Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(28)
He drew back and touched my cheek, his dark eyes searching mine. A flickering, moon-coloured glow had appeared above us—he had summoned a light.
“I mean it,” he murmured. So not quite so forgetful, then. The light caught on the silvered flowers in his hair and made him look even more inconveniently otherworldly than he already did, but I found that when I focused on small, familiar things, like the way his mouth came up slightly higher on the left side, and how his green eyes leaned more yellow than blue, I was able to disregard this.
“I know,” I replied. “I have brought myself here, Wendell—I am not some poor maiden who stumbled unawares through a ring of mushrooms. You can trust me to tell you if I change my mind.”
“All right.” He swept his gaze over me, then pulled me into his arms almost matter-of-factly. “That’s enough of that.”
“Enough of what?”
“You’re shaking.”
To my astonishment, I realized that I was, and had been for some time. He held me until I was still, gently combing through my hair, and I leaned my forehead against the curve of his neck. I could smell the wildflowers in his hair.
“I don’t know what I should call you,” I mumbled into his shoulder.
He gave a breath of laughter and drew back. “You haven’t been worrying about that, have you? It doesn’t matter what you call me, Em. You may choose whichever name you like. You said you didn’t want my true name.”
“I still don’t,” I said. The idea of having that sort of power over him filled me with disquiet. In the stories, whenever a mortal is granted such power over the Folk, she will always be forced to use it. “I would prefer to call you Wendell.”
“Good!” He kissed me again. “Do you know? That name is more comfortable to me now, after all these years, than Liath is.”
I felt suddenly worried that I hadn’t been understood. “It’s not that I dislike your name. I don’t dislike your realm, either—quite the contrary. But even after all my studies, after all I’ve learned over the years, this is so much— What I mean is, even to compare it to the Hidden king’s realm, it is, well—”
“So much,” he finished.
I let my breath out. “So much.”
“I thought it might be,” he said. “Let me show you something.”
He seemed so pleased with himself that I was instantly apprehensive. “Please let it not be a dress that mutters to itself, or contains anything other than fabric.”
He laughed. “Far better than that.”
We returned to the castle, where we were met by servants who trailed unobtrusively behind us. I found that I had a firm grasp of the layout, as if I carried a map in my head, despite my also knowing, somehow, that it was likely to shift at the whims of its occupants. The main level was a series of large galleries, some empty and moss-floored, others elaborately furnished sitting rooms or displays of art and statuary. In one gallery, a group of ladies sat at tea, twilight streaming through the windows as tiny brownies serenaded them with reed pipes. They beamed at us when we passed and waved us over, but Wendell merely called out a merry greeting and swept me along. In another room, several mortals admired paintings of village scenes that seemed human-made, beautiful but mundane. Throughout the place, the light shifted oddly, and shadows of leaves and wind-tossed branches scattered the floor, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of the trees that had stood there before the castle was built.
We mounted the largest of the five staircases to the uppermost floor, where we found Shadow sprawled across the landing, keeping a woebegone eye on all who passed. As soon as he saw us, he leapt upon me, then Wendell, tail lashing so hard he generated a breeze.
Lord Taran awaited us in Wendell’s reception room, perched upon one of the window seats and looking resentful. “It has been a very long day, Your Highnesses,” he said in a complaining tone, gesturing towards the small crowd of courtly fae gathered at the other end of the room, who eyed us nervously. At the centre of these was a woman with brown skin and tangled white tresses that trailed upon the floor, woven with bits of grass and leaves.
“I have no doubt of that,” I said, before Wendell could speak. Recalling what Callum had said that morning, I added, “Thank you, Lord Taran. For everything you have done for us.”
This seemed to bring him up short, and he blinked at me for a moment. “Yes, it is a great deal of work, keeping you two alive,” he said. “I wonder if it is worth the effort.”
“I shall not presume to try to influence your opinion on that score,” I said. “I wish only to express my gratitude—and Wendell’s—and to say that I am aware of how fortunate we are to be assisted by the most venerated person in the realm. You could easily have chosen otherwise.”
“And I may yet, if I am forced to endure your childish attempts at flattery,” he said, and yet some of the irritation drained from his eyes, replaced by the familiar glint of amusement. I was reminded, unaccountably, of Snowbell, and I had to press my lips together to suppress my smile.
“I have summoned a Council for you, my king,” Taran said, nodding to the other courtly fae. “Most of these served your father, or your grandparents before him. Choose who you like, or discard the lot; it’s all one to me.”
“Oh, good,” Wendell said blithely. “I’ll speak with them momentarily. Emily, this is the Lady East Wind—she is the only one I like. Well, Lord Wherry is all right, I suppose; or so I thought before I heard it was he who murdered one of my brothers.”