He said it without any hint of flattery. I could only reply honestly, a little overwhelmed, “Yes, that was the intention.”
He smiled. “I thought so. You don’t need the chapter on the Hidden Ones, you know.”
“It will be less impressive without it.”
“And who is it you are wishing to impress? Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “The faculty position. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“And if it is?” I couldn’t interpret the look on his face. “You don’t think I have a chance?”
“Well, you’re a little young—”
“And you’re not?” Cambridge had given him tenure two years ago, the bastard.
“I’m an exception.” He said it absently, looking down at the pages, and a smile came over his face. “When is old Sutherland retiring?”
“This fall.” I was leaning forward, twisting my fingers together. “I plan to put my name forward when I return. It would give me money. Resources. I wouldn’t have to scrape together the funding for a one-month expedition; I could run multiple field studies at once if I chose. Think of the discoveries I could make, the mysteries I could solve. And—” And I would never have to leave Cambridge, I almost said.
“Yes.” He flicked another page. “And you shall shut yourself away forever in those old stones with your books and your mysteries like a dragon with her hoard, having as little association with the living as possible and emerging only to breathe fire at your students.”
He has an irritating way of understanding me, at least in part, which is more than anyone else does—no doubt some faerie gift of his. “You intend to stay here, do you?” I said, to change the subject.
“Where else? This is not the sort of place for a hotel, is it? I received your host’s assent to my enquiry the day after I wrote to you, and departed Cambridge immediately thereafter. I assumed he would have told you.”
I winced. “Egilson and I have not been on the best of terms.”
“What?” He gave an exaggerated affectation of surprise. “Dear Emily. Don’t tell me you’ve had trouble making friends.”
My scowl was interrupted by the creak of the door. As before, Krystjan strode into the cottage without knocking. I could tell by his expression that Bambleby’s message had been as well received as I had guessed. Lizzie trailed behind him, looking uselessly apologetic.
“Mr. Egilson!” Bambleby was on his feet immediately, his smile broadening. “I see that you don’t stand for formalities, my good man. How refreshing. I must convey how much I appreciate your hospitality at such short notice. I had heard tales of the warmth and generosity of your compatriots, but you have gone above and beyond.”
He said all of this in accented but fluent Ljoslander. It stopped Egilson in his tracks, but only for a moment. “Professor,” Egilson said warily, accepting the proffered hand. I could see his frostiness melt a little upon exposure to the onslaught of Bambleby’s charm, but he was a hardy man, and his smile was tight. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You’re welcome here, but unfortunately, we aren’t in a position to provide meals—beyond the essentials at breakfast, of course. I run a large farm—you understand.”
He had responded in English, which Bambleby acknowledged with a grateful smile that somehow managed to convey an admiration for Egilson’s fluency. I detected a distinct hint of amusement in his gaze that, fortunately, seemed to evade Krystjan’s notice. “I understand entirely. I hope you don’t think I expected you to prepare our repast. I was, of course, offering to cook for your family.”
Egilson blinked, his reserve dissolving into amazement. “You were.”
“Oh, God,” I muttered. “Please say yes.”
Bambleby clapped Egilson on the shoulder. “Of course. It’s customary in Ireland for the guests to prepare at least one meal for their hosts. As a token of appreciation. What is your preference? We have some supplies here.” He stormed about the cottage, collecting the smashed remnants of the cabbage and carrots along with the smoked fish I had purchased, managing to convey a cheerful but manic energy. I could see from Egilson’s face that he was envisioning Bambleby unleashed upon his kitchen.
“I— While I appreciate—” Krystjan began.
“Say nothing about it. I’ve a recipe for spice cake that’ll set your mouth on fire. That’s how we like it in Ireland. And as for the mains…”
“Truly, Professor, it’s all right.” Krystjan was smiling—a grudging but very real smile, not his customary smirk—as Bambleby stomped about, radiating good cheer. “You’ve only just arrived. I couldn’t trouble you to cook for my son and me. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.”
Bambleby stilled, blinking. Cabbage leaves swirled in his wake as in a contrary wind. “Really? Well, if you—”
“Finn’s putting together a stew. We’ll send some down to the cottage. If that’s all right.”
“Of course, my friend,” Bambleby said. Then, to my astonishment, he added, “And I’ve no preference between the bread pudding and the apple tart.” He snapped his fingers. “How rude of me! Emily, dear, which would you rather?”
I found myself suppressing a laugh. “Apple tart would be lovely.”
“There we are.” Bambleby smiled at Krystjan, who blinked as if trying to clear his vision. “And we’ll talk tomorrow, won’t we? It’s my custom to interview the townsfolk—those of stature, you understand—at the outset of these investigations. It’s good to get a lay of the land. I’ve no doubt you’re inclined to be helpful?”
As he spoke, he moved closer to Egilson, taking the man’s hand again.
“Of course,” Egilson murmured, helplessly staring. Bambleby’s eyes are not actually black, but the green of a forest at dusk, something you notice only when you are very close. I have seen people become lost in that gaze, foolishly wandering about and entangling themselves in thorns and God knows what else—Krystjan was certainly not the first. He should have looked away, counting to ten or focusing on his breathing or other mundane distraction, but of course he has no experience in evading the tricks of the Folk.
I cleared my throat. Krystjan blinked at me as if only just realizing I was there. “Thank you, Krystjan,” I said. And I suppose some of Bambleby’s mischief must have infected me against my will, for I added, “And we’ll take a half dozen goose eggs with breakfast tomorrow.”
Krystjan nodded like a man struck over the head and exited the cottage, politely pulling the door shut behind him.
“Spice cake?” I said.
Bambleby tumbled back into his chair. “How hard could it be?”
“Have you ever made spice cake?”
“I’ve certainly eaten it.”
“Have you ever made anything?”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
I snorted. My stomach gave such a growl that Bambleby wrinkled his nose. It had been days since I’d had a proper meal, I realized.
“Could we build the fire up?” Bambleby said, indicating by means of the plural first person Henry and Lizzie.