Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(105)
“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.