Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(30)
“Yes, that all sounds perfectly straightforward,” I murmured.
The last vestiges of daylight filtered through the mist that drifted off the waterfall—it was a chilly winter twilight, but welcome nevertheless. Welcome, because it was somehow distinctly mortal. For a long moment, I simply stared. Wendell waited, looking pleased but anxious, as does one who gives a gift that involved a great deal of guesswork as to the recipient’s desires. Shadow, meanwhile, snuffled happily at a patch of clover, either unaware or uncaring that we had been abruptly returned to the mortal world; but then, to him, all the worlds are merely one vast canvas of smells.
“Why have you brought me here?” I said at last.
“I thought it might be helpful. For most mortals it takes time to become accustomed to living in Faerie—even those under royal protection. It can be very wearying. Niamh seems comfortable now, but I know those first years were a trial for her. I felt it would be additionally trying for you, perhaps, given your previous sojourn in a Faerie court. So! I decided to offer you a bolt-hole of sorts. Here you may come to escape from courtiers and common fae alike, or simply to have a quiet place to scowl at your books. Do you like it? I would have preferred something more grand for a queen of Faerie, but then I know your preference for rustic accommodation.”
There was another moment during which I could not speak. “But when did you do all this?” I finally demanded weakly. “The bookbinders—this portal? I cannot imagine you accomplishing all this last night.”
“You needn’t look so astonished,” he said, unfolding his collar against the damp. “As I told you before, Em, being disinclined to exert oneself overmuch is not the same as being incapable. Now: I must tell you how it works.”
He spun me around, facing the direction whence we came. I didn’t need to ask what he was indicating, for the faerie door was as clear as day to my trained eye. Within the grasses, half covered in moss, was a scatter of flat stones. Most mortals would have taken them for a natural formation, as that sort of speckled stone was everywhere. But I could see that they formed a rough little path that bent towards a grove of oaks.
“Any mortal could stumble into the private chambers of faerie royalty,” I said, an absurd laugh rising in my throat.
“I doubt it,” he said. “Few villagers come this way. They believe that waterfall there to be faerie-haunted—which is only a little inaccurate, for certainly a great many Folk from my realm have made use of this door over the generations. And one must tread upon each of the stones to pass through, which is difficult to do by chance.”
As I stuttered and fumbled my words—I think I was trying to thank him, but another part of me wished to protest all these indulgences—he leaned forward and kissed me.
“Don’t tarry here too long,” he murmured against my lips. “I shall miss you too much, and come to regret this.” He turned and stepped from stone to stone as if they were little islands in a rushing stream. And then, as he moved from one stone to the next, he vanished.
I turned back to the cottage, feeling as if I were in a dream. It was winter, but this was Ireland, and one of the southernmost counties at that, so everything was still very green. I was not cold in my cloak, though a scarf would have been nice, for the damp breeze had a chill. My initial thought was that the countryside reminded me a great deal of Wendell’s realm, but with fewer trees and a welcome sense of the mundane about it. Oh, it was beautiful, but the trees here were trees, not leering monstrosities, and none of the landscape features seemed inclined to change position on a whim. It was coherent, unambiguous, and immensely restful to my eyes.
Moving slowly, I made my way up the path to the cottage. A dry stone wall enclosed a little garden—a vegetable patch and a few clay pots of flowers, leafless and slumbering in the January evening. A mountain range loomed in the distance, snow adorning a few of the higher peaks. Far gentler than the towering heights of Austria, of course, but pretty in its own way.
The door was unlocked, but as I turned the knob, I had a moment of misgiving. Someone was moving about within—I heard a clanking sound, then a series of thumps, as if they were in the process of preparing a meal. Had Wendell installed a fleet of servants in the place to cater to my whims? It seemed likely, and I wondered if it would be possible to send them away; cooking my own supper would be preferable to being waited on and having to work out their expectations of me, where I would no doubt fall short.
I looked over my shoulder, and for a moment I considered simply going back. It was not only the idea of servants; I did not like that there was now a world between Wendell and me. It filled me with a foreboding that I did not care for, though I could not guess what it signified. In addition to that, Wendell’s realm was still a threat to him, with enemies everywhere, and I had little faith in his sense of caution.
The faerie door glimmered faintly—with damp, a mortal would assume, but I knew better. I turned from it with a sigh. I did not want to spurn Wendell’s gift, particularly given the thoughtfulness behind it. I would remain in the mortal realm for an hour or two, then return to Faerie.
I pushed the door open. Warmth and light spilled over me, together with the smell of stew and baking bread. The main room of the cottage was low-ceilinged and cosy, a fire burning merrily in the hearth, before which were several comfortable armchairs. On the other side of the cottage was the kitchen, and through the open door I saw a pretty, dark-haired woman with a curious scar upon her forehead. She was chopping carrots at the table, pausing occasionally to tuck her hair behind her ear or toss a comment over her shoulder at her companion, whom I could not see. The cottage was full of their voices and laughter.