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

1st March

Cambridge slept beneath a blanket of tousled cloud, a few stars peeking here and there through the folds. Our footfalls seemed oddly loud against the stone paths, the echoes more pronounced, as if our return after so long an absence jarred slightly against the beloved topography of the campus. Razkarden and two other guardians flitted through the trees above in their owl glamours, ever shadowing our progress.

Our journey had not been long, for Wendell had commanded the tree fauns to repair one of the ancient faerie doors that once linked his realm with Britain, as another of his extravagant wedding gifts to me. Last year, his stepmother had repaired this particular door temporarily, to send assassins after him, but it had collapsed again afterwards, faerie doors being prone to fragility if not used regularly. It did not lead to anywhere in Cambridgeshire, unfortunately, but to a quiet patch of woodland in the New Forest, which meant a train journey of several hours, with connections, to reach the university. But still it was an excellent shortcut, eliminating the need for the ferry, and Wendell has encouraged Folk to go to and fro regularly to ensure the door does not collapse again. I am uncertain if this increase in faerie activity will be appreciated by the inhabitants of that part of rural Hampshire, but it will give the dryadologists of the South something to scratch their heads about.

We reached the dryadology department, which was not as quiet as I’d hoped it would be. A small group of students was ensconced in a corner of the common room, a heap of books, papers, and coffee cups testifying to the urgency of their industry, likely connected to the present midterm season. Two faculty offices at the end of the hall had lights on, as did—unsurprisingly—Professor Walters’s. There came the abrupt sound of shattering ceramics, and I turned to find one of the students staring at us as if we were ghosts. Her companions, though, were too occupied with mopping up the coffee she had spilled to note our arrival. Otherwise, we managed to reach my office without attracting much attention.

“It’s very late,” Wendell said with a yawn, as if I didn’t know; we’d planned our timing in advance.

“I won’t be long,” I said.

Wendell gave another dramatic yawn and roamed about the office, gazing out the window or adjusting a book slightly, which caused the dust upon that shelf to vanish, before throwing himself into the armchair by the window to wait. Shadow flopped down at his feet.

It was indeed late—only a few moments shy of midnight, according to the grandfather clock. We had chosen that hour for our visit so as to encounter the smallest number of scholars, for neither of us had much interest in being waylaid by inquisitors, of which there would be many in the department. My lengthy stay in the Silva Lupi is now widely known, while Wendell’s identity is by now so widely gossiped about—Farris Rose, in refusing to answer questions regarding his knowledge on the subject, has only inflamed the gossip further—that it has largely elided the difference between rumour and fact. All this has been an enormous boon to my career. It seems almost every day some new conference invitation or request for scholarly collaboration arrives at the cottage in Corbann, which is to be my primary mailing address in the mortal world for the foreseeable future.

One would think I was past being flattered by conference invitations, given all I have seen and done. But I am not.

“You should give up your office,” I said. I selected two books from a shelf, pressed them to my chest for a moment like old friends, then added them to a little pile I was making. “It seems unfair, as it is the largest in the department apart from Farris’s, and you have no plans to return.”

Wendell shrugged. He had taken up my encyclopaedia—Ikeep several copies in my office—and was absently flipping through it. “It’s nice to have a bolt-hole, should I need it.”

“Should your stepmother chase you out again, you mean. The odds seem rather slim at this point.”

“Who knows? There is always Deilah. She is very young. One can only guess if she shall turn out a good-natured ally or a monstrous villain.”

I murmured assent. Deilah gave every appearance of the doting sister now, but if there is one thing predictable about the Folk, it is their unpredictability.

“I don’t wish to get too comfortable, Em,” he said as he slouched into the armchair with the book in his hands.

“You have the love of the common fae,” I pointed out. “And not only because they fear you. You have now sought their assistance on numerous occasions, showing them a respect in doing so that the courtly fae never bestow upon them. That makes you considerably more comfortable than most monarchs your realm has known.”

One of his sunniest smiles broke across his face. “I am, aren’t I? And whom do I have to thank for that, I wonder?”

I kept my eyes on the bookshelves. “Your grandmother?”

He laughed. Professor Walters, just down the hall, cleared her throat emphatically, as if we might somehow have forgotten about her presence, with her slamming her books about as she always does. How a person engaged in such quiet pursuits as reading and writing manages to make such an interminable racket is a mystery I shall never solve. I suspected she was hoping we would remember her enough to stop by her office, thus sparing her the indignity of having to open the conversation with two scholars half her age and, in her estimation, less than half as accomplished. But Professor Walters is a Classical dryadologist, and like many of those specializing in the Greek Folk, much given to snobbery; it is as if such people believe that the discipline’s origin in Greece gives them a corresponding precedence over dryadologists of other subspecialties.

“I’ve thought it over,” I said. “And actually, I would prefer to visit the Blue Hooks first.”

“What!” Wendell cried. “Not more mountains, Em, good grief! Have you not had your fill of the bloody things?”

“It’s just that Niamh was telling me about the most peculiar creature who dwells in a cave below one of the southern peaks,” I said. “A banshee who has taken a vow of silence! Either that or she is under some curse; her screams are transmuted into the stones, which levitate into the air. It would be quite the phenomenon to witness. I am familiar with only one comparable example—a rather sketchy account from Hungary—”

He listened to my summary, then sighed and leaned his head against the back of the chair. “In a realm filled with pleasant forests and hills, she has to drag me into the mountains, ” he intoned to the ceiling.

“And don’t go ordering them to lie flat or something equally ridiculous,” I told him, to which he only frowned, so I knew the thought would have occurred to him at some point.

“Let’s go,” I said. “I want to return those books before we leave. I wish the dryadology library closed at night so that I could simply slip them through the mail slot. One of the night librarians holds a grudge against me.”

“Entirely unfounded, no doubt,” Wendell said. “Nothing at all to do with your habit of keeping books until they are monstrously overdue.”

“I would not call it a habit, ” I protested.

He raised his eyebrows at me.

“I may pick up another volume or two while we’re there,” I added grudgingly. “Well, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

It was true enough—Wendell and I would spend the next several months travelling his realm. Our realm. I must get used to that. I would take copious notes all the while, no doubt filling several of the ridiculous journals the bookbinders kept churning out, and stumbling across so many research questions it would take me ten lifetimes to tackle them all. And after that, who knows? I have my compendium of tales to finish—I plan to gather stories as Wendell and I travel, adding them to the small hoard I’ve already collected. My presence is not required in the mortal world until October, when I will be delivering a presentation on several key findings in my mapbook, which shall be published in a month’s time. When the Berlin Academy of Folklorists sends you an invitation to their annual conference, you cannot say no.

I looked up from the book I was flipping through to find Wendell regarding me with a smile that made me blush. “Don’t hurry on my account,” he said.

“Do you not want anything?”

He seemed to think it over. “No—ah, but wait a moment. I wonder if I left my blue scarf…” He rose and wandered off, leaving me alone with Shadow’s whistling snores.

I glanced about the office. It looked as it always had; nothing had been touched in my absence apart from a few books—I’d given Ariadne permission to borrow what she needed from my personal collection, and no doubt Professor Walters had helped herself to a volume or two. I drew a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and parchment, ink and dust. My reflection showed in the casement window against the dark lawns beyond—I wore one of my old brown shifts beneath my cloak, having given away the entirety of my queenly attire to Deilah, for when she grew into them, though I’d taken to wearing a single silvered leaf in my hair along with a little cluster of bluebells, which glinted in the lamplight.

It will still be here, I told myself. You can still return, whether it be in one month or many . The thought was a comfort, quelling the jangle of anticipation within me. I had been greatly looking forward to my travels with Wendell, but I couldn’t deny the trepidation that came along with it; I have felt the same at the start of many an expedition. The thought of the desk awaiting my return, the well-stocked bookshelves, the manicured view and quiet reflection these four walls afforded—it made me feel easier about what lay before me.

Wendell returned with the aforementioned scarf slung triumphantly about his neck. I woke Shadow, and the three of us made our way to the library.