Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(58)
“Fascinating,” I said, wishing I had time to make a sketch. My encyclopaedia’s entry on butter faeries had been sorely lacking in detail. “I have never encountered one before.”
“They’re quite rare,” Niamh said. “A good thing, I’ve always thought. They are peevish, half-mad little things, particularly if you remove them from their creameries.”
“I did not know they were found in Ireland,” I said. “Most of the tales of butter faeries are from Somerset, are they not?”
“Ah!” Niamh said, her face alight with scholarly enthusiasm. “Indeed they are. But once upon a time, as you know, Where the Trees Have Eyes had several doors leading to British faerie realms. One of these, I’m told, led to a pretty corner of Somerset. I theorize that the creatures used to go to and fro before the door collapsed, trapping several of them in this realm.”
“Somerset,” I repeated. The word tugged at me like a half-forgotten memory, a sense of some missed connection. But what did Somerset have to do with any of this? I did not have time to puzzle it out.
The creature continued to mutter and wring her hands above us. I could not make out what she was saying, apart from the odd my lady and the milk, the latter of which she repeated over and over. How on earth were we to get her down? I cannot climb trees—not that the skill set hasn’t come in handy for some dryadologists, but I simply haven’t the dexterity.
Razkarden, who had been circling overhead, alighted on a nearby branch and fixed his ancient gaze upon me. I had the distinct impression he was waiting for orders, which I pretended not to notice. A crowd of miscellaneous Folk had followed us from the banquet hall, accumulating more Folk as they went, and stood watching us from the edge of the clearing—some even spreading blankets over the grass to lounge upon, as if we were putting on a play. I could not help thinking again that this was a very silly way to conduct vital court business, the outcome of which could either preserve or destroy an entire world, but as before, no one else seemed to think much of it. At least nobody was selling nuts this time.
Wendell had been standing a little back from myself and Niamh, conversing with the Lady in the Crimson Cloak, Callum, and a small group of servants. Now he came forward.
“They think they’ve found another servant,” he told us. “Apparently my stepmother’s favourite hairdresser is still alive. That has a nice symmetry with Macan, does it not? Perhaps he also found dead bees in the queen’s hair.”
“Yes,” I said. “Only I do not know how we will convince this one to cooperate. Can we lure her to us somehow?”
Wendell looked up at the tree, and his face darkened. He spoke but one word—“Down”—and suddenly the little faerie was clambering towards us, muttering even more feverishly. Well, so much for my concerns. She was moving so quickly that she fell part of the way and landed on the forest floor in a heap, where she remained, crouched like a wounded bird, panting and muttering. I now heard several Your Highnesses and pleases mixed in with the babble.
“Where is she?” Wendell said. His voice was calm, but he suddenly looked so cold and remote that even I found him unnerving. The faerie’s muttering grew higher in pitch, almost a whine.
“That won’t do,” I said. “She is absolutely terrified of you.”
“Naturally,” said the Lady in the Crimson Cloak. She came forward, and the world seemed to redden, the forest shadows spreading like pools of blood. “If she will not speak, we will dash her head against a stone and see if the truth spills out.”
“Stop that,” I snapped. “Whatever you are doing. You are only making things worse.”
Wendell lifted a hand, and the Lady fell back. “Very well, Em,” he said. “What would you have us do?”
“Take her home, of course,” I said.
* * *
—
The little faerie’s “home” was located deep beneath the castle. I had not known there was much belowground, apart from the dungeons Wendell had spoken of, but in fact there was a warren of common fae workshops and hovels, some of which seemed connected to the castle, such as the room full of spindles where three brownies laboured, repairing tapestries and rugs, others which seemed to be inhabited by Folk who had simply decided to dwell there, at the very heart of the realm. Did proximity to the monarch give them access to magics they would lack otherwise? Yet another question to add to the pile.
At first we descended into the earth via a stone staircase, but gradually the stairs became rougher until we were clambering down the sloping and uneven floor of a vast cavern, the dimensions of which I could not make out due to the darkness. Wendell summoned several lights that bobbed above us, which helped, for the lantern posts scattered here and there were few in number. Many doors had been carved into the cavern walls at various heights, accessed via rough-hewn stairs or silver bridges, and the air was haunted with innumerable voices, clanks and thumps, harp song, and echoes. The air was damp, and in the distance I heard the whoosh of some subterranean river. I thought of the queen’s curse descending on this teeming little city, a jewel box of scientific curiosities, and experienced a moment of dizziness.
The servant leading our procession found another stair, this one narrower than the last, and we ascended a series of hills and bulges in the wall until we came to something that was almost a hallway, but clearly natural, with a great stalagmite jutting out of it, at the end of which was a door. The butter faerie bowed low in Wendell’s direction and hurried through the door, moving with the graceful, gliding trot all fauns seem to possess. We followed.