Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(18)
“You had a bit to do with it,” I said drily, though it was difficult to stop myself from smiling. I have often found Wendell’s happiness infectious, particularly now; it seemed to radiate from him like morning sunlight.
He laughed. “Now all I want is a good, hearty meal and my own bed. But let us give them a show first, hm?”
He stepped forward, still emanating good cheer, and I sensed the crowd relax further. I wondered if they’d expected him to simply unsheathe his sword and start beheading people—probably. Violence came as naturally as drawing breath to monarchs of the Silva Lupi.
“My stepmother is dead,” Wendell said in a carrying voice. “Or will be, soon enough. To those who loved her: know that she served our realm well, with courage and devotion. To her enemies: I invite you to celebrate with me tonight, and with your new queen, who slew her with her own hand.”
Folk grinned at this, their teeth flashing in the lantern light, and I suppressed an urge to step behind Shadow. A woman with a hedgehog perched on her shoulder burst into hysterical sobs.
Wendell turned to me, holding out the mirror. “Would you care to do the honours? It is our custom to smash all mirrors in the castle when a monarch passes, so that we are rid of everything that bore their image. This was among my stepmother’s personal possessions.”
“You do it,” I said, for I was a little thrown by this and did not want to misstep somehow.
Wendell nodded. He drew Shadow out of the way, then hurled the mirror against the side of the castle. It shattered into a hundred tiny shards, which transformed into fireflies and soared into the air to join the others.
The crowd erupted into cries of delight—even those who had seemed most afraid were cheering now, and several more harpists joined the first. The frisson of terror began to melt, and the evening swelled with music and laughter.
Lord Taran made another motion, and the silk coverings on the wagons were removed, revealing an assemblage of mirrors of all shapes and sizes. Above the tumult of the crowd, Wendell shouted, “Who will celebrate?”
Folk surged forward, snatching up mirrors from the carts, some common fae hoisting mirrors larger than they were and stumbling about clumsily under their weight. There was a great deal of pushing and shoving, and small fights broke out, for there were not enough mirrors for everyone. The sound of shattering glass sparred with the harps’ strains, and innumerable fireflies floated into the night. The silver faerie stones amidst the treetops began to glow like floating lanterns. Folk went charging through the gate, shrieking with excitement.
“They will roam the castle tonight, searching for mirrors,” Wendell told me. “As I said, it’s a very old tradition. Some get carried away—no doubt a few windows will also be shattered, particularly those in my stepmother’s rooms.”
I drew towards him, overwhelmed. I could not tell if my fascination outweighed my fear in that moment. “I—” I began, though I did not know what I meant to say.
“I know,” he said quietly, his arm encircling my waist.
He led me towards the castle gate, an unnervingly massive thing with doors of heavy oak several times my height and carved with what I had taken for an abstract floral scene, but which, up close, was revealed as a head encircled with brooklime, leaves spilling from its eyes and mouth.
Lord Taran stood to one side, Callum to the other. The auburn-haired man gave me a smile as Wendell and I passed.
“Welcome back, Professor Wilde,” he murmured. “Or should I say Walters? You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
1st January 1911
A new year.
Not that one would know it in Faerie—the Folk pay no mind to human calendars, or, in some cases, to the concept of linear time. It is odd—I never gave much thought to the passing of years, in the mortal world. Certainly I never bothered celebrating them, as others do. Yet here in Faerie, where I am quite possibly the only person to know that one year has faded into the next, I find myself wishing to mark the event in some way.
But I am rambling.
(How on earth have I gotten myself into this? How will I convince anyone that I am a queen, and how did I believe it would be a good idea to try? This is utter madness. I try to stamp these thoughts out of existence, but they will not leave me be.)
I woke this morning in a manner to which I have become accustomed of late: with Orga perched upon my chest, kneading at the flesh below my throat.
I sat upright with a gasp, dislodging her and the dreadful prickling of her claws, so close to my jugular vein. She has never once woken Wendell in this manner; I suspect she is making some sort of statement.
Shadow, stretched out at the foot of the bed, awoke with a grunt. I glanced over at Wendell—naturally he was still asleep, buried in blankets as always; he only mumbled something when I touched him and rolled onto his stomach so that his face was engulfed in pillow.
I could not remember much of the previous evening, not because of enchantment, but because I had been so exhausted by our long trek—and the weight of the strangeness around me—that I had been almost asleep on my feet. We had dined in a banquet hall open to the sky, with glassless windows through which the ivies and mosses crept. I say “dined,” but Wendell kept being interrupted by Folk who wished to bow and talk to him and give him presents—chiefly jewels and silver trinkets, though one lady presented him with a wooden chest that released a swarm of colourful butterflies each time it was opened. Folk charged hither and thither, smashing mirrors and the occasional window, and there was a great deal of shrieking and—I think—violence, though this was distant, and I could not tell who was fighting whom. Overall it was nothing short of chaos and served only to exhaust me further.