Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(78)
25th December (?)
As often as I can, I try coming up with reasons why he shouldn’t marry me. I tried telling him that I am too dull, as I know no poetry and have a dreadful singing voice; I argued that I know nothing of the politics of his world and would surely make a mess of things.
“Your thoughtfulness knows no bounds, my dearest,” he said. “But it’s of no matter to me that you are dull or ignorant, as you mortals do not live very long—one hardly has to turn around to find that you have expired. I intend for you to enjoy the brief time you have in this world, and then I will marry a woman of my stature. You needn’t worry.”
I am growing increasingly desperate. While I don’t know how much time has passed in the mortal realm, I know that my wedding date draws ever closer. Not that the Folk give much attention to dates—they move with the ebb and flow of the seasons. Once all the details are decided, and everything is ready, we will be married, and everything is almost ready. Folk are gathering from every corner of the king’s realm to witness our nuptials, and the palace rings with laughter and music at all hours of the day and night.
But I have one more idea to try. I wish that I could think of something other than flight—a way of limiting this vicious winter into which he has plunged the land—but the truth is, my mind grows more and more muddled as the days pass. I know that I have to find a way to undo what the king has done—what I have done—but I also know that if I remain here much longer, I will lose myself entirely.
30th January
That is the date.
I know the date. I feel as if I have touched solid ground for the first time after years at sea.
When the dressmakers announced themselves this morning, after the king and I had breakfasted and he had left me with a chaste kiss, I put my plan into motion.
I had observed that, unlike the servants who trail after me at all times, the craftspeople sent to construct my absurd wedding are not of the palace. They come from far and wide—some are not even from the Ljosland mainland, but remote Arctic islands off the ice-choked northern coast. These Folk are smaller and speak with strange accents. Given that they are not part of the palace and its many enchantments, I thought perhaps there was a way one of them could get me out.
“You are not from the king’s court?” I asked.
“Not at all, my lady,” the tailor replied. “We are—far too humble for that.”
There were two of them, but only one spoke—the man, who now bent to measure my feet. He was small with overlarge black eyes and a sharp face, his hair the colour of dust and his fingers many-jointed and far too long. His companion, an oafish sort of woman whose perpetual mien was an odd mixture of embarrassment and moroseness, handed him a pair of silver shoes. I kicked them aside.
“Her Highness makes it difficult to determine her size,” the tailor said in a dry voice.
“Her Highness has a request to make,” I replied coldly.
“Indeed? Well, Her Highness need not concern herself with requests, but only demands, which surely she is accustomed to.”
As he spoke, he motioned for my servants, who were hovering as usual, to help the mute woman bring in yards upon yards of fabric. He selected a bolt, which—thank God—was neither black nor blue-white, but evergreen with black-and-white brocade.
“I desire a very particular veil,” I said, “I wish it to be woven from the white fur of a hare that I have shot with my own hands. You will weave it for me there in the forest, while the blood is still fresh on my hands, for I wish to make of my veil an offering to my dear husband.”
Now, I had calculated my request carefully, and knew it to be a sensible one for the Folk, who are given to such gruesome predilections. But the tailor only looked at me in silence, his sharp face unreadable.
“Well?” I demanded. “Is this beyond your capabilities?”
“No, my lady.”
“Then take me to the forest. I wish to hunt now.” I tried for an approximation of my fiancé’s thoughtless imperiousness, though I did not have his good humour to pair it with.
The tailor glanced briefly at my servants, who had removed a yard of fabric for his inspection. He took it and began pinning it to my chemise.
“His Highness cherishes my lady dearly,” he said, moving behind me to add more pins. “And what is cherished must be guarded closely, and protected with enchantments like golden chains.”
My chest tightened, and I reached out to the bedpost to steady myself. I understood the tailor’s careful words, though he would not speak openly, in case it were interpreted as criticism of the king.
The king had used his magic to shut me away in the palace. Each time I had tried to escape, I had found myself thwarted, and if I tried again, the results would be no different.
“If my lady would forgive her humble servant’s temerity,” the tailor said, “I have another proposition.”
“What is that?” I was barely listening. The room seemed to have grown cold and dreamlike, like the years stretching out before me, shut away in that ice palace.
“His Highness has declared tomorrow a day of gift-giving.” The tailor’s sewing needle flashed in the light as he added a sleeve to the gown, impossibly quickly. “Folk and mortals both have been invited from far and wide to pay their respects to the king and his new bride. I would like to offer you a veil patterned after one that my mother wore on her own wedding night. I believe you will like it better.”