Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(104)
“He is an old dog still,” Wendell said quietly. “There are no magics to restore youth in creatures doomed to age—only glamours. But I thought, if I could grant him another few years of health, which he may spend in your company, and in roaming his favourite paths, and napping by the fireside—”
“It’s enough,” I said, then buried my face in Shadow’s fur, unable to control myself any longer. In truth, it wasn’t enough—no finite span of years ever could be. And yet it was a gift beyond measure.
When at last I had my emotions in hand, I looked up to find both Ariadne and Lilja brushing away tears, while Margret rubbed Lilja’s shoulders. Niamh nodded her approval, for once having nothing to tease Wendell about, and even Callum, who is ordinarily a little hesitant around Shadow, being, like Wendell, more given to cats, was blinking rapidly. Only Farris seemed unmoved, and yet he spoke not a word to dampen the moment, merely regarded Wendell with a sort of repressed antagonism.
“This deserves a celebration,” Callum noted, removing his harp from its case. “What do you say?”
As none of us had any objections, he began to play, the music scarcely louder than the wind outside at first, as if they were two halves of the same melody, then swelling into a familiar song. Shadow lay his head in my lap, and I held him so tightly one would have thought I had lost him, as I had Wendell, only to find him again.
SKIP NOTES
* The Belgian story of the egg-laying goat is perhaps the most famous example, but many others exist.
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—I keep 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.”