Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(23)

“I don’t think I heard your stepmother direct a single kind word at the help,” Niamh said. “I’m not certain she even glanced at them.”

“I have a mind to be charitable where the common fae are concerned,” Wendell said. “They have been so useful to us. Also I believe I will enjoy gaining a reputation for benevolence. What do you say, Em? You approve, surely.”

“Yes,” I said dubiously, my surprise lessening somewhat. I wondered if I should point out that the merits of charity were somewhat lessened when one anticipated praise at the end of it, before deciding the effort unlikely to yield any fruit.

“You should be careful in that regard,” Niamh said. “Plenty of Folk dislike you for your mixed blood. Open kindnesses directed towards the common fae will only serve as a reminder. I suggest you refrain from further benevolence until your rule is secure.”

Wendell smiled. “My father always valued your advice. Do I take it from your presence here that you would be willing to take up the mantle of scribe once more? Emily?”

“I think it an excellent idea,” I said, trying to sound dignified rather than overeager.

Niamh’s face brightened. She seemed more pleased than surprised by Wendell’s suggestion, and I thought Wendell had guessed right—she had come to us in the hopes of being offered the position. “You do not wish to consider other candidates?”

“Not particularly,” I said. “You were loyal to Wendell’s father, which makes you less likely to scheme against us—I say less rather than unlikely, given the character of this particular realm. And I remember Farris speaking highly of you. If it will not be a distraction from your book?”

“I must confess that I have more than one book underway,” she said with a rueful smile. “The second is a memoir of my years in the Silva Lupi.”

I let out a breath of laughter. Last year, I became the first scholar in history to visit Wendell’s kingdom and escape with my life; it is not only one of the deadliest Faerie realms, but the most enigmatic. “That will create a sensation,” I said.

“That’s the hope,” Niamh said. “So you see, I have no objection to being named your scribe; it will only add interest to the memoir.”

“Scholars!” Wendell exclaimed. “What do I always say? You are a mad lot. Taking up careers that could easily get you killed simply to have something to write about. You will be at the top of the assassination list, Niamh, if I am overthrown. Still, it is hard to argue with you—I want you on my side too badly.”

“That’s settled then,” Niamh said with self-satisfaction. At that moment, a different servant entered with an auburn-haired mortal man in tow—Callum Thomas, looking wary, but also as if he were trying to mask it behind a polite smile.

“Oh, it’s you,” Wendell said. “Good! Sit down and help yourself to breakfast.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Callum said. His expression did not change, but I saw his shoulders relax. His carefully concealed discomfort was of a character I recognized; it was what I felt whenever I conversed with a member of the courtly fae who was not Wendell.

“You are welcome here,” I told him. “I understand we have you to thank for Lord Taran’s allegiance. Not a small thing, that.”

Callum smiled, seeming to relax further at the mention of Taran’s name. “It did not actually take much convincing. He never liked his half-sister much. In fact, I recall he spent more time arguing with me over our silverware when I suggested we change it.”

I glanced at Wendell, who raised his eyebrows at me. “Why?” I said.

“It was a bit garish,” Callum said, buttering a roll.

“I didn’t—”

“I know what you meant.” He put the knife down, his smile becoming a wince. “You ask why I helped you.”

“You have helped me more than once, in fact,” I pointed out.

“This realm is a hell for mortals,” he said simply. “All but a favoured few. A place of violence and torment. Whenever I have the chance, which is far less often than I would like, I endeavour to make it less so.”

“And yet it is your home,” I said, examining him.

He gave the faintest of nods. “And yet it is my home.”

“Oh dear,” Wendell said sympathetically, touching his hand. “I have no doubt you’ve seen things that upset you greatly. My father used to round up the mortals who stumbled into his realm—those who didn’t amuse him in some way—and set them loose in Wildwood Bog for the nobility to hunt.”

Callum nodded. “A tradition continued by your stepmother.”

“She would!” Wendell said. “Well, no such base pastimes will be allowed under our reign. I haven’t the heart for brutality or violence.”

I bit my tongue at this.

“We have heard rumours of you for years,” Callum said. “And of you, Professor Wilde. Your stepmother had spies watching you, you know. It was said that our exiled king had become taken with some scholar. Few Folk could believe it.”

“And from this,” I said, “you believed that Wendell deserved your loyalty? That seems a gamble. And we mortals can be tyrants too.”

“It was a gamble,” Callum agreed. “But he could scarcely be worse than Queen Arna.”