Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(68)

I reached into the water and seized the edge of the weed. It was long and ropelike, with clusters of leaves branching off the main stem that looked like curls of red-brown hair. I gave it a tug, expecting it to come loose, but it was firmly rooted to the lake bottom. Pain spiked through my hand. I examined my palm—it was coated in tiny grains of green pollen, and two black thorns were embedded in the skin.

I showed Wendell, and he removed his sword and sliced off a chunk of the weed. He swore as he, too, cut his hand on the thorns.

“Two barbs,” I said.

“Yes.” He dropped the weed back into the lake. “They could easily tangle in one’s hair, if one went for a swim.”

My heart thudded in my ears. “We’re not far from shore. You could swim the distance easily. You might not take a boat if you didn’t want anyone to know you were out here.”

We shared a look. Then Wendell adjusted the sail, and we drifted towards the darkest patch of weeds. I saw nothing unusual in the immediate vicinity. Some of the faeries visible on the shore had settled down on the bank—to see what we were up to, I suppose.

Wendell allowed us to drift for a moment through the wide patch of lakeweed, then sent us along the perimeter before plowing into the wet leaves again at a different angle. The weeds made a shhh, shhh sound against the hull, along with the faintest scratching. I began to worry that the thorns would tear a hole in the skin.

Then the boat came to a stop with a gentle thunk.

“I would ask if that was a rock,” I said. My heart was thundering so excitedly now that I felt breathless. “But something tells me I don’t need to.”

Wendell scanned the water, but there was nothing to see—only weeds and darkness. He grimaced. “I don’t much fancy a swim in this muck, but I must risk it, I suppose. What do you think?”

This last was directed to Orga. She gave an unimpressed grunt and hopped up onto his shoulder.

Then he stepped off the prow of the boat.

There was no splash, for he did not fall. He merely vanished, in a similar manner to how he is always vanishing in and out of trees. Quite horribly, in other words.

He reappeared a second later, landing in the boat with a thump that made it rock a little from side to side, evidently having taken a leap out of the nothingness he had vanished into. Having not yet gotten over the first shock, I gave a heartfelt “Goddamn it, Wendell!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking a little stunned himself. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Em, you must see this. I was expecting—and still I cannot quite believe—”

And the bloody man yanked me over the side of the boat.

I stumbled onto solid ground, and Wendell caught me before I could fall. He was blathering on at me before I’d found my bearings.

“Queen Anne’s Isle!” he kept saying. “This must be it—we tell stories of it, but I never thought—then there truly is a lost castle! And there are no Folk here, that I can see—how then am I here? How in God’s name did she find it? But look at that oak!” This was followed by a series of colourful exclamations in Irish.

I gazed about. We indeed stood upon an island, very small indeed, something upon which, in the mortal realm, one might expect to find a lighthouse, or perhaps a single lonely dwelling. Only instead there was a stretch of shore and a small, roofless castle that looked more like a Norman keep than anything else, which is not the same as saying that it looked like a Norman keep. It had large windows and tall stone walls that had been mostly overtaken by ivy. Within the castle grew a grove of trees, including at least one attentive oak, which towered above the rest.

I looked back at Wendell, who was still exclaiming over the story. I felt a glimmer of amusement, to see a faerie so delighted by a tale come to life, but it passed quickly, and fear descended again.

“All right,” I said. “What is this about Queen Anne’s Isle?”

He gave me an apologetic look. His hair was in great disarray from how he had been rubbing at it in his excitement. “Queen Anne’s Isle is said to have been created by the realm itself to protect a runaway mortal queen—the only other fully mortal ruler before you, Em, that this land has known—from her wicked husband, who wished to slay her so that he could marry another. It is said she lived out her days here in peace—not that many were left to her, for she was elderly when she fled. They say Folk cannot find it. I suppose my stepmother found a loophole, as a halfblood.”

“And you only found it because I was with you,” I said, feeling a sense of satisfaction amidst the terror; I will never stop enjoying the solving of some faerie mystery. I wondered briefly how I might compose a paper on the subject—disappearing islands are a motif in the folklore of many countries. It was a comforting line of thought.

“Well, it’s good to know I shall have a bolt-hole when you eventually tire of me,” I said. “And the teacups I leave scattered about. Weren’t you complaining of that the last time you were in my office?”

This was comforting, too. Perhaps if I kept making light of things, I could simply skip over the fact that we had come, at last, to Queen Arna’s refuge. Was she watching us now from one of the windows? I carefully avoided looking.

Wendell did not reply, merely continued to stroke Orga, still draped about his shoulders and looking wary. With his other hand, he laced his fingers through mine and led me up the bank. Because the island was so small, it did not take long to realize that there was a problem.