2nd January
I slept late this morning, rising with the sun at around half eight. The cottage was hushed, Lilja and Margret being still abed, and Shadow too seemed inclined to laze amongst the blankets, rousing himself only when I reminded him of the fine steak awaiting him downstairs. Wendell, in another uncharacteristic fit of initiative, had written to the local merchants in Corbann in advance of Lilja and Margret’s arrival and arranged an unlimited tab with which we three could purchase whatever we desired. I hoped he planned to pay them in mortal currency and not faerie coin, which is merely glamoured leaves or pebbles or other bits of rubbish, and eventually returns to its original state as the enchantment fades, [*1] which would be unlikely to endear us to the locals.
The cottage is snug, perhaps a little smaller than our accommodation in St. Liesl, but larger than the Hrafnsvik let. Upstairs are two bedrooms and a bathing room that I suspect Wendell has enchanted, for the water is hot and gushing to a degree that is generally alien to creaky, rural cottages. As for the downstairs, the layout is simple, merely a sitting room with hearth and the kitchen, divided by a little hall with the staircase at one end and the door at the other. The place is bright even in winter, for the windows appear larger from within than from without—which is certainly possible, until one realizes that there are also more windows inside the cottage, which is not. A handful of feral cats with odd, all-black eyes include the garden in their neighbourhood patrols, keeping the mice away. Lilja and Margret say that the villagers are much mystified by their appearance, as prior to this winter, none were to be found within five miles of the place beyond a fat housecat or two.
I cooked up a simple breakfast of omelet and toast, tucking some away in the oven for Lilja and Margret when they awoke, and then I wandered around the cottage, looking out the windows. Around the back was a door leading down to a cellar, which my friends had stocked with provisions. The sun was bright that morning, and it was almost warm, or warm enough with a coat and scarf. I settled myself on the wooden bench in the garden and spent a happy hour there, taking copious notes for my book on faerie politics or gazing out at the landscape, lost in thought.
I found myself regaining my excitement for my project and the opportunity for scholarly discovery presented by my presence in Wendell’s kingdom. Given the peril that surrounded us, this may seem a little mad but—well, actually, I have no defence for that. It is nigh impossible to find evidence to support the wisdom of taking up a throne in any of the Faerie realms, particularly during a time of political conflict; yet this thought shrinks to almost nothing when I imagine how my research will benefit the scientific cause, our understanding of the inner workings of Faerie. The opportunity is monumental.
When I think how often I despair of the irrationality of the Folk!
I paused in the sketch I was making of Wendell’s throne to watch a robin poking about for worms. The mist from the waterfall settled over the grasses, gilding the places the sunlight touched. Lilja and Margret came to find me a moment later, and we walked up the hillside to where the water began to cascade down the steep, ferny slope, which offered a view of the pastoral landscape. I could see two lakes, similar in shape to Muckle and Silverlily. The village was a scatter of perhaps two dozen dwellings along a cobbled street, with farms beyond that stretching to the mountains with their light dusting of snow. We talked of ordinary things—the health of Aueur, who was doing a little better these days, though still far from her old self; Margret’s newfound fondness for baking bread, which she had taken to selling at a tidy profit to sailors who passed through the Hrafnsvik harbour—as well as my time in Faerie.
“And you have not changed your mind?” Margret said, after I’d unravelled the tale as far as the previous evening. Lilja put a hand on her arm, and the two exchanged a look before turning the subject to other things. Not for the first time; I sensed they had a great deal to say about my decision to take up a Faerie throne, as well as my faith in Wendell, whom they have always liked, particularly given their gratitude to him. But I am coming to understand that this is not the same as saying that they trust Wendell—perhaps this distinction holds true for all the villagers of Hrafnsvik, given their troubled history with the courtly fae.
We returned to the cottage after our walk and I collected Shadow, who would not have enjoyed such a steep hike. He yawned and stretched, his bones creaking a little, and I felt a stab of melancholy familiar to all those who care for old dogs. I would speak to the servants—perhaps they had a more beneficial salve for his joints than the one I relied on.
“Would you care to come back with me?” I asked as we stood by the gate. “I could show you the castle.”
Margret and Lilja exchanged another look. “It’s kind of you,” Lilja said. “But we are content to remain on this side.”
Instantly, I regretted my words, recalling what they had suffered at the hands of the courtly fae of their country. Before I could apologize, though, Lilja touched my arm and smiled.
“You will visit again soon, I hope?” she said.
I promised I would. Then I turned and went through the faerie door.
The stones were slick underfoot, almost slimy. I had just stepped onto the third stone, my left foot halfway to the fourth, when I found myself standing in the familiar castle hallway, the door open behind me.
Shadow gave a pleased huff and trotted off down the hall. I knew he was in search of Wendell, for he seemed disappointed when each room we passed was empty or revealed only a servant or two, who bowed hastily when they noticed me. The bedchamber was similarly abandoned, apart from Orga, who was curled up among the tangled blankets—I guessed that she had not permitted the servants to make the bed. To my surprise, she greeted me with a chirp and rolled over, purring, allowing me to pet her stomach. Shadow made a lumbering hop onto the bed to commence his customary midmorning nap; Orga ignored his existence entirely, which represented a marked improvement in their relations.
Ordinarily, I spend little time on my appearance, but the idea of donning one of my plain shifts and throwing my hair up into a knot here in Faerie made me uneasy. Someone had added another wardrobe to the bedroom, and in this I found a dozen dresses in a range of colours and styles, as if someone—the servants, I supposed—had chosen to offer me a selection in order to assess my tastes. Naturally, they were all far too luxurious, too brightly coloured or with odd accoutrements; a green dress had vines attached to the bodice that had to be untied before I could put the thing on, while one of white lace had the silliest sleeves I had ever seen, with what looked like silver bracelets dangling off them. I eventually chose a black one, which at least didn’t have any adornments, though it did have five layers of skirts embroidered with silver that sparkled as I walked.
After some hemming and hawing, I summoned a servant and requested a hairdresser. This creature—a brownie with a wrinkled grey face held in a permanent scowl—yanked my hair into an elaborate plait atop my head and wove it with silvered flowers, primarily poppies. Once everything was in place, I felt awkward and slightly sweaty, though the dress was light, even with its many layers.
I cast a longing look at the simple brown dresses I had brought with me, which I had hung in the wardrobe alongside the finery. They pressed together like poor relations at a lavish ball, who on the whole would have preferred not to have been invited.
“Right,” I said, eyeing my appearance in the mirror apprehensively. Then I set to work.
—
My first task, I had decided during my ponderings that morning, would be to speak to the oíche sidhe . I knew the creatures did not like to be seen, even by other Folk, and also that they preferred to work at night, and thus were most likely at rest now. But there was nothing for it.
I found several servants in the dressing room. They were tailors, hard at work assembling garment after garment from the rich silks and linens—mostly black, naturally—that were scattered everywhere, though two were presently adorning headless mannequins with tunics. I glanced about for a moment, overwhelmed.
When I asked if the faerie woman in charge, who was of the courtly fae, might escort me to the oíche sidhe, she gave me a horrified look and darted from the room. Before I could decide if I had offended her or if my request had been so strange that she had panicked and fled, she was back, and behind her was another faerie.
“The head housekeeper,” the faerie woman said, and then she and the other tailors departed, leaving us alone in a room full of expensive fabrics and scattered measuring tapes and thimbles.
I almost didn’t see the new arrival at first, strange as that may sound, because he was so grey and unexceptional that he blended into the flagstones of the dressing room. He was small, but not so small as most of the common fae, the top of his head reaching my shoulder. His fingers were many-jointed and far too spindly, his eyes black, and his hair fell to his chin in dust-coloured wisps. He wore a belt with a single grey rag dangling from it, which his hand went to frequently, twisting it about his fingers in an absent-minded way. He was, unsurprisingly, painfully neat in every respect.
“Hello,” I said hesitantly. “I apologize if I disturbed you.”
The faerie sank to his knees and lowered his head. “Your Highness,” he said in a rough voice that made me picture the bristles of a brush.
“Oh, no,” I said. “No, please stand up.”
The faerie rose gracefully to his feet, pausing only to smooth the wrinkles from his trousers. “As Your Highness desires.”
I gazed at him, feeling oddly tongue-tied. Wendell’s grandmother had been of the oíche sidhe, and he had taken their form briefly, when he and Aud had rescued me from the Hidden king’s court. He had looked a great deal like this creature—nearly identical, in fact, and I guessed that the vagueness of these faeries’ appearance also applied to the degree of difference between them. It was unsettling.
“I would like to ask a favour,” I said. “Somewhat unusual, perhaps, given your occupation.”
I half expected the creature to make some wry remark, as Wendell would have done, but naturally he did not. “As Your Highness desires,” he said again.
“You see,” I began, not knowing how to phrase my request in a politic manner. In the end, I simply allowed myself to be blunt. “I am in need of spies. Information. Mortals often overlook their housekeepers, who come to learn a great many of their secrets. I doubt the Folk are any different.”
“Worse,” the faerie said quickly. I had the sense that he was pleased by the direction the conversation had taken, and even eager to speak on the subject. But this was merely a guess; discerning any emotion in the creature’s subdued expression was difficult.
“Then you have served both mortals and Folk?” I said.
“I have served,” he agreed in his sparse manner.
I nodded. Here was a creature with as little use for small talk as I. “Do you know of anyone who might wish harm to either Wendell—the king, I mean—or myself?”
“Yes,” the creature said. And then he began to provide names and specifics.
When he came to the end of the list I found myself standing very still and staring at him. I shook myself and said, “I—thank you. That was—” More illuminating than I guessed it would be, I thought. “Thorough.”
“Your Highness.” The faerie bowed.
I pressed my lips together, uncertain. “You have placed yourself in danger by helping me. Do you desire compensation? I mean—of course I shall compensate you. Only tell me—”
“I have helped His Highness,” the creature replied. “I am compensated.”
The faerie had spoken softly and flatly throughout our exchange, but this remark seemed to have real emotion behindit.
“I see.” I considered him for a moment as I ran through what I knew of the oíche sidhe, which was a great deal, or at least more than most dryadologists, for I had made them a priority in my studies since I’d learned of Wendell’s lineage. “And I suppose it was you who ensured his rooms were ready upon his arrival. Quite speedy work you made of it, for you could not have known he would prefer his old wing.”
“He is one of ours,” the creature said.
I gave a slight nod, and the faerie seemed to take this as a dismissal and bowed himself out.
—
Wendell was not difficult to locate. I simply followed the swirls and eddies of servants and courtiers flitting through the galleries on the castle’s main level. Most of the nobility seemed to be availing themselves of the gardens, and of the sunny portico that gave onto them, and thus the servants hastened between there and the kitchens, bearing cups and trays piled with delicacies. I stopped one and took a cup of coffee and a biscuit for myself. It looked plain but tasted of sugared almonds and impossibly tart strawberries.
I found him standing alone near the centre of the gardens upon a hill festooned with lilies and foxgloves. At the summit was a bench shaded by several neat rows of cherry trees and—to my dismay—an attentive oak. It was smaller than the wild-growing ones I’d seen in the forest, but it glowered and gawked at me all the same.
Wendell rested his hand on one of the cherry trees in an absent sort of way, gazing over the landscape. The tree began to flower, buds bursting forth in a riot of purples and blues, and the leaves grew so green they resembled crushed emeralds. It matched Wendell’s expression, somehow, as he swept his gaze over the view, a contentment that seemed to radiate from him, cheering all in his vicinity. Two servants carrying what looked like a newly minted silver mirror stepped more lightly, their faces brightening, and a fat leprechaun sprawled against a nearby boxwood chuckled in his sleep.
Wendell turned and saw me standing there, and if anything, the happiness in his eyes only grew. “Em!” he exclaimed, and I am certain he would have seized me and spun me around again, if not for the cup in my hand. “Well? Did you enjoy yourself? By that I mean, did the cottage provide the correct ambience for devouring stacks of old tomes and scribbling away in journals?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Though you might have told me about the guests.”
“To tell the truth, I was a little nervous about your reaction. I felt you would enjoy seeing Lilja and Margret again, but last night I wondered if you wouldn’t have preferred solitude more.”
“You needn’t look like that,” I said, laughing a little at the worry that had stolen over his face. “I was indeed happy to see them. And I am glad you took the initiative of offering them a holiday.”
He smiled. “Well, how could I not, the poor dears? What a misery winter is in that accursed place! I don’t know how anyone stands it.”
I doubted he knew how anyone stood any clime different from his native realm, but I was not about to waste my breath on this. We had far more important things to discuss.
“We must go to see this curse your stepmother has inflicted upon the forest,” I said. “It is far more important than any other problem we face—I am embarrassed I did not recognize it immediately. I know the stories of deposed faerie monarchs quite well. Working out what she has done must be our sole priority.”
“Emily,” Wendell said after a little pause, during which the only sounds were the wind moving through the leaves and the bloody oak blinking moistly at us, “as we have established, your thought process moves apace; I often struggle to keep up. You must learn to explain yourself.”
“?‘The Tale of the Bard’s Stolen Dirge,’?” I said. “?‘The Robin Lord’s Reckoning.’ Just to name two examples—there are a dozen more. Don’t you see?” [*2]
“I know my stepmother must be dealt with,” Wendell said. “My uncle has sent scouts—”
I shook my head. “That’s not good enough. We must see what your stepmother has wrought, and without delay.”
Wendell gave a breath of laughter. “Well, naturally we will, then.”
“Oh, and you must remove the Lady East Wind from your Council,” I said. “And, if possible, banish her from court. She had a series of clandestine meetings with the head of the queen’s guard before he was executed. Apparently, she helped your stepmother plot the assassination of your father and siblings.”
“What!” Wendell exclaimed. “But we won’t have an even number now. I shall have to find somebody to replace the Lady with, and there is nothing more tedious than dealing with councillors, as I have recently discovered. I am out here hiding from them, in fact.”
“You should also banish Lord Carlin and someone who calls herself the Keeper of the Secret Brook,” I said. “They too are plotting against you.”
“How I hate politics!” Wendell heaved a sigh. “Oh, well. All this is useful material for your book, is it not?”
I could not help smiling at this. “Indeed, though I would rather said material did not come in the form of people wishing to kill you.”
He made a noise of agreement. “Well, Em, I am now convinced that your stay in Corbann has done you good. You are quite yourself again, ink-stained and full of schemes to burden me with, as if I do not already have enough to do.”
I paused. “You do not wish to know how I came by this information?”
“Yes, but only because you clearly wish to tell me,” he said, smiling.
I blushed under the warmth in his gaze. “The servants proved exceptionally knowledgeable,” I said. “The oíche sidhe . I have asked their leader to report to me should they learn anything else of note. I believe this should solve the assassination threat. The courtly fae either ignore the little ones or treat them with condescension, particularly the servants. That they might be listening in on their conversations seems barely to cross the minds of the nobility, even when they are plotting regicide.”
Wendell stared at me, and then he began to laugh. “Of course,” he said. “The common fae have come to our rescue again, have they?”
“The head housekeeper,” I said after a short pause. “He—seemed to feel some affection for you. He said you were theirs. ”
Wendell’s amusement faded, and he looked momentarily disturbed, then a little lost. “Did he?”
“Have you had any contact with that side of your family?” I said.
“None. It was not—” He sighed. “Well, I suppose I could make excuses and say that I never knew my grandmother. She died long ago. The oíche sidhe are prone to injuries, given the nature of their work, which compound with age and wear away at their health. But the truth is that I never wanted to know them. It is not usual for my kind to mingle our bloodlines with the common fae. The resulting children are aberrations.” He amended, “That is how most Folk see us. Of course, as one in line for the throne, I was insulated from much of this sentiment. Few dared insult me to my face. Generally it was a thing that most at my father’s court went out of their way to ignore.”
“Which is not the same as saying it was accepted,” I noted.
Wendell shrugged, looking moody and unsettled. “It is kind of so many of the common fae to help us.”
“You are their king, too,” I said.
He seemed not to know what to do with this, and I reminded myself that it was uncommon for the courtly fae to bestow any consideration at all upon the small Folk of their realms. Had Wendell, over the course of his life, had additional motivation to avoid giving them much thought? I decided to change the subject.
“Have you been to see Deilah?”
“My sister?” Wendell wrinkled his nose. “What has she to do with this? Yes, I visited her this morning—briefly, but that was long enough. The brat merely spewed insults and laughed in my face when I suggested she renounce her wretched mother and swear fealty to the new king and queen. She’s convinced her mother will have her revenge upon us somehow. My uncle wants to execute her, naturally—that is his solution to everything.”
“In this case, it is sound advice,” I said. “She attempted to have you assassinated, after all. But I am glad you haven’t taken it. In many of the Irish stories, faerie monarchs who murder innocents are punished for it in some way. It would strengthen your stepmother, more likely than not.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that, ” Wendell said, frowning at me. “I haven’t killed her because she is a child, Em. Let her stew in the dungeons a fortnight or so, and we shall see if her vindictiveness holds.”
“I have another idea,” I said.
Wendell groaned and put his face in his hands.
Skip Notes
*1 Danielle de Grey’s article “A Landscape Model for Classifying Faerie Currency: Case Study of a Highland Market” ( British Journal of Dryadology, 1857) argues that this form of faerie trickery varies by country and region. Glamoured leaves, which tend to be favoured in the South, maintain the illusion of coinage for a few days, on average, while the hardier pinecones and pebbles more commonly employed in Scotland and Northern England may hold on to their glamours for years.
*2 Both of these Irish stories recount the gruesome revenge wrought by deposed monarchs. “The Robin Lord’s Reckoning” is perhaps the less disturbing of the two; the Robin Lord, likely the king of the northernmost Irish realm, the Montibus Ventus, is overthrown by his son, and hides himself away for three years. During this time, he abducts his son’s beasts one by one—hunting dogs, horses, and falcons—enchanting them with an insatiable blood lust. He then lets them loose upon his son’s court, where they devour the usurper, his family, and everyone who ever aided him.