Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(91)

“I was just thinking that the fact that you have neither roasted me alive for my presumption nor rejected me outright is something to marvel at.”

“Well, if you’re just going to tease me about it,” I muttered, turning away. I was surprised to feel his hand brush against mine—he’d crossed the room without a whisper of sound—his grip feather-light.

I froze, realizing that he was about to kiss me only a second after I knew I was going to kiss him. I leaned forward, but he put a hand on the side of my face, very gently, his fingers brushing the edge of my hair. A little shiver went through me. His thumb was by the corner of my mouth, and it made me think of the time when I had touched him there, when I’d thought he was dying from loss of blood. For a heartbeat, all the other moments we’d shared faded away, leaving behind only the small handful of times we’d been close like this, connected somehow like a bright constellation. He brushed his lips against my cheek, and I felt the warmth sink all the way to my bones, chasing out the ice of the snow king’s court.

“Good night, Em,” he murmured, his breath fluttering against my ear and sending a river of goosebumps down my neck.

And then he went into his room and closed the door.

I stared at it for a moment as if it were going to explain itself to me. I came back to myself with a start and picked up the blankets on the floor, then wandered in a daze to my own bedroom.

Naturally, I found it ridiculously clean.



* * *



—

Wendell and I stood shivering by the dock the next morning, watching the fishing boat captained by one of Thora’s innumerable grandsons pull against its tether as the two sailors readied it for our journey to Loab?r. Shadow was flopped at my side, yawning big doggish yawns and looking none too pleased to have been roused from his warm bed at such an hour. The world was a blur of shadow and ice, from the heaving sea to the scowling mountains framing the village. Aud had told us that the weather was fair enough to make the journey safely, and that the winds would drop on the other side of the headland, an assessment I could accept intellectually while all my instincts assured me that we would be drowned.

Aud, who had returned as planned the previous evening, called out instructions to the sailors in Ljoslander, looking cheerful. As well she should, for Aud had saved her village—indeed, her entire country. The king, who had only just finished glorying in the vengeance we had left for him like a wedding gift, and was in an exceptionally pleasant mood, had immediately granted her request for an end to the vicious winter and an early spring.

As to my whereabouts, Aud had given the king few clues, apart from offering that she had seen me fleeing the palace in the direction of the valley, in a panic at the thought of pursuit by the queen’s minions. Shaking her head, she had remarked that if I had succumbed to the elements or tumbled off a cliff, poor witless waif that I was, it was yet another crime to be lain at the doorstep of the queen’s treasonous ambition. The king had seemed barely able to hide his glee at this notion, and had immediately taken up my death as justification for another round of executions, which had no doubt sent even more nobles—those still in possession of their heads—into hiding in the wilderness. As for myself, I was more than happy for my death to be accepted as a boon by my fiancé, particularly as it gave him ample incentive to give up the search for me. Nevertheless, it was well that we were leaving quickly—I wished to prevent any hint of my survival from reaching his court.

Despite the early hour, the entire village came to see us off as we boarded the ship, even little Ari, who buried his head in Mord’s shoulder when I said goodbye, as shy as he would be with any stranger.

“Here you are,” Aslaug said, handing me a basket of the sheep cheese I’d come to favour. “It’s a silly gift, isn’t it? After all you’ve done.”

I mumbled my way through the goodbyes and thank-yous, but nobody seemed to mind anymore. Lilja and Margret hugged me tight.

“Here,” Lilja said, pressing a basket into my hands. I lifted the cloth covering and found five neatly stacked apple tarts. “Finn says you have a liking for them.”

“Ah,” I began, wincing a little—each tart weighed as much as a brick. “That’s very kind, though I’m not sure I’ll be able to—”

“Please,” Lilja said, a gleam of desperation in her eyes. “That tree, it just—it doesn’t stop. I’ve already got preserves to last a decade. The neighbours are so sick of apples they hide when I knock.”

I shook my head. Naturally, Wendell, in typical faerie fashion, had given Lilja a “gift” that created more problems than it solved. I knew that Lilja would be terrified of wasting a single apple for fear of him taking offence. “Throw the surplus to the pigs,” I suggested, because wouldn’t that just serve him right?

She looked so horrified that I felt guilty. “Or trade them,” I said. “Perhaps to a sailor or wandering merchant. You might be surprised by what you get in return.” Indeed, I knew half a dozen stories of that ilk—poor, long-suffering mortal gives away a troublesome faerie-made gift in exchange for something mundane, but which reveals unexpected uses. Sometimes that is then traded for something even more wondrous, and on and on it goes. I hoped Lilja would end up with a wheel that spun straw to gold.

Aud’s embrace was the longest, and when she drew away, her face was wet with tears. Fortunately, Thora stumped up before I had to work out how to respond. (How does one respond to tears?) “Two things,” she said, taking me by the shoulders. “One, look out for yourself. Wise men make bargains with the Folk. Only idiots make friends with them—or whatever he is to you.”