Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde #3)

9th February—Late

9th February—late

Well! Shadow and I have spent the day alone, and night closes in again. We will depart tomorrow morning, I think, for it seems unproductive to linger in this desolate wood any longer. Perhaps neither the king nor his servants visit the tree anymore, and it is some bogle or brownie who makes off with the villagers’ offerings.

I confess it is not only practical considerations that make me wish to depart. This is an unpleasant place to linger alone. The air has a heaviness that I have found, as the hours pass, increasingly easy to associate with malice. I am frequently reminded that the Hidden king was trapped here for centuries—has the tree somehow retained a memory of his fury and despair? More and more does its trunk seem to resemble a gaping maw frozen in an eternal scream.

Not only that, but I grow increasingly convinced that there are voices coming from the tree. I cannot make out what they are saying, for they speak in echoing whispers, as if their words have travelled a great distance, but I am certain that it is Faie. I have spoken to the tree—because why not speak to the thing; it is so uncanny—explaining that I am the snow king’s former fiancée (God) come to seek a favour. Naturally I have also given him many compliments, explaining that I would not have presumed to trespass upon his domain had I not been certain of his kindness and magnanimity. I am not at all convinced this will suffice to save me from meeting an unpleasant end. After all, the king was told I was dead, and few faerie lords respond well to being tricked.

Enough with these ruminations! I have done too much of that today, as well as fret about Wendell being upset with me, which is not a subject I recall devoting much attention to in the past. I have read his letters perhaps a dozen times—well, what else is there to do in this haunted place?

Perhaps I should scratch that out. He would never leave off teasing me.

I will attempt to sleep. I can only hope the bloody tree allows it—I hear it now, whispering inside its shadowy recess. God knows what it is saying.