Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(87)
I had hoped to reach the mountain before nightfall, but the short winter days and Shadow’s deteriorated fitness—as well as my own—proved significant hindrances. The English translation for its name is, ominously, The Bones, and it is the highest mountain in County Leane, in addition to being the only peak high enough to receive a winter snowfall of any significance. The route there is deceptively straightforward from Lilja and Margret’s cottage, merely a pathless expanse of hilly moor, but when one actually attempts it, one finds oneself constantly at war with heather and other bristling shrubs, as well as patches of boggy wet where the sunlight has struggled through the vegetation, and treacherous ice where it has not.
I made camp last night around suppertime, having only reached the base of The Bones, because it had grown too dark to see my way. The mountains at my back were sharp as broken teeth against the starry winter sky, and my breath rose about me in clouds.
I removed my cloak and gave it a shake, as I’d watched Wendell do, and when I released it, the thing transformed into a tent, complete with blankets and an altogether silly number of pillows. Once I was settled, I lit a candle and read the first of Wendell’s letters.
To: Dr. Emily Wilde
Sruth Cottage, Old Road
Corbann
From: Wendell Bambleby
Faerie via Dunmare
Dearest Emily,
It has been more than a day since you left. You see I have refrained from writing immediately, just as I have refrained from following you. Please tell me that you have forgiven me! Yes, you are using your research as an excuse to go away, but I know that you are, in fact, angry that I have not freed my stepmother. Em, when I promised to grant your every wish, should it be within my power, perhaps I should have specified that wishes of a suicidal nature are to be excepted. I know my stepmother; she shall never leave off seeking power, and it is you she will now see as her greatest enemy, not me. You cannot make a pet of her, as you have other faerie monsters, for she is wily beyond measure, and will find a way to escape any cage. She is probably dead by now anyway—the Veil is a terrible place.
I cannot help thinking—for that is all I have done since you have left, mull over every word and glance that passed between us when we were last together—that there is another reason you asked me to spare my stepmother. You wish to interview her for your book, don’t you? Em, there are villains enough in every corner of my realm for you to interrogate. Come home, and allow me to round up a few. The hag-headed deer have a queen, you know. Terrible Folk, the Deer. And not one scholar has ever laid eyes upon them.
Yours eternally,
Wendell
“That is unfair!” I exclaimed to the letter. Now, if I had gone away from him in a fit of pique, this indeed may have lured me back, as he clearly knew. I had mentioned to him more than once in passing that these hag-headed deer, mysterious as their ways are even to the rest of the Folk, were a subject of particular interest to me. And they had their own court within Wendell’s realm, did they? I had never heard of such a thing.
Shaking my head, I turned to the next letter.
To: Dr. Emily Wilde
Sruth Cottage, Old Road
Corbann
From: Wendell Bambleby
Faerie via Dunmare
Dearest Emily,
I had the most intriguing conversation today with the boggart. He has witnessed the reigns of several of my ancestors, you know, and has all sorts of opinions about them. One can trace the building of this castle, the construction of the paths and barrows, the alliances and power struggles between this lord or that lady, through his reminiscences, if he is in the mood for talk. Indeed I have never met an individual in possession of so many stories about our realm, excepting perhaps my churlish uncle. Who knows how long we may have access to his wisdom, for boggarts spend so much of their time asleep, and are near impossible to wake even if you are a king of Faerie; he may decide to take a nap tomorrow, for all I know, which will last the next decade or more.
Please come home soon, or send me a letter, at least.
Love always,
Wendell
“I see what you are doing,” I muttered. “You needn’t be so obvious about it.”
To: Dr. Emily Wilde
Sruth Cottage, Old Road
Corbann
From: Wendell Bambleby
Faerie via Dunmare
Dearest Emily,
It has been three days since you went away! This morning I decided I’d had enough and made ready to set off after you, if only to plead my case. But then I was struck by a dreadful vision of each time you had glared at me for poking my head into your office at Cambridge, interrupting your fiendish clacking at your typewriter, and I felt my heart fail me. A hundred Emilys, all glowering away, and still this, I think, would be a warmer welcome than the one I would receive for interrupting your research in Corbann after you expressly told me not to.
And yet I believe I shall have to brave it. Oh, it is wonderful to be home again—I would never deny that; I find my realm even more lovely, more perfectly suited to happiness and comfort, than even I remembered it. Truly, I pity Folk who live elsewhere, for there can be nothing that rivals the beauty of these forests and hills. And so, Em, when I say that I am wretchedly ill at ease without your company, that I feel as if I am missing a limb, that I cannot be content even amidst the wonder of my realm, you will understand the depth of my feelings. Surely you must miss me a little as well? I know your heart by now, Em; it is not all stone and pencil shavings, as you are wont to pretend.