Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(14)
*2 “Rumpelstiltskin” is, of course, the most famous story of a faerie foiled by his own name, but plenty of others exist, notably “Old Erenondalen” (Norway) and “Lammy Boggs” (Britain). Due to the rarity of scholarly encounters with the courtly fae, and the offence many common fae take at enquiries regarding their names, little is known about the actual power these have, and whether knowing a faerie’s full name would be tantamount to holding them in thrall. Those few common fae who have entrusted scholars with their names have given them only a piece, sometimes the first half and others the second, and sometimes, as with Lewis Hartland’s henkie, Wattle, a childhood nickname.
*3 “The Laughing Stove,” which can be found in J. P. Gillen’s Anthology of Irish Folklore from the Viking Era: A Cross-Cultural Analysis, 8th ed., 1908.
*4 After an exhaustive search, I have come to the conclusion that no academic literature exists concerning this mysterious “Veil,” a Faerie realm that only monarchs may access. I believe I am the only scholar to learn of it, or at least the only surviving scholar.
31st December
We reached the castle at dusk.
We had tarried another day in the forest—partly because Wendell needed the time to work, and partly on account of Shadow, whom Wendell and I felt the need to fuss over. Wendell located another standing stone with some helpful brownies living in it, who came racing out with a plate of dog biscuits this time. Shadow devoured the lot and collapsed upon a patch of moss, falling into a deep slumber. When he awoke in the morning, there was a spring in his step I have not seen in years.
We approached the castle from the east rather than the route I had taken in October, through the gardens. Here the path around the lake widened into a broad promenade used by lords and ladies arriving by carriage, as well as the monarchy when they wished to make a grand return from some battle or hunting expedition.
In other words, it was perfect.
When I had explained my idea to Wendell, he began to laugh. “Well?” I said as he wiped his eyes. “Is it that ridiculous?”
“No, Em,” he said, taking my hand. “It is better than anything I could have come up with. And much less work than bursting in on everyone with my sword flashing.”
“You don’t have your needles, though,” I said.
“Of course I do. You thought I would leave them behind?” He snapped his fingers, and one of the guardians alighted on his shoulder, making me start back with my heart thundering. Slung across its back was a leather satchel, and within that was the collection of silver sewing needles that Aud, the headwoman of Hrafnsvik, had gifted Wendell a year ago.
I was not idle as he worked, though my contribution was necessarily limited. Few scholars know any Words of Power, and I have acquired two, one of which—the more ridiculous of the pair, naturally—was well-suited to our circumstances.
I wandered a little way into the forest and spoke the Word. At first, nothing happened. I recalled there had been a similar pause the previous time I had invoked its magic, beside the Hidden king’s tree amidst the snow of a Ljosland winter.
Then something came sailing out of the forest gloom and smacked me in the forehead.
I staggered back a little, more out of surprise than pain. I stooped and picked up the button from where it had fallen among a clump of ivy.
It was a lovely little thing, made from some sort of pale blue crystal that flashed even in the leafy shadow, carved in the shape of a rose. Emboldened, I spoke the button-summoning Word again. This time, I managed to catch the button before it hit me in the face, though I fumbled it immediately, and almost lost it in a hollow. This button was of silver, unadorned but so delicately made that I feared it would break if I held it too tightly.
Snowbell, who had followed me into the trees, watched with interest. “How can a mortal oaf work our magics?” he said.
“Anyone can use the Words of Power,” I replied. “The difficult thing is tracking them down, as many have been forgotten.” I glanced at him, suppressing a smile. “It is true, though; I am only a mortal, and my eyesight is poor. I fear I may lose the buttons as soon as I find them.”
“Hum!” Snowbell’s tail twitched in excitement. “My eyesight is excellent!”
And so, I spoke the Word more than a hundred times, and after each utterance a different button would come sailing out of the forest. They came from all directions, and some took longer to arrive than others, as if they had crossed a great distance. I managed to catch a few, but most hit me in the head and bounced off somewhere, at which point Snowbell or one of the other fuchszwerge would give a yip of delight and chase them down, snarling at one another as they fought to be first.
“Good Lord!” Wendell cried when I showed him my eclectic little hoard, which I had collected in my skirt. He was leaning over a strange pile of dark fabric that rippled in the breeze, his sewing needle flashing. “Where on earth did you find them?”
“People are always losing buttons,” I said. “The Folk are no different. Of course there would be a quantity of them scattered throughout the forest like dropped coins. I had only to call for them. The question is, are they useful?”
Wendell stuck his needle into the mushroom he seemed to be using for a pin cushion and ran his long fingers over the buttons.
“Oh, Em,” he said quietly. “They’re perfect.”