Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(19)
After I’d eaten a little, Wendell led me up to his rooms. He returned to the party, but not for long, I don’t think—I woke to the sound of him falling into bed beside me, muttering about “tedious courtiers not even giving me a moment to sip my tea” and then seemed to fall immediately asleep.
I pushed the blankets back and stood. Wendell’s cloak grumbled at me from the floor. It was strange to be here again, in the bedroom where I had poisoned the queen, but Wendell would not hear of taking over his stepmother’s more majestic chambers, and had been set on returning to the familiar wing in the castle he had occupied in his youth.
“Well?” I said to Shadow, who was eyeing me. He whuffed and jumped to the floor beside me.
I went to the window and drew back the rich black curtains. The weeping rowan stirred and slowly drew its sharp leaves across the glass, as if seeking entry. I do not think I will ever like the look of the thing, with its clusters of blood-coloured berries, but at least it is not an attentive oak.
I paused beside Wendell, considering whether to wake him. We had, in fact, woken once already, earlier that morning, and then spent an hour or two very agreeably occupied—I blush now to write these words—before falling asleep again. He had declared his intention of properly expressing his gratitude to me, and—well, I had not been disinclined to allow him the opportunity.
I decided to let him sleep.
Wendell’s bedroom was no longer in the state of dilapidation I had witnessed on my previous visit. It had been cleaned and freshened, the wooden floors scattered with soft rugs, the smell of mould replaced with that of pine and wildflowers. New mirrors in silver frames had been placed upon each wall, so that I could behold endless reflections of my inelegant self frowning sleepily amidst the gentle glitter. A part of me wondered when the renovations had occurred—after his stepmother fled, or upon his arrival yesterday evening? Either way, I suspected oíche sidhe involvement; the walls and furnishings had that slightly-too-polished look about them, and I doubted I would find a single speck of dust in the entire place, not even beneath the wardrobe.
Within said wardrobe I discovered a variety of dressing gowns, all ridiculously elegant and mostly black, and selected one of the simplest, which was of plain brown silk.
Orga wound herself around my legs, purring in an insistent sort of way. She butted her forehead against me as if trying to draw my attention.
“What have you got there?” I took the scrap of midnight-blue fabric from her mouth and examined it. The brocade was a silver pattern of leaves and tiny deer. “This looks like the cloak Lord Taran wore at dinner yesterday.”
Orga rumbled her agreement and rubbed enthusiastically against my legs. I noted the many tooth punctures in the fabric.
“You wish me to help you murder Lord Taran, is that it?” I said. “No, thank you. I’m fairly confident that one could turn me into a slug with a wave of his hand. And anyway, Wendell is fine.”
Orga growled in such a way that I understood this was insufficient grounds to pardon her nemesis. Clearly witnessing Wendell being nearly decapitated had awakened some aspect of her nature that I did not fully understand, and that I hoped would never be directed at myself.
“Come, Shadow,” I said. Now that I had slept, my scholarly curiosity was back, and I wished to undertake a proper investigation of Wendell’s rooms—I barely remember anything about the castle from my previous visit, so muddled was I by magic.
Initially, I thought the rooms were arranged in a line, because on my right hand was always a window overlooking the lake and gardens. I paused for a moment to admire the silver shine of the waves cresting in the sunlight. But then I recalled that I had taken the door across from the bed, which should have led away from the view, at which point I tried to stop thinking about it.
The first room I entered was a magnificent bathing room tiled in river stones, with a full bath one stepped down into, like something from Roman times. This was steaming and honeysuckle-scented, and I availed myself of it with pleasure, using up two of the leaf-shaped soaps on my dishevelled hair before continuing my search.
The next room was illuminated by skylights and a row of tall casement windows. It was also the dining room, and it was full of Folk.
They were a half dozen or so in number, and upon first sight I thought they were oíche sidhe. But no: while they were drab and greyish, with the same spindly hands, these creatures were smaller and stouter, with perpetually red faces. They were bustling about the table, which had two places set and was filled with silver dishes of fruit, buttered bread, jams, sausages, and some manner of spiced porridge with cream poured over top.
Most of the faeries froze in surprise when I entered, but the one nearest to me, who seemed quite young, gave a shriek and dropped the platter of eggs she was holding, which struck the floor with a wet sort of clang.
“Your Highness!” another faerie said in a hoarse voice, after a fraught moment in which we stared at each other in mutual panic. “Would you care to—”
“No, thank you,” I said, overloud. Then I turned and fled.
I regretted this instantly—not only because it was undignified, but also because my stomach was rumbling noisily. But I was faced with a conundrum as I regained the bathroom—if I returned and apologized, they would think me contrary and strange, if not outright mad. Or, worse, unfit to be their queen.
Well, naturally I am unfit to be anyone’s queen. But I had no desire to make this more apparent than it already was.