9th January #2
I did not note the passage of the hours at first. However, shortly past midday, an older scholar wearing a bowtie and carrying a handkerchief he kept wiping over his bald head established himself at the desk across from mine, despite the abundance of empty space elsewhere.
Naturally, he then proceeded to hum softly under his breath as he paged through the bound volume of journals before him, occasionally muttering criticisms, usually pertaining to the shortsightedness of the authors.
Glaring at this oblivious person had no effect; indeed, he only seemed to grow more loquacious, as if desiring to further impose his presence upon my sanctuary.
Well, it was not as if I were trying to rescue a kingdom from destruction, and might need a little peace and quiet to think.
It was like sharing office space with Professor Walters again.
After a quarter hour of this I decided I had earned a stroll upon the green; with any luck, the man would be gone when I came back.
I woke Shadow, switched off my lamp, and placed my library card with its Cambridge seal upon it atop the books as evidence that I would be returning, to ward off any overindustrious shelvers.
Then I wandered outside with Shadow padding at my heels.
The wind was chill, but for once it was not raining.
I drew a deep breath, savouring the sense of homecoming.
No, Trinity College is not Cambridge, but there is an essence shared by great universities that always puts me at ease; entering the campus grounds had felt like donning an old, cherished jumper.
I adjusted my scarf and headed towards the open sunny expanse of the neighbouring green, where several students were seated on benches, taking advantage of the miserly winter warmth.
I paused for a moment in the sunlight, but the chill lingered.
Now that I was away from my books, the thoughts rushed back like a flock of dark birds.
I missed Wendell with a sudden and painful ache that left me short of breath, a sensation that would have surprised me had I not been experiencing it regularly, even when he’d been there beside me.
For two days after our visit to the yew grove, I’d buried myself in Irish folklore, and there I’d found the answer I sought, in all its horrifying simplicity. I’d had an inkling—of course I had.
Wendell’s death would lift the curse. Nothing more, and nothing less.
I had not known how Wendell would react when I came to tell him my theory, my hands stained with ink and my eyes red from rubbing at them.
I’d found him gazing out the window of one of the castle’s many galleries, this one filled with curious wooden statues of dancers in various positions, some perfectly balanced on tiptoe, others with skirts twirling about them and arms uplifted.
They looked like ordinary mortals, dressed mostly in peasant clothes, and some gave off the impression of mortal clumsiness too, even in their frozen states.
I certainly hoped they were artistic renderings and nothing more sinister.
Wendell does not know their origin; they have been in the castle since long before he was born.
Naturally, they move when you are not looking.
Just slightly, as if they are still caught in the dance, only time has slowed for them to the merest of trickles—a single finger might uncurl, a heel lift up, but that is more than enough to make me avoid the room as a general rule.
In any case, Wendell had not been in the least perturbed when I confided in him. He had nodded, and told me he had guessed as much, for he could feel the curse seeping through the realm, farther and deeper, and he had watched his blood heal the grove in the places where it fell.
“Well,” he had murmured, gazing at the forest. “At least I have seen it again.”
He must have seen my reaction in my face, for he added quickly, “Em, it is only a last resort. We will find our way out of this somehow. Have we not navigated such dangers before? I have no desire to give my stepmother the satisfaction of killing me, and still less to leave you.” He smiled.
“Though I would not be surprised if you proved more adept at ruling a faerie kingdom alone than with my help.”
I was in no mood for jesting, and his calmness troubled me; I had obviously been expecting some reaction, most likely dismay, but annoyance and exasperation at the very least. I wished I could put into words the terror that had gathered within me since I worked out his stepmother’s true plot, how it only seemed to grow and grow until I feared it would take over every inch of me.
He had not needed me to explain. He had merely drawn me into his arms and held me for a long time, while the green shadow shifted beyond the window, and the dancers moved ever so slowly around us.
As I strode down the path beyond Trinity’s library, lost in unpleasant thoughts, something blue moved out of the corner of my eye. To my astonishment, I turned to see none other than Dr. Farris Rose in a navy peacoat, seated at one of the outdoor tables of the library café, waving at me.
“What on earth” was all I could sputter when I reached him.
He laughed and motioned for me to be seated. “Well, Emily!” he said, extending his hand to give Shadow a pat. “Have I surprised you? You’ve given me quite a turn yourself, you know. I’ve been here four days, enmeshed in research—when did you arrive?”
“Not three days ago,” I said. It was, I realized when I thought it over, more of a surprise that our paths had not crossed before now. No doubt Farris had also spent much of his time at this same library. “But what brings you to Dublin?”
“Ah.” He sipped his tea with a rueful sort of grimace.
“Our meeting is perhaps not so much of a coincidence as I implied. I did not know you would be here. But Ariadne—well, something in your recent letter to her piqued my academic interest. And what better place than Trinity to research the Silva Lupi? Naturally the lion’s share of scholarship on the Irish realms is held within those walls.
” He gestured at the library towering behind us.
“Ariadne shared my letter,” I repeated. I did not know whether to be annoyed or embarrassed—should I have written to Farris as well?
Our relationship has come a long way from what it was before Austria, but someone like Farris Rose will never not be intimidating, and I confess I cannot imagine writing to him of my troubles, as I would a friend.
What if he took offence at the presumption?
I have ever been a poor judge of such things.
“We were spending the day on the huntsmen project when the letter arrived,” he explained. “The girl was much perturbed by its contents, and could not help but share them with me.”
“I see.” Following our Austria expedition, Farris took Ariadne on as one of his research assistants—quite an honour; he ordinarily has two or three assistants, but never has he employed an undergraduate before.
Currently, they are working on a paper on the hunting patterns of the elder huntsmen, which the four of us had the misfortune to meet in St. Liesl.
Farris flagged down the waiter, who brought me a cup and refilled the pot. Farris waited until he had gone back inside before continuing, “I suspect you left out many of the details of what you are facing in Bambleby’s realm. Am I correct?”
I looked away. Yes, I had given Ariadne only an abbreviated version of what had transpired since Wendell and I returned to Faerie. I had made it sound as if Queen Arna were more of a temporary nuisance than a threat, to avoid worrying the girl.
I could tell that Farris was holding back questions. The lines in his face—scholars’ lines, mostly between the brows and around the eyes, from frowning down at books—were sharper with suppressed tension, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to tell him everything. And so I did.
Farris listened intently at first, then held up a hand with an “If you don’t mind?” He rummaged around in his pockets until he unearthed his glasses, settled them on the bridge of his nose, and opened the little notebook he’d placed beside him on the table.
“Please continue,” he said.
He did not attempt to steer the direction of my tale, though I went off course several times, providing far too much detail on extraneous matters (the ghastly oaks being one of these); he merely listened, jotting notes in his shorthand.
Occasionally he would ask me to clarify something, but that was all.
He might have been taking notes at a conference.
I felt oddly comforted by the whole thing.
“This curse,” he said when I came to the end of the story. “It is worsening, then?”
“Every day it spreads to a new grove or moor,” I said. “Those that are not promptly burnt only grow larger. If we cannot put a stop to it, the realm will become a wasteland.”
Saying it out loud had an effect upon me that was like hearing Queen Arna’s name for the first time; it was a destabilizing feeling, like standing on the precipice of a great height.
I realized that I had not said it before, the potential consequence of our failure, not even to myself.
It did not feel real. Wendell and I had worked so hard to find a way back to his world—that all our efforts should have brought us to this!
I wished Wendell were with me, which was completely irrational, of course—he would not be of any practical help, and was needed in Faerie.
“The central problem,” I said, “is that the realm has two monarchs. Queen Arna has not formally abdicated the throne, nor has she been killed. As a half-mortal woman, she is no match for Wendell, but as a monarch of Faerie, she has access to magics other Folk might not even comprehend. Thus the strength of her curse.”