone, but some of its greenness lingered around the edges of the glass, as if a forest still lurked somewhere beyond the frame.