1st January 1911
A new year.
Not that one would know it in Faerie—the Folk pay no mind to human calendars, or, in some cases, to the concept of linear time. It is odd—I never gave much thought to the passing of years, in the mortal world. Certainly I never bothered celebrating them, as others do. Yet here in Faerie, where I am quite possibly the only person to know that one year has faded into the next, I find myself wishing to mark the event in some way.
But I am rambling.
(How on earth have I gotten myself into this? How will I convince anyone that I am a queen, and how did I believe it would be a good idea to try? This is utter madness. I try to stamp these thoughts out of existence, but they will not leave me be.)
I woke this morning in a manner to which I have become accustomed of late: with Orga perched upon my chest, kneading at the flesh below my throat.
I sat upright with a gasp, dislodging her and the dreadful prickling of her claws, so close to my jugular vein. She has never once woken Wendell in this manner; I suspect she is making some sort of statement.
Shadow, stretched out at the foot of the bed, awoke with a grunt. I glanced over at Wendell—naturally he was still asleep, buried in blankets as always; he only mumbled something when I touched him and rolled onto his stomach so that his face was engulfed in pillow.
I could not remember much of the previous evening, not because of enchantment, but because I had been so exhausted by our long trek—and the weight of the strangeness around me—that I had been almost asleep on my feet. We had dined in a banquet hall open to the sky, with glassless windows through which the ivies and mosses crept. I say “dined,” but Wendell kept being interrupted by Folk who wished to bow and talk to him and give him presents—chiefly jewels and silver trinkets, though one lady presented him with a wooden chest that released a swarm of colourful butterflies each time it was opened. Folk charged hither and thither, smashing mirrors and the occasional window, and there was a great deal of shrieking and—I think—violence, though this was distant, and I could not tell who was fighting whom. Overall it was nothing short of chaos and served only to exhaust me further.
After I’d eaten a little, Wendell led me up to his rooms. He returned to the party, but not for long, I don’t think—I woke to the sound of him falling into bed beside me, muttering about “tedious courtiers not even giving me a moment to sip my tea” and then seemed to fall immediately asleep.
I pushed the blankets back and stood. Wendell’s cloak grumbled at me from the floor. It was strange to be here again, in the bedroom where I had poisoned the queen, but Wendell would not hear of taking over his stepmother’s more majestic chambers, and had been set on returning to the familiar wing in the castle he had occupied in his youth.
“Well?” I said to Shadow, who was eyeing me. He whuffed and jumped to the floor beside me.
I went to the window and drew back the rich black curtains. The weeping rowan stirred and slowly drew its sharp leaves across the glass, as if seeking entry. I do not think I will ever like the look of the thing, with its clusters of blood-coloured berries, but at least it is not an attentive oak.
I paused beside Wendell, considering whether to wake him. We had, in fact, woken once already, earlier that morning, and then spent an hour or two very agreeably occupied—I blush now to write these words—before falling asleep again. He had declared his intention of properly expressing his gratitude to me, and—well, I had not been disinclined to allow him the opportunity.
I decided to let him sleep.
Wendell’s bedroom was no longer in the state of dilapidation I had witnessed on my previous visit. It had been cleaned and freshened, the wooden floors scattered with soft rugs, the smell of mould replaced with that of pine and wildflowers. New mirrors in silver frames had been placed upon each wall, so that I could behold endless reflections of my inelegant self frowning sleepily amidst the gentle glitter. A part of me wondered when the renovations had occurred—after his stepmother fled, or upon his arrival yesterday evening? Either way, I suspected oíche sidhe involvement; the walls and furnishings had that slightly-too-polished look about them, and I doubted I would find a single speck of dust in the entire place, not even beneath the wardrobe.
Within said wardrobe I discovered a variety of dressing gowns, all ridiculously elegant and mostly black, and selected one of the simplest, which was of plain brown silk.
Orga wound herself around my legs, purring in an insistent sort of way. She butted her forehead against me as if trying to draw my attention.
“What have you got there?” I took the scrap of midnight-blue fabric from her mouth and examined it. The brocade was a silver pattern of leaves and tiny deer. “This looks like the cloak Lord Taran wore at dinner yesterday.”
Orga rumbled her agreement and rubbed enthusiastically against my legs. I noted the many tooth punctures in the fabric.
“You wish me to help you murder Lord Taran, is that it?” I said. “No, thank you. I’m fairly confident that one could turn me into a slug with a wave of his hand. And anyway, Wendell is fine.”
Orga growled in such a way that I understood this was insufficient grounds to pardon her nemesis. Clearly witnessing Wendell being nearly decapitated had awakened some aspect of her nature that I did not fully understand, and that I hoped would never be directed at myself.
“Come, Shadow,” I said. Now that I had slept, my scholarly curiosity was back, and I wished to undertake a proper investigation of Wendell’s rooms—I barely remember anything about the castle from my previous visit, so muddled was I by magic.
Initially, I thought the rooms were arranged in a line, because on my right hand was always a window overlooking the lake and gardens. I paused for a moment to admire the silver shine of the waves cresting in the sunlight. But then I recalled that I had taken the door across from the bed, which should have led away from the view, at which point I tried to stop thinking about it.
The first room I entered was a magnificent bathing room tiled in river stones, with a full bath one stepped down into, like something from Roman times. This was steaming and honeysuckle-scented, and I availed myself of it with pleasure, using up two of the leaf-shaped soaps on my dishevelled hair before continuing my search.
The next room was illuminated by skylights and a row of tall casement windows. It was also the dining room, and it was full of Folk.
They were a half dozen or so in number, and upon first sight I thought they were oíche sidhe . But no: while they were drab and greyish, with the same spindly hands, these creatures were smaller and stouter, with perpetually red faces. They were bustling about the table, which had two places set and was filled with silver dishes of fruit, buttered bread, jams, sausages, and some manner of spiced porridge with cream poured over top.
Most of the faeries froze in surprise when I entered, but the one nearest to me, who seemed quite young, gave a shriek and dropped the platter of eggs she was holding, which struck the floor with a wet sort of clang.
“Your Highness!” another faerie said in a hoarse voice, after a fraught moment in which we stared at each other in mutual panic. “Would you care to—”
“No, thank you,” I said, overloud. Then I turned and fled.
I regretted this instantly—not only because it was undignified, but also because my stomach was rumbling noisily. But I was faced with a conundrum as I regained the bathroom—if I returned and apologized, they would think me contrary and strange, if not outright mad. Or, worse, unfit to be their queen.
Well, naturally I am unfit to be anyone’s queen. But I had no desire to make this more apparent than it already was.
Shadow and I returned to the bedroom (Wendell had not moved) and went through a different door. We passed through two rooms of uncertain purpose, which were cluttered with trunks and wooden crates and the odd piece of furniture. I assumed that the castle servants were in the middle of furnishing things, and indeed, I heard muffled voices and thumps in an adjoining room, followed by the sound of hammering. I realized I was clutching the coin in my pocket instinctively, as I’d done in the Hidden king’s court, and forced myself to release it. My mind was clear, I reminded myself, my sense of direction also—this in spite of the seemingly impossible configuration of the apartments.
I opened a different door and walked through. And halted midstep.
This room was filled with wooden shelves, as well as a number of stacks, such as one finds in libraries. The ones against the wall were full, while those in the centre of the room were mostly empty, as if awaiting their purpose.
And what did they hold? Journals. Dozens upon dozens of journals.
These were in a variety of shapes and sizes, some bound with wood boards decorated with silver and jewels, others with leather. Many were elaborate; others were plain. The shelves ended at the ceiling, which was several times my height.
I blinked stupidly. Shadow gave a huff.
Perched upon stools at a workbench in the corner were two faeries hunched over piles of leather and blank parchment. One—the more wizened of the two—clutched an awl, with which she was gesticulating as she lectured the younger, smaller one, who sat with tears in his eyes and a pile of tangled thread in his lap.
“Flakes, flakes, flakes!” the older faerie was snarling. “You pay no mind to allowing the glue to set, do you? Look at this! We cannot present it to Her Highness in this state. It will sully her hands whenever she writes in it—and your thread is far too large; look how the spine bulges. This is the last time I hire family, mark my words. You are every bit as incompetent as my daughter and—”
I must have made some noise, for they both turned to gawp at me. The elder one sprang to the floor and bowed low, crying “Your Highness!” in a voice that creaked like an old hinge.
The faerie had the look of a book goblin, which I have encountered only once before. She was small—the top of her head just reached my waist—with a hunchback and a severe, squinting look, black eyes nearly obscured by heavy wrinkles and the curtains of bristly hair that fell over her face. Dangling from a chain on her neck was an odd glass sphere that Itook for a monocle.
“Please allow us to give you a tour, O Exalted One,” the faerie said, clasping her ink-stained hands together in excitement.
“I— Thank you,” I said, blankly staring. “But I will be late for breakfast.”
And I hurried out, pulling the door closed behind me and leaning against it, as if the little faeries might give chase.
Good Lord! How had this room come to be? Wendell had ordered it, because of course he had—but when?
I blundered off, too discombobulated to pay much heed to where I was going. My thoughts kept returning to O Exalted One, as if it were a sharp seed caught in my throat, driving me to distraction. I thought I had chosen the door that led back to the bedroom, but instead I found myself in a narrow hallway ending in a closed door, sunlight streaming through a row of windows. Orga—I hadn’t realized she had followed us—gave a trill of satisfaction and flopped onto her side in the sunbeam.
Naturally, the view out the windows was of the lake, painted with tree reflections and morning sunlight, even though, according to my senses, this should be an interior section of the castle. I paused and tried to catch my breath. As I did, I became aware of a breeze.
The breeze came not from the windows, which were shut— it meandered out from the crack below the door at the end of the hall, smelling of rain.
It was not raining outside.
Now, I knew full well that the wiser course would be to wake Wendell and investigate this together. But how often have I thrown wisdom aside in the face of faerie mysteries? I was flummoxed and full of half-formed anxieties, but I also felt like a hungry child who, presented with a cake, cannot stop herself from devouring it whole.
I went to the door and pushed it open.
Morning light spilled into the hall at an angle that contradicted the light of Faerie. I was presented with a view of a green hillock at the edge of a forest. A little whitewashed cottage perched atop the hillock, which was strewn with mossy rocks and purple with heather. Behind the cottage, a fine waterfall tumbled down a rise in the wooded landscape, and this gave off a mist that, coupled with the drizzling rain, gave the scene a spectral atmosphere.
Impossible as it was, what I saw relaxed me a little. Here at least was a simple faerie door to an otherland—it was, of course, madness that an otherland should be found just off my bedchamber, and I would certainly be speaking with Wendell about it—but at least it did not contain hordes of Folk desperate to oblige my whims.
I closed the door—after grabbing Shadow by the scruff and hauling him back, for he had shoved his snout into the otherworld and was sniffing voraciously—and went back the way I had come. But I’d become turned around once more, not by enchantment but my own blundering, and while I was correct in intuiting the direction of the bedchamber, I ended up—to my dismay—in the dining room once more.
I could not stop myself from swearing. At least the servants had left, and for a blessed moment I thought I was alone with the platters of lightly steaming food. But then I heard the creak of a chair against the wall behind me.
“Your Highness?” a woman said. To my infinite relief, she was mortal, a tall, pretty woman with dark brown skin and black hair cropped close to her scalp. She seemed to be blind, and held a simple cane made from willow reeds, but I caught the flash of silver woven into the construction. Her dress was of plain dark silks, but there too was a subtle silver stitchery along the cuffs. I understood from this that the woman possessed some status among these Folk.
“How did you know me?” I said.
She smiled. “I have lived among Folk for thirty years, by the mortal reckoning. I am used to the sound of their footfalls. Your tread is different.”
I let out my breath and sank into a chair. “One of the common fae is fond of referring to me as a blundering mortal oaf.” I gave a shaky laugh that perhaps went on too long.
She had stopped smiling and now looked concerned. “Are you all right?”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “Who were those Folk with—with the papers and awls?”
“The bookbinders? The king summoned them to court last night. They have been hard at it ever since. Does their work not please you, Your Highness?”
I made an inarticulate sound and poured myself a cup of tea. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Oh, thank God.” My words—or perhaps the raggedness of them—seemed to break the tension between us, and she sank into a chair across from me with a sigh of relief. “I had to be certain you weren’t one of those mortals who had grown big-headed from finding favour with faerie royalty, and would toss me into the dungeons for presumption. Do you know me, Professor Wilde?”
I examined her—I saw nothing familiar in her face, but it did not take me long to work it out. “You’ve spent thirty years in Faerie,” I murmured, mentally thumbing through the list of scholars who had vanished into the Silva Lupi. “You are not Dr. Proudfit? Niamh Proudfit, of the University of Connacht?”
She grinned. “Steady on. You would think I was queen of this realm. You need not be impressed by me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to get my emotions in hand. “I have never seized the throne of a faerie kingdom before. I’m afraid I find the experience somewhat trying.”
She laughed—it was a rich, warm sound, which, coupled with her boisterous manner of speaking, gave an impression of conviviality and open-heartedness. I recognized in her a particular variety of professor, the sort most likely to receive glowing student reviews, who displays an infectious enthusiasm for her chosen subject and an easy command of a podium. Now, as this sort is furthest from my own type—my reviews are decidedly mixed—I tend to view such individuals with a touch of resentment, but I felt none of this now. My relief at meeting a fellow scholar was too great.
“You were a friend of Farris Rose’s, were you not?” I found myself asking, though we had more important things to talk about.
Her face brightened, and I sensed that she was just as pleased as I to speak of academic matters. “We co-authored an article on the Black Hounds of Cumbria! How is he getting on? Has he grown dignified and venerable with age? When I knew Farris, he was still stammering during speaking events.”
We spent several minutes discussing Rose; I gave Niamh an account of his career since her disappearance, and she told me a story of how he had once locked himself outside his boardinghouse before a conference and had to deliver his presentation in his slippers. She was also fascinated to hear of our association with Danielle de Grey and Bran Eichorn, two other famously vanished scholars. Both have returned to academia—to fanfare I doubt I need describe, other than to say that they are, unsurprisingly, now the most talked about dryadologists in all of Europe—with Eichorn following de Grey to her old alma mater, the University of Edinburgh. I confess I am not disappointed that they decided against remaining at Cambridge; our relations at present could best be described as polite but frosty. With Eichorn, this can be explained as being in harmony with his nature, but regarding de Grey, I have at times had the impression that she resents how intertwined our names have become, given that I am the one being credited with her rescue (Wendell asked that his role in the whole business be omitted). She seems the sort who prefers being at the centre of things.
“Most of academia has given you up for dead,” I told Niamh. “This is the Silva Lupi, after all. But what are you doing here, in their court? You are not a prisoner?”
“Not at all,” she said. We had tucked in to breakfast, and Niamh paused to wash down her toast with some tea. Several of the red-faced servants had returned, unobtrusively keeping our plates and cups filled. I felt more comfortable with them now that I was not the only person being waited on.
“I was the old king’s scribe,” she said. “That means right hand, here; the head of his Council and general fixer. The queen sacked me, of course, when she had the royal family murdered and took Prince Liath’s throne—King Liath, I mean.”
I was impressed; not only by her position, but that she had survived the queen’s purge. “How did you—”
“Keep my head?” She laughed again, though there was a brittleness about it that undercut the irreverence. “The queen always liked talented mortals. She appreciated my intellect—she said so, anyhow. She continued to consult me occasionally on political matters, but by and large she let me be, which suited me well enough. I have been able to focus on my research these last few years.”
I examined her again. Niamh Proudfit had been thirty-six when she vanished, and she looked barely older now. She may not have experienced as many as thirty years in Faerie, but to see no change whatsoever—
“Yes,” she said, seeming to comprehend the nature of my pause. “As you know, the Folk have ways of extending mortal lifespans—for those they value, in any case. So long as I remain in Faerie, I shall age very slowly. Callum Thomas is the same—the man is nearly two hundred years old! I doubt I shall linger here so long, but certainly there is no greater gift to a scholar than the gift of time. I shall stay at least until I have completed the book I am working on.”
I was delighted. “What is the subject? You specialized in Faerie temporality, did you not?”
“I did—a rather tricky subdiscipline, given that human mortality and Faerie time are as compatible as oil and water. But my focus is primarily ethnographic—I wish to understand how the Folk perceive time, which I believe will prove more illuminating than the clumsy comparisons one often gets from temporalists.”
I forgot my anxieties as we discussed her work thus far. Having the old king’s favour had given her access to Folk who might not otherwise have deigned to speak with her, and he had aided her research in other ways, including by casting an enchantment that made all books in the realm transform to braille at her touch. Niamh questioned me about my current projects, and I told her of my idea for a book on faerie politics. She grew animated at that, and provided me with numerous suggestions regarding parameters and scope, which were so helpful that I pulled out a notebook to scribble them down. In the midst of our scholarly enthusiasm, Wendell made his entrance. His golden hair was sticking straight up in the back, and over his silken pyjamas he wore a night-coloured robe that gleamed with tiny green jewels at the cuffs. He stopped short at the sight of us, his mouth falling open.
“Niamh!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord! I assumed she had killed you.”
“Hello, dear,” Niamh said warmly. “You’ve grown taller, haven’t you? I can see a little,” she added to me. “Light and shapes. And you sound like a proper man now. When last we met, you were still a half-formed teenager.”
They embraced and began to chatter in Irish. Wendell broke off with an apologetic look in my direction.
“Isn’t this wonderful, Em?” he said. “It seems my stepmother has not destroyed everyone I cared about. Niamh is the only member of my father’s Council who ever paid me any notice.”
“In the Council’s defence, your talent for shirking responsibility was unparalleled,” Niamh said, shaking him gently by the shoulder. “On the rare occasions you were summoned to a meeting, you didn’t bother to show up. But you were kinder than your siblings, I noticed—not a trait much valued at this court, but we mortals appreciate it.”
Wendell gazed at her fondly. “Do you know? It was you who inspired me to embark on a career in academia when I fled to the mortal realm. She was so wise, Em, when it came to our stories and ways. I thought: perhaps dryadology will lead me to my door.”
“Then the rumours are true!” Niamh exclaimed. “I never believed the Folk who said you’d turned professor. I simply can’t imagine you putting in the effort. Emily, what was his research like?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said drily. “As he faked most of it.”
“Of course,” she said with a laugh. Wendell scowled good-naturedly at us.
“I will have you know that a great deal of effort goes into inventing a convincing field study,” he said, seating himself at the table. Instantly the servants were upon us again, appearing out of Lord knows where, bowing and filling his plate and cup. Many seemed to be trembling, whether with terror or delight at Wendell’s arrival, I could not say.
“Thank you,” Wendell said. He took a sip of his coffee and gave a groan, closing his eyes for a long moment.
“Good grief,” Niamh huffed, giving him a playful shove. The servants looked scandalized. “It’s just coffee.”
“Two words that don’t belong in the same sentence,” Wendell said. Turning to the servants, he added, “Which of you is in charge?”
More trembling and bowing. Finally a short creature, easily as wide as she was tall, stepped forward and fixed her glittering black eyes upon Wendell’s feet. She had a grease stain upon her apron that she seemed to be trying to conceal behind her clasped hands.
“Thank you for the excellent breakfast,” Wendell told her. “You could have fled, as others have done, for mayhap you loved my stepmother; instead, you have remained and offered me your services on short notice, though you hardly know me. I realize this has been a trying time for all small Folk. Your loyalty will be rewarded—your pay will be doubled, for one thing. And you must inform me when you are in need of anything. Won’t you?”
The servants stared at Wendell in blank astonishment. The leader seemed to make an effort to speak, but then she burst into tears.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” she sobbed. “My apologies.”
And she dashed from the room, trailed by the others, who tossed looks at Wendell over their shoulders ranging from awe to terror.
“Is she all right?” I said, for I was also taken aback—though less by the servants’ reactions than by Wendell’s uncharacteristic speech.
“I don’t think I heard your stepmother direct a single kind word at the help,” Niamh said. “I’m not certain she even glanced at them.”
“I have a mind to be charitable where the common fae are concerned,” Wendell said. “They have been so useful to us. Also I believe I will enjoy gaining a reputation for benevolence. What do you say, Em? You approve, surely.”
“Yes,” I said dubiously, my surprise lessening somewhat. I wondered if I should point out that the merits of charity were somewhat lessened when one anticipated praise at the end of it, before deciding the effort unlikely to yield any fruit.
“You should be careful in that regard,” Niamh said. “Plenty of Folk dislike you for your mixed blood. Open kindnesses directed towards the common fae will only serve as a reminder. I suggest you refrain from further benevolence until your rule is secure.”
Wendell smiled. “My father always valued your advice. Do I take it from your presence here that you would be willing to take up the mantle of scribe once more? Emily?”
“I think it an excellent idea,” I said, trying to sound dignified rather than overeager.
Niamh’s face brightened. She seemed more pleased than surprised by Wendell’s suggestion, and I thought Wendell had guessed right—she had come to us in the hopes of being offered the position. “You do not wish to consider other candidates?”
“Not particularly,” I said. “You were loyal to Wendell’s father, which makes you less likely to scheme against us—I say less rather than un likely, given the character of this particular realm. And I remember Farris speaking highly of you. If it will not be a distraction from your book?”
“I must confess that I have more than one book underway,” she said with a rueful smile. “The second is a memoir of my years in the Silva Lupi.”
I let out a breath of laughter. Last year, I became the first scholar in history to visit Wendell’s kingdom and escape with my life; it is not only one of the deadliest Faerie realms, but the most enigmatic. “That will create a sensation,” I said.
“That’s the hope,” Niamh said. “So you see, I have no objection to being named your scribe; it will only add interest to the memoir.”
“Scholars!” Wendell exclaimed. “What do I always say? You are a mad lot. Taking up careers that could easily get you killed simply to have something to write about. You will be at the top of the assassination list, Niamh, if I am overthrown. Still, it is hard to argue with you—I want you on my side too badly.”
“That’s settled then,” Niamh said with self-satisfaction. At that moment, a different servant entered with an auburn-haired mortal man in tow—Callum Thomas, looking wary, but also as if he were trying to mask it behind a polite smile.
“Oh, it’s you,” Wendell said. “Good! Sit down and help yourself to breakfast.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Callum said. His expression did not change, but I saw his shoulders relax. His carefully concealed discomfort was of a character I recognized; it was what I felt whenever I conversed with a member of the courtly fae who was not Wendell.
“You are welcome here,” I told him. “I understand we have you to thank for Lord Taran’s allegiance. Not a small thing, that.”
Callum smiled, seeming to relax further at the mention of Taran’s name. “It did not actually take much convincing. He never liked his half-sister much. In fact, I recall he spent more time arguing with me over our silverware when I suggested we change it.”
I glanced at Wendell, who raised his eyebrows at me. “Why?” I said.
“It was a bit garish,” Callum said, buttering a roll.
“I didn’t—”
“I know what you meant.” He put the knife down, his smile becoming a wince. “You ask why I helped you.”
“You have helped me more than once, in fact,” I pointed out.
“This realm is a hell for mortals,” he said simply. “All but a favoured few. A place of violence and torment. Whenever Ihave the chance, which is far less often than I would like, I endeavour to make it less so.”
“And yet it is your home,” I said, examining him.
He gave the faintest of nods. “And yet it is my home.”
“Oh dear,” Wendell said sympathetically, touching his hand. “I have no doubt you’ve seen things that upset you greatly. My father used to round up the mortals who stumbled into his realm—those who didn’t amuse him in some way—and set them loose in Wildwood Bog for the nobility to hunt.”
Callum nodded. “A tradition continued by your stepmother.”
“She would!” Wendell said. “Well, no such base pastimes will be allowed under our reign. I haven’t the heart for brutality or violence.”
I bit my tongue at this.
“We have heard rumours of you for years,” Callum said. “And of you, Professor Wilde. Your stepmother had spies watching you, you know. It was said that our exiled king had become taken with some scholar. Few Folk could believe it.”
“And from this,” I said, “you believed that Wendell deserved your loyalty? That seems a gamble. And we mortals can be tyrants too.”
“It was a gamble,” Callum agreed. “But he could scarcely be worse than Queen Arna.”
A chill touched my neck like the brush of a cold breeze. Wendell had never spoken his stepmother’s name. The surprise of it made me feel superstitious, as if saying it might summon her.
“The trouble is, all of Faerie is a hell for mortals,” Niamh said, waving her fork. “We scholars like to rank things; it gives us additional subjects to argue about. Yes, some realms have claimed more lives than others, but the Folk are, at the core, unfathomably powerful creatures governed by caprice. You might as well argue over which sea is more dangerous to the mariner.”
Callum smiled faintly. “As always, I wish I could be as philosophical on the subject as you, Niamh.”
She immediately looked regretful. “My apologies, Callum. Your sister—I did not mean to imply—”
“You didn’t,” he said with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. “Please don’t worry about it, Niamh. I am always quick to quarrel when I have not had much sleep!”
“Your sister?” I repeated, too interested to realize until a moment later that Callum did not seem to wish to discuss this.
Wendell touched his hand again. “Callum’s sister was stolen away by one of the nobility when she was a small child,” he told me. “The Lady of the Clawed Barrow, I believe. He came in search of her, but it was too late.”
Callum had gone back to buttering his roll in smooth, precise strokes. “The Lady abandoned Nora in the forest—she must have tired of caring for a human child. The guardians came upon her. I suppose they were in want of sport that day.” He put the food down and rested his hands briefly on the edge of the table. “I would likely have suffered the same fate, if Taran had not met me while on one of his wanders, and fallen in love with me.”
“The poor child,” Wendell said. “I am glad Taran dealt with the Lady as she deserved.”
Niamh looked unimpressed by this, and gave a huff through her nostrils. “Yes, sometimes justice is meted out,” she said. “If the right mortal is affected.”
“I have come to say that a great queue has assembled in the King’s Grove,” Callum said, and even I understood he wished to leave the subject behind.
“We will change the name,” Wendell said. “The Monarchs’ Grove, as it was known before my mother died.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Callum said after a pause. “As I was saying, there is a great crowd, and they grow increasingly restless. Many have come from far and wide to speak with you—some seeking favours, while others, I suspect, merely wish to fawn or gawk. There are musicians and cooks seeking employment, lords and ladies wanting curses undone, wandering assassins hoping to offer you their services, and various other mendicants.”
“I have no interest in that now,” Wendell said. “What has become of my realm?”
Callum stopped short. “You’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed.” Wendell drew one of his knees up as he played absently with a strawberry. “I wasn’t certain, at first. I thought perhaps it felt different because I have been away so long. But this morning, as soon as I awoke, I knew. What has my stepmother done?”
Callum grimaced. “Perhaps you should ask Taran for the story. I don’t know that I understand it well enough to do it justice.”
“What is this?” I said, new dread rising within me.
“There is a sickness here,” Wendell said. “I feel it burrowing into the roots of the forest and heathlands.”
“Good Lord!” Suddenly the shush-shush of the leaves as they brushed the windows took on a sinister cadence. “Has the old queen placed a curse upon the land?”
Callum shook his head. “I know not how to answer that. In the chaos last night, Taran apprehended two members of the queen’s guard who were lurking about the castle grounds, attempting to sow discord. They confessed that the queen lives, though weakened, and is in hiding. Through some dark enchantment, she has transferred the poison in her veins into the land itself, or perhaps she has allowed her own body to be absorbed into the forest, infecting it—I am unclear on the particulars.”
“What is the nature of this sickness?” I asked. “Are the trees dying?”
“In a sense,” Callum said. “They die, but some corruption in them lives on, twisting them out of shape—any small Folk who touch them perish.”
“Fire,” I said immediately, for my mind had been sifting through the stories even as he spoke. Callum stared at me. Wendell smiled.
“Have you tried purging the sickness through fire?” I elaborated. “If it is in the trees—”
“We have, in fact,” he said. “Taran sent scouts out last night, and they located two infected groves. Both were burned, which seems to have banished the corruption.”
“Good,” Wendell said. “But it is not banished entirely—I feel it still, like the chill in an autumn wind.” His gaze grew distant, and then he seemed to shake himself. “Tell my uncle to send more scouts. Where is he, anyway?”
“Rather busy,” Callum said drily. “Your stepmother’s heir—your half-sister—organized an assassination attempt on you last night, which he only barely managed to thwart. It involved several members of the nobility and a few hired thugs. Taran threw the girl into the dungeons for now, but unravelling the web of co-conspirators is taking time.”
Wendell sighed. “Good Lord! How tedious children are. I suppose I must work out what to do with her.”
“You must meet with the Council first,” Niamh said. “Most of the queen’s Council has fled or been killed in the chaos following her defenestration—I recommend you summon those who live, as well as your father’s senior councillors.”
“More important than the Council is tracking down the queen,” Callum said. “Also, the realm is at present in a state of instability, with invaders from conquered realms crossing our borders. Nobody is doing anything about them, because most of our soldiers have abandoned their posts.”
Wendell fell back against his chair, looking faint. “What a mess! And I am to deal with all this today? It is not possible. For one thing, I was planning to take Emily to the Broken Meadows for a picnic.”
I recognized the desperate gleam in his eyes and said quickly, “The challenges are not insurmountable provided they are set in order and dealt with accordingly. I agree that we must hunt down your stepmother; she must not simply be allowed to lurk —I doubt I need point out that this never ends well, in the stories. Your uncle will send more scouts. In the meantime, you must be seen by your subjects, and you must appear intimidating—that is the best way to discourage more assassination attempts. We will visit this Grove and hear our supplicants.” I paused. “Tonight we will have our picnic, if there is time.”
Wendell’s face broke into a smile so bright it was as if his former distress had never existed. “Em, you will adore the Broken Meadows. It is a veritable garden of streams and wildflowers. The coirceog sidhe [*] live in great numbers there, which means endless brownies for you to interrogate. The honeymakers have strange and secretive ways.”
He began to tell me about them, with occasional asides from Niamh, and so we talked no more of dark things that morning, nor of the manifold dangers lurking before us, and in every corner and shadow.
Skip Notes
* A species with which I was wholly unfamiliar, though eventually I recalled a passing reference—the only one in scholarship, I believe—in The O’Donnell Brothers’ Midnight Tales of the Good Folk (1840), specifically, “The Midwife’s Lost Apprentice.”