Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(52)
12th January—late
I arrived in County Leane after sundown, my last train having been delayed. With nothing to occupy me on the carriage ride to Corbann but my grandfather’s journal—or, rather, with plenty to occupy me, all of it worrying—I spent the time perusing its contents, reading the last entry first and then moving backwards to the beginning. I am not entirely certain why I did so, only that the idea of reading it sequentially made me uneasy. I suppose that when the ending is so unpleasant, one does not wish to leave it looming. I need not have feared, however, for it is as Farris said: my grandfather’s last entry merely describes a night of dancing and feasting, one of many he experienced among the Folk. He never recorded his abandonment, or anything that came after. The last words he wrote: Tomorrow I shall walk down to the sea.
Interestingly, there is no point at which he chooses to run off with the woman in Exmoor—one day he encounters her bathing in a stream; the next, he is taking tea with her. After that comes a series of impossible banquets under the stars, complicated dances amongst the night mists whose patterns he can never remember afterwards, and nonsensical conversations with various Folk, all described in his ordinary, matter-of-fact tone, as if he were recounting a visit to the post office. Occasionally he mentions a mysterious “she” whom he describes as “beauty incarnate,” “ethereal wanderer,” and other fawning terms. But then in the next sentence he is looking forward to telling his wife about the “wondrous cakes” served at dinner, or to writing to Farris to tell him of some strange species of common fae he encountered. I think it likely that he was unconscious of the danger he was in.
I was not able to make sense of it all in the time I had, as the shorthand he employed is difficult. Also—need it be said?—it is an unsettling thing to read. I know Farris meant for me to be unsettled by it, which only increases my resentment. I threw the journal down several times, only to pick it up again, helplessly drawn in by the unfolding tragedy, the unanswered questions, and the uncanny echoes of myself. It was not just our handwriting or initials. My grandfather was as obsessive about his research as I, and seemed as skilled at giving offence. He was even quarrelling with a librarian!
Madame S— can write me all the letters she desires, he wrote at one point. I am not returning it until I have finished my research. Where is the need? Not one person borrowed it in over three years—I consulted the catalogue. That she would threaten to send the county sheriff after me! As if she does not have better things to do. Well, let her try to find me here. Ha!
I never did learn which book he was so determined to keep.
My first thought upon my arrival in Corbann was to return immediately to Wendell’s realm through the stepping-stone door; however, I could not pass by Lilja and Margret’s cottage without stopping to greet them. They invited me in to supper, so curious about my visit to Trinity that their enthusiasm was like a current sweeping me along, and I wondered how I could excuse myself.
Fortunately, before I had time to worry about it, there came a knock at the door, and there was Wendell, looking eager and impatient. I was so relieved to see him, alive and well and not somehow overcome by his stepmother’s curse in my absence, that when he stepped towards me, I beat him to it, flinging my arms around him and nearly knocking him over on the doorstep.
“Emily!” he exclaimed, laughing. “This is only the second time I can recall that you have greeted me with enthusiasm. Are you well?”
“Good grief,” I said, glowering to cover my embarrassment at my display. “Surely second is an exaggeration.”
“Now, that is a look I am more familiar with.” He placed a finger beneath my chin and tilted it up, then kissed me softly.
“Are you going to stand there letting in the cold, or are you staying for dinner?” Margret called from the kitchen, grinning at us and not looking at all embarrassed to be interrupting. Lilja wore a smile too, though hers was more guarded.
“Only if you will allow me to assist,” Wendell called back gallantly. He swept inside, as merry as I’d ever seen him—and, I thought, relieved, as if this were a welcome respite from something unpleasant.
That sent a shiver through me. What had he left out of his letters?
“Wendell?” I said, but he was already storming about, scooping up plates and cutlery. Shadow awoke with a snort and promptly leapt all over Wendell, and he paused to pet and coddle the dog into submission before helping Lilja set the table.
Supper was a noisy affair, for Margret likes to talk almost as much as Wendell when in familiar company, and Shadow was delighted by the presence of so many of those he loved, and snuffled up to each of us by turns, whining excitedly. Wendell was off on one tangent after another, mostly amusing stories about Folk he had known in his youth who were, apparently, still getting themselves into a variety of adolescent troubles, including one individual who had made herself so drunk one night that, on a dare, she cast an enchantment upon herself that turned her into a patch of lichen whenever she sneezed. I did not volunteer to explain my findings at Trinity, nor did Wendell mention his stepmother’s curse, and nobody asked; we had all made an unspoken agreement to speak only of lighter things.
I had little appetite, which Wendell must have noticed, for he did not tarry after the plates were empty, as he would ordinarily have done, but made our excuses and offered to clean the kitchen before we departed. Margret chased after him with a dish rag, good-naturedly protesting this indulgence—which, I sensed from the despairing look Wendell had given the moderately disordered countertops, was less an indulgence than a necessity on his part. Shadow trailed after, for this was also the route the plates with their scraps had taken, and Lilja and I were left alone.