Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(51)
“Good Lord,” I said, staring down at the book in my hands. I tried to recall my grandfather—I’d been only thirteen when he died, and the few memories I had of him were in relation to his fantastical library, as I’d seen it. He’d never cared much for children, and I have no recollection of conversing with him, though he did tolerate me looking at his books, because I was careful with them.
An image rose in my mind: an old man—so he had seemed to me then, though he would have been only in his fifties—with his back to me, shirtsleeves rolled up as he hunched over a book at a desk. The man himself was blurred; I had the vague impression of a lanky frame and jutting ears, but no other details. Around him rose shelf upon shelf of books; those near the desk were brightly lit, while the rest faded into shadow.
“I did not know he journalled,” I said. “I take it these are not his law notes?”
Farris shook his head. “As you know, Edgar was something of an amateur enthusiast of the Folk, yet one who attempted to maintain professional records whenever he investigated a barrow or other rumoured faerie site. He prided himself on it, in fact; he wanted to leave accurate records for any dryadologists who might wish to further investigate his findings.”
I nodded. While some dryadologists take a snobbish attitude towards hobbyists, the latter have been instrumental in a number of significant discoveries.[*]
“Unfortunately, your family had his other journals destroyed,” Farris said. “But this—” He looked sheepish. “Well, I took it. It was among his belongings when he was found in Exmoor and brought with him to the hospital. I intended to return it to your grandmother, but when I learned what your family had done to the rest of his writings—”
“I understand.” I set the journal down on the table, for abruptly I did not wish to be touching it. “Then it is a record of his last days.”
“Not quite,” Farris said. “He appears to have given up on journalling at some point during his stay with the Folk. Perhaps a few weeks before they abandoned him? It is difficult to be certain. And the first half of the journal is preoccupied primarily with a separate investigation he undertook earlier that year. But it is indeed a record of his final adventures.”
I sighed. At that moment, the waiter brought us a fresh pot of tea—I hadn’t touched mine, but Farris had polished off the lot. I waited until he was gone before saying, “This is another one of your warnings, then.”
“No,” Farris said firmly. But then he amended, again a little sheepish, “Not entirely.”
“I thought you did not wish to play the gloomy sage.”
“I will not tell you how to live, Emily,” he said. “I would not do you the disrespect.”
I gave a short laugh. “Then what is this?”
“The journal belongs to your family by right,” he said. “Your grandmother has passed, so why should you not be the one to decide what is to be done with it? You might donate it to the Library of Dryadology, or put it to some other purpose. Or destroy it, for that matter.”
“We are in accord on the matter of ownership,” I said. “It is more the timing of this revelation that I question. You know that Wendell and I will soon be married.”
“I believe you should have all the relevant information before you commit yourself to one of the Folk. Or accept one of their thrones.”
“Relevant,” I repeated. “My grandfather did not fall in love with Wendell. It was not Wendell’s people who murdered him on that Exmoor heath. Your definition of relevance seems somewhat loose, Farris.”
He gave a small shrug. “Then you can have no objection to reading it.”
“Very well.” I felt he had gotten the better of me somehow, and it put me out of humour. And did not Farris recognize that I had more pressing concerns than this decades-old family secret? Nevertheless, I slid the journal into my briefcase. Whereupon it largely left my thoughts; Ariadne arrived shortly after, and together we finished our breakfast. They walked me to the train station and we said our goodbyes.
Since boarding the train, however, I have not been so incurious and have found my thoughts straying repeatedly to the journal. I have removed it from my briefcase and placed it on the seat beside me, where it now sits unopened, putting a damper on my sense of triumph at having come up with a plan to find Queen Arna. But why should this be so? I meant what I said to Farris—I am fully aware of the danger involved in marrying one of the Folk and do not need him to rescue me.
I keep feeling as if the bloody journal is glaring at me. Or not glaring precisely, but brooding in a sullen and self-righteous way, as if it knows as well as I that I should not be ignoring my grandfather’s last testament. I think I will put it away again.
SKIP NOTES
* Ursula Waldron is perhaps the best-known of these. In the late eighteenth century, Waldron questioned the efficacy of a protective practice dating to the medieval period, namely that of stuffing one’s pockets with day-old bread before venturing into regions frequented by the Folk. The method was once thought as efficacious as salt circles or turning one’s clothes inside out in warding off unfriendly faeries, and was particularly popular in the post-plague generations, a period of greater mobility in rural regions. Perhaps this is why so many peasants were abducted during this era, as Waldron proved, through a series of interviews with the trooping faeries of Wiltshire, that the Folk are not only unharmed by stale bread, but have been known to approach mortals with especially fat pockets to see what they’re about. Waldron, a retired blacksmith who taught herself to read and write in her later years, was eventually appointed to the post of Honourary Lecturer at Cambridge, despite the grumblings of the traditionalist set.