9th January
It has been too long since I’ve written.
Several times after our journey to the yew grove I have picked up my journal, readied my pen, and then simply stared at the blank page—a symptom of a condition with which I have intimate familiarity by now: namely, stupefaction brought on by some manner of faerie misadventure.
In addition, I had only a page or two left in my old journal, hardly enough space to recount anything in detail.
Eventually, I visited the bookbinders, still hard at work filling the shelves in my journal room, and selected this ridiculous paper confection.
It has pages enough, but also an enchanted lock—which I do not bother with—and intricate silver engravings of overlapping circles of fern fronds, which I am beginning to recognize as a common artistic motif in Where the Trees Have Eyes.
The top of every page is illustrated with a little landscape sketch, a gentle brook or a moorland vista, and if one stares at these long enough, they become a tiny window to the place where the artist must have stood.
It is all completely frivolous and unnecessary.
But. I am writing again.
I reached Dublin’s Trinity College three days ago via acarriage from Corbann to the train station one village over,then two additional trains.
Since then I have been ensconced in their Natural Sciences Library—in which is housed their considerable collection of dryadological journals and folklore—from dawn to dusk.
I would sleep here if the librarians would allow it, but while most of them have received me with kindness and welcome, the head librarian is a tyrannical sort, and seems already to disapprove of me and my many requests, even seeing fit to lecture me for leaving the special collections room in disarray, so I doubt such a request would be well received.
One would think books existed simply to be looked at and occasionally dusted, the way that man carries on.
And if the filing system differs from Cambridge’s, is it my fault if this occasionally leads me to misplace things?
I have been dreadfully scattered of late. I sat down to provide an account of my doings since the grove, and here I am, griping about librarians.
Wendell has written me three letters already, despite the short period of my absence. I had the below waiting for me when I arrived at my rented lodgings.
To: Dr. Emily Wilde
11 Scholars’ Square, Trinity College
Dublin
From: Wendell Bambleby
Faerie via Corbann
Dearest Emily,
I do not like this promise I made to you, that I would match the passage of time in my realm to that of the mortal world.
Surely you would not object to me speeding things along a little, so that I should only have to wait another hour or two for your return.
And anyway I am half convinced that the enchantment has gone awry somehow, for surely it has not merely been a day since you left.
How dull it is without you! At least I have Niamh to talk to, and I have even taken to summoning my uncle every so often to keep me company, which he does not seem to appreciate, surly old recluse that he is.
I have had some good conversations with Callum, and I seem to be making progress in convincing him that he need not be afraid of me.
My dreadful sister has been following me about, but I do not count her as company, for all she does is mope.
And what reason does she have to carry on so?
I have endured a great deal more hardship than she, and yet here I am, engaging in all sorts of industry and enduring tedious demands upon my time; nor have I had one word of sympathy from her.
I don’t know why she has suddenly chosen to inflict her presence upon me; I even woke this morning to find her curled up outside my door under a blanket, asleep.
I attempted to talk to her kindly, which I knew you would appreciate, as you seem to have some sympathy for the wretch, but she only spat insults at me.
Is this situation better or worse than when she was trying to kill me?
Worse, I think. I could throw her back into the dungeons if she were up to no good.
You will only be angry with me if I do so otherwise.
Anyway, Em, I am sure you are happily ensconced in your native habitat, that dreary monument to mortal rumination that is the library, no doubt thinking of me hardly at all.
Well, why would you give a thought to romance or the faerie kingdom that now belongs to you as much as to me when you have a limitless supply of dusty old tomes to mutter and scowl at?
I see now that my downfall as a suitor lies in my ability to offer you only a castle, great quantities of faerie silver, and various enchantments to dazzle and provoke you, instead of the full bound collection of Dryadological Fieldnotes.
Please return tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.
Love always,
Wendell
And the next day:
To: Dr. Emily Wilde
11 Scholars’ Square, Trinity College
Dublin
From: Wendell Bambleby
Faerie via Corbann
Dearest Emily,
You have not heeded my request to return today, I see. Will you be back tomorrow? Surely you will have exhausted the supply of relevant tomes by then, given how quickly you devour them.
I know you are annoyed with me for pestering you with letters, when you have only gone away in the first place to unravel the threat to my kingdom, but Em, do you truly believe the answer to my stepmother’s curse may be found in a library?
Particularly when you consider how little scholarship understands about my realm.
After all, you once thought it quite a fearsome place, did you not?
Now you know how exaggerated such accounts are.
(I gave a strangled snort at this.)
Well, if there is one person who could unearth the proverbial needle in the haystack that is the esoteric ramblings of thousands of scholars, it is you, but if you do not find an answer, please do not sit there sulking among the stacks, or waste time harassing the poor librarians, as you were wont to do at Cambridge. Just come home.
Yours, always and ever,
Wendell
Today I had a much longer letter from him, which included an update on Orga’s campaign against Lord Taran—she somehow obtained entry to the wing of the castle he shares with Callum, whereupon she shredded half of his boots, namely the left half of every pair, a remarkable display of efficiency.
There were also the usual demands for my return and complaints about his sister, and the news that he had fired half the Council (“the more insufferable half”) and replaced them with mortals, which he seemed convinced I would be delighted by, though I did not have the sense that he had applied any criterion in the selection beyond a lack of faerie ancestry.
It would be nice if he would include something useful in his missives—the queen’s curse is spreading every day, but how much?
Perhaps he does not wish to alarm me, though it is also possible that he does not consider the information as relevant as his visit to Margret and Lilja, including an update on Margret’s progress in mastering traditional Irish baked goods.
This morning I made my way from my rented rooms to the library, stopping only to take a quick coffee and buttered scone at one of the campus cafés.
(I was once able to make do without breakfast, but I have fully succumbed to the habit now, it seems.) Trinity is smaller than Cambridge, though elegant in its own right, a mix of gothic architecture jostling good-naturedly with modern brickwork, and a great deal of green lawns and quiet promenades.
The library is particularly admirable, with a vaulted ceiling and warmly lit atrium, off which one may find innumerable reading rooms and shelves stretching from floor to ceiling.
Though the task before me is a grim one, I have found these homely surroundings to be a balm upon my anxieties.
Yesterday I made a discovery that I believe will be of immense help in our plight, and today my goal was to cross-reference the tale in question with stories from other Irish realms. I claimed a desk and switched on the electric lamp, then took up my notebook, in which I had jotted down the shelf number and location of several volumes.
Shadow, meanwhile, settled in for a nap under the desk.
One of his many talents is his ability to make himself scarce; dogs are rarely welcomed in libraries, but he seemed to blend into the shadows in that corner of the room, and I did not think he would be noticed unless one looked closely.
I had to visit the special collections room again—an experience I was not anticipating—but thankfully the man who had taken such offence to me before was not working that day, and I was assisted by a kindly old woman who not only located the volume I required, but suggested I consider another book of folktales, similar in theme, which I had overlooked before, having assumed from the title that it was written in Irish.
Such is the way with librarians, who are almost as unpredictable as the Folk, some minatory and persnickety, others overflowing with warmth towards humanity at large.
I thanked the woman, hefted my stack (ten books in total), and made my way carefully back to my desk, sweating a little.