Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(64)

“Are those the trees you would see in your kingdom?” I asked.

He let out his breath and drew his hand away. “No,” he said quietly. “That was merely a shadow of my world.”

I gazed at him a moment longer. His mourning was a tangible thing that hung in the air. I have never loved a place like he has, and felt its absence as I would a friend’s. But for a moment, I wished I had, and felt this as its own loss.

A strange surety flowed through me like a swallow of cold water. “Of course.”

He turned. “What?”

But I was already moving. I fetched the faerie cloak from outside with trembling hands. The fire was high, as Bambleby liked it that way, and the cloak began its steady drip drip drip on the floorboards. I dug around in the pockets, fingers brushing against the edges of things that clanked or rustled.

Focus. I drew a breath, plunged my hand inside again, putting every ounce of will and thought into imagining what I needed. And finally, my hand closed on something.

I withdrew it. I was holding a doll. It was carved from whalebone and had hair of willow boughs. Its dress was of dirty, undyed wool the colour of snow, the old snow that is left behind in springtime. And yet the doll was clearly Folk, for it changed—just a little—from one moment to another, and in different lights. When I turned it to the firelight, it seemed to wash the pale dress with gold.

Wendell took it from me and turned it over and over in his hand, frowning.

“It’s a token of Ari’s home,” I said. “The changeling’s home, I mean. Something he will recognize.”[*]

Wendell blinked at it a moment longer. “Ah. I see. But I don’t think—”

“We shall have to find out,” I said in a cool voice, while my heart hammered madly.



* * *



—

Aslaug opened the door for us. Mord was out walking by the sea, she said, something that struck me as strange, for not only was it dark, but Mord does not like to leave his wife alone in the house. She did not admit us, only stood in the doorway, frowning as the winter wind gusted inside and ruffled her thin dress—far too thin for the time of year.

“May we come in, Aslaug?” Wendell said, wrinkling his eyes in a charming smile. He must have put magic into it, for she blinked as if hit with a gust of summer rain, and stepped back.

The house was so cold I could see my breath. Aslaug went back to lighting the fire. The floor before the fireplace was scattered with at least a hundred spent matches and kindling, and the fireplace itself was filled with snow. Despite this, Aslaug had piled firewood in it, as if she could not see the snow or expected it to light regardless.

“How long has she been at that?” Wendell wondered. “Aslaug, dear, come away from there. Let’s get you warm again.”

He bustled around, sweeping the snow into a pot, building the fire, and grimacing at the mess—for the place was a warren of unwashed dishes, ash, and bits of the outdoors scattering the unswept floor. Though he did little that I could see besides shake off a rug and straighten the jumble of plates and cups, the room seemed to brighten. Aslaug remained on her knees by the fire, gazing into the flames and taking no further notice of our presence. At least her shivering had stopped.

Meanwhile, I took up one of the cast iron pots and filled it with embers and kindling—I had been inspired, you see, by the bogles and their cookpots.

Poe had said that the tall ones feared only fire. Well, we would see how deep that fear ran.

I made my way to the staircase, from which a cold wind funnelled, somehow conspiring to bring darkness with it that fought against the new light in the sitting room.

“Will you stop faffing about?” I called over my shoulder, for we weren’t here to tidy. Casting a last scowl over his shoulder at the mess, Wendell followed me up the stairs.

The changeling was crouched in a corner this time, and as I entered the room he gave a horrible shriek and sent a pack of snarling white wolves charging at me from a wall of snow, their muzzles crusted with blood. Though I had expected frightful visions, the suddenness of the onslaught made me fall back a step. Bambleby caught me before I tumbled down the stairs.

“There there,” he said, stepping in front of me. The wolves vanished instantly. “Tantrums will get you nowhere with this one. She’s perfectly heartless and will take no pity on you whatsoever. I speak from experience.”

He spoke in Faie, words that vibrated in the air like a song, an effect I could never achieve, no matter how hard I worked on my accent. The changeling stilled, his pale face upturned like a baby bird’s, and I could see that he heard an echo of his own kin in Wendell’s voice.

“Go away,” he said, but there was a miserable hopefulness in it. Wendell turned to me with a look of woe that I ignored.

I drew the doll from my cloak. The air chilled further, and every line in the changeling’s body tensed. He whispered something that sounded like “Mersa.” Then, “Where did you get that?”

“Do you want it back?” I said. I placed the pot of flickering flames upon the floor. “You may have it, if you give us your name.”

The changeling seemed too stunned to speak. He still looked like a faerie, too pale and sharp, but there was more of the child in him now, all wide eyes and confused longing. But I paused only a moment before dropping the doll into the flames.