“I have the utmost respect for your abilities, Emily. Please do not interpret my presence to mean that I think you’ll make a mess of this opportunity. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
I withdrew my hand, shrivelling into a ball of anger. “Oh, wonderful.”
“I’m here to assist,” he assured me, perfectly oblivious.
“And I’m sure that this desire to be helpful has nothing to do with a fear that someone other than yourself might get the credit for conducting the first comprehensive investigation of a yet unproven species of Folk?”
He gave me a wide-eyed look of surprise. “That wouldn’t be very sporting. I like to think that I’ve always been a good friend to you. Why else would I have volunteered to write the foreword to your encyclopaedia?”
I was going to club him over the head with my encyclopaedia when it came out. Was it really necessary for him to always be reminding me that I needed him? “As a matter of fact, my findings are quite advanced,” I said. “So you may discover that whatever research you undertake here only serves to back up my conclusions.”
“Indeed?” To my chagrin, he looked excited rather than resentful, and I realized that he truly did see us as colleagues rather than competitors. The problem with Bambleby, I’ve always found, is that he manages to inspire a strong inclination towards dislike without the satisfaction of empirical evidence to buttress the sentiment. “Will you show me the data you’ve collected thus far?” His eagerness was interrupted by a yawn. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”
I tapped the rim of my mug, watching him. “What form do you anticipate this assistance taking, precisely?”
He gave me a different sort of smile, and I felt a chill creep down my back. There is something that Bambleby does which would be noticeable only to those who spend a great deal of time around the Folk. It is the way in which his emotions seem to slide through him like water, one giving way to another as abruptly as waves on the shore. This changeability would seem disconcerting or false on a human face, but it is just the way the Folk are made.
He leaned forward. “Are you familiar with the International Conference of Dryadology and Experimental Folklore?”
His voice had a teasing edge, for of course I was familiar. ICODEF is the most prestigious conference in our field, held annually in Paris, to which I had not once been invited. Bambleby went every year, damn him.
“I’m a featured speaker this year,” he said. “There is a particular sponsor attending whom I wish to impress. Very deep pockets. It could mean funding for not one but several research expeditions I have been putting off for lack of resources. Few things would be more impressive than a paper presenting even preliminary findings of a heretofore unknown Folk. As you say, these Hidden Ones are regarded with scepticism by even the most open-minded of scholars. But, as I’ve always argued, the fact that the Folk are absent in other regions of Arctic and sub-Arctic Europe cannot be taken as evidence of their absence in every winter country.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve not been invited to ICODEF this year. Will you credit me in a footnote?”
“We will present our findings together. I will impress my sponsor. You will make a name for yourself and set the scientific community clamouring for your book, which I understand is out next year.”
He sank back into his slouch, looking merry, utterly convinced that I would be delighted. I kept my expression bland, to deny him that pleasure at least, but of course there was no option besides agreement.
Bambleby was being modest—no doubt an oversight of fatigue. He was not merely a featured speaker at ICODEF this year; he was likely the only one people would be talking about, though I doubted the reasons were entirely to his liking.
“I planned to see through the winter here,” I said. “To attend ICODEF would mean departing Hrafnsvik—”
“February the first,” he said. “At the very latest. The plenary is on the tenth. And, well, we need a day or two to settle in, don’t we? I have already promised half a dozen of our continental colleagues that I would dine with them on the Champs-?lysées—you will come along, of course—among them Leroux and Zielinski. She’s been awarded some sort of medal by the Polish queen and has been rather big-headed about it—snubbed three-quarters of her old circle, though I’ve managed to stay in her good graces…They say even the king of Paris may make an appearance this year; if so, I’m sure I can convince Leroux to make the introductions…”
My heart gave a nervous flutter. That would shorten the duration of my field study drastically. I would have only three months—three months!—to accomplish what took most scholars a year or more. Could I do it?
Instead of answering, I sipped my tea and said, “I’m a little surprised you were invited back this year. But I suppose the furor over the Schwarzwald expedition has died down somewhat.”
He slouched deeper and became preoccupied with his sleeve. “A misunderstanding, that. I’ve no doubt future studies will validate my findings.”
“Of course.” I’d no doubt they would do the opposite. I suspected that Bambleby’s paper concerning the snow-weavings of the trooping faeries of the Schwarzwald was not the first of his to contain exaggerated or patchy evidence, but it was probably the first he had entirely falsified.
Probably. Wendell Bambleby’s research is all flash and dazzle, and he has an uncanny knack for uncovering outlandish new faerie rituals and enchantments that turn much of the related scholarship on its head—a knack I have often found less uncanny than suspicious.
Shadow placed his head on Bambleby’s knee, and he reached his long fingers down to stroke the dog’s head. In the early days of our friendship, Bambleby had been unsure of Shadow, often appearing to have little idea of what to make of him, so much so that at times I wondered if he had ever seen a dog before. But Shadow had no such hesitancy. From their first meeting, he regarded Bambleby with a thoughtless and entirely undeserved ardour that would have filled me with jealousy had I not already been so secure in Shadow’s affections. As time went on, Bambleby grew accustomed to offering hesitant pats in return, and now—to my chagrin—they are old friends.
“This book of yours is important to you, isn’t it?” he said. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of neatly typed pages. I recognized the excerpt I had sent him last month, comprising the first fifty pages or so.
“You’ve read it?” I demanded.
“Of course.” He riffled the pages—they were much marked-up with his elegant scrawl. “It’s quite remarkable. I’d like to see the rest once you’ve had it typed out.”
I was startled by the flush that crept up my neck at his words. I’ve never attached particular consequence to Bambleby’s opinion of my work, but I suppose it wasn’t just about his opinion. The encyclopaedia has been mine alone for the better part of a decade. It is one thing to think highly of one’s own research, quite another to hear that opinion corroborated.
“Remarkable?” I repeated.
“Well—it’s never been done before, has it? An encyclopaedia of faeries? This will form a cornerstone of all scholarship on the subject for years to come. Probably it will lead to the formation of new methodologies that will enhance our core understanding of the Folk.”