Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(81)

But I am getting ahead of myself again. Before I speak of the cottage, let me return to where I left off.



* * *



—

Wendell’s first inclination upon waking from the dead was, naturally, to throw a party. At this he failed, for a party was already unfolding. A troupe of musicians had established themselves on the lakeshore below the gardens, where there is a large pavilion; another was set up in the banquet hall, which, when Wendell and I arrived, we found already bursting with a chaotic array of food. There were oysters from the southern coast, whole roasted trout, a bubbling vat of caramel for dipping apples, and bread loaves positioned randomly about the room, as well as the queer blue sandwich cakes that were a court favourite—the blue came from blueberry preserves and a sharp cheese, which were layered with a sweet cloudlike batter. From the look and smell of the things, they should have been dreadful, but I had already acquired a taste for them.

Naturally, everyone wanted to talk to Wendell, who was ever in his element in such a circumstance. Few among the courtly fae were interested in hearing from either myself or the oíche sidhe who had restored Wendell to life, which was no great surprise, and I did not mind standing silently at Wendell’s side like a shadow. But he kept bringing the conversation back to me, declaring that he would still be dead, and the kingdom in tatters, if not for his queen. He was convincing enough that this had the effect of transforming the disdain of the courtly fae into amazement when they looked at me—a questionable improvement; I never had the sense that there was much warmth in it. I was a puzzle to them now, where before I had been a triviality.

It had all happened so quickly that I found myself swept along with the festivities and Wendell’s pure delight, which I could not very well begrudge him. After all, his beloved home was whole again, and his stepmother properly out of the way. It felt very much like an ending, and my trepidation was still a formless thing; I did not know how to name it.

“I must speak with you,” I said, stumbling a little over my words—I was inexpressibly weary by that point.

Wendell stopped midsentence, gazing at me with surprise that shifted almost instantly into guilt. He waved the courtiers away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, leading me out of the room. “I should have known you would find all that tedious.”

“You need not apologize,” I said, smiling at the earnestness in his expression. A lightness overcame me; I felt as if I would never stop smiling. “I would have preferred not to drag you away from the party. I know you wish to celebrate your stepmother’s defeat, but—”

“What?” Wendell said, staring at me. The butterflies and other crawling things had abandoned his hair, thankfully, though several spiderwebs remained, which made an odd contrast with the silvered roses two of the servants had added to the golden waves. “Do you think that is why I am in such a good mood? Oh, Em.”

“Your brush with death, then,” I said. “I don’t wish to imply that I was little affected by it, that I was confident all along that it was impermanent. I was not. I have never felt—” I was unable to finish the sentence, and I realized abruptly that I was shivering again, despite the warmth of the castle. “But Wendell, there is something not right in all this—”

“My brush with death!” Wendell said, with nothing more than exasperation in his voice, as if he were resurrected at least once a season. “Emily, Emily. Do you not know the main reason I am so happy? We were married not long ago—a mere hour or two, to my recollection. Or did you forget?”

I stared at him for a long moment.

“I’m afraid I did,” I said at last.

He began to laugh. It went on so long that he had to lean against the wall, wiping at his eyes.

“There was rather a lot to distract me!” I said hotly.

He eventually recovered, though his face was still red, and the roses had become tangled in his hair. “Might I suggest a different form of distraction?”

I gave a soft laugh. My thoughts were in disarray. I wanted to argue with him; I wanted to touch him again, to assure myself once more that he was real. I needed to think. But then he smiled at me in such a way that I found myself saying, “I have no objection.”

I allowed him to lead me away from the party and halfway up the stairs before the nagging voice grew too insistent and I pulled him to a stop. He turned to look at me with a question in his eyes.

“You must pull your stepmother out,” I said. “What you did to her—it is all wrong.”

“Wrong?” Wendell looked baffled. “Em, she would have torn the realm to pieces. She nearly killed you on that island!”

“I don’t mean that,” I said. “She deserves the fate you have given her. But the story is wrong.”

The words sounded hollow—I knew they were true, but I did not know why yet, and how could I explain it to him, when I could not explain it to myself? Still, though, he waited patiently for me to finish.

“Don’t you trust me?” I demanded at last, frustrated.

At that, his expression grew solemn. “Naturally I do. If you believe some misfortune will befall me because I was too harsh with my stepmother, then I will expect it. But Em, I cannot—I will not—watch her poison these lands again. Nor will I watch her threaten you, which she has done now on two occasions. I will suffer whatever fate awaits me to avoid putting you in danger again, and when that fate arrives, my only regret will be that I did not savour her defeat longer. I wish I could watch her now, stumbling about in that accursed place.”