Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(69)
“Hm!” Wendell said after several minutes had passed, during which time the castle grew no closer. I looked back, and there was the boat rocking gently against the shore only a yard or two away.
“Interesting,” I murmured.
“The island dislikes my being here,” he said, glaring at the castle. “I am like a splinter it wishes to expel from itself. What to do? I have a feeling that simply waving my hand and tearing the castle to pieces will not go over well.”
“It is obvious what we must do,” I said, already examining the ferns and grasses. “Think of the story.”
“Which?”
“Macan, of course. Of our three clues, there is one we have not yet found a use for.”
“Ah,” he said, and we began to scour the greenery, pushing ivy aside and looking beneath ferns, as if we were foraging for mushrooms. The enchantment that prevented us from reaching the castle was an intriguing one: it seemed bound to the trees scattered a few yards above the waterline. They formed an uneven sort of perimeter we could not pass.
“There,” Wendell said at last.
The snail was half hidden by a fallen branch and glowed lightly in the shadows descending over the isle. At the sight of us, it seemed to start, and withdrew into its shell, then poked its head back out cautiously.
“Now what?” I said. “Might the shell possess some magic, that we might break this enchantment and find our way to the castle?”
“Perhaps,” Wendell said musingly. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the shell the butter faerie had given us, one of those snails the old queen had cooked for her supper. He knelt beside the snail, which may or may not have been watching us—I am no expert in snail anatomy, but its antennae had swivelled in our direction.
“I suspect you have little affection for the one who shelters in the castle,” Wendell said. “Many of your brethren have vanished into her pockets, haven’t they? And thence to her supper plate. Show me the way, for I am her enemy, and I shall deliver to her the fate she deserves.”
The snail’s antennae began to twitch. It glided off, and Wendell and I—well, I would say we fell into step behind it, but as you might imagine, it was a moment or two before we were even certain the creature was moving towards the castle.
More snails glided out of the shadows to join the first. And more. And more. Until there were hundreds surrounding us on all sides. Together we left the shoreline and passed under the boughs of the first trees, moving steadily over the castle lawn, which was overgrown with ferns and ivy.
“They are making a path for us,” I murmured. “That must be it. They can pass through the enchantment, and as long as we are within their company, it cannot hinder us. And yet how did they organize themselves so quickly?”
“Oh, I imagine they have been waiting to betray my stepmother,” Wendell said. “And long would they have waited, for they are patient creatures above all else. I would not be surprised if they have kept a watch on her since she came to this place, and upon the shore, hoping that her enemies might find a way here. That creature did not need much convincing, did it?”
I said nothing. I told myself it was ludicrous to be intimidated by snails, but I could not quite believe it. Yes, I could have outrun them if need be—outwalked them, really—or even crushed them beneath my boots, but there was something about the air of intractable menace that surrounded them, and the sense that should one or more fall, others would only rise from hidden folds in the lawn to take their place, which left me frightened of each step I took, lest I tread upon a single antenna.
It took us perhaps half an hour to reach the castle, moving in a series of slow half steps that at first felt ridiculous, then irksome, then sinister, surrounded by our tiny, faintly luminescent bodyguards. During that time, Wendell was uncharacteristically quiet, only murmuring occasional reassurances to Orga, and I found myself catching his mood. I glanced about at the deepening darkness, the glittering lake beyond. We stood in the shadow of the castle, and the air was cold. The distant shore of the lake seemed to lie behind a thin mist. I could see the lanterns still, but there was something melancholy about them now, the promise of company one could never reach. I thought of an old woman living out her last days here, the memories of what had once been all around her.
“It’s a lonely place,” I said as I lifted a boot to take another slow step. “When was Anne’s reign?”
“Long ago,” Wendell replied. “Even before my father’s line—one of his ancestors, an age or more ago, stole the throne from a cousin, who was descended from Anne’s unworthy husband another age before. I expect her bones still lie here, somewhere. I hope there was someone to bury her.”
We reached the castle and a pair of tall oak doors. Their hinges were ornate but rusty, and one of the doors had a sag. Yes, surely many generations had passed in the amaranthine eyes of the Folk if even the enchantments that had created this place were worn with age.
We took our leave of the snails then, bowing low to show our thanks. Wendell knelt to talk quietly to the one he had spoken to before—how he could tell the difference between them, I don’t know. Afterwards he hesitated upon the threshold, one hand on the stone wall. Orga hopped to the ground and looked up at him.
“My stepmother has only a little magic,” he said to me. “Her power has always lain in her ability to charm and deceive. I don’t know if she may, somehow, have charmed the magics of this island into protecting her. Let me enter first, and then I will call you.”