“Professor Wilde,” he said, holding out a hand. It was a large hand, for he was a large man, both in height and around the shoulders and midsection. His hair was a shaggy black, his face square, with a broken nose that came together in a way that was surprisingly becoming, though in an entirely uninviting way. “Brought your dog, I see. Fine beast.”
“Mr. Egilson?” I said politely, shaking the hand.
“Well, who else would I be?” my host replied. I wasn’t sure if this was meant to be unfriendly or if the baseline of his demeanour was mild hostility. I should mention here that I am terrible at reading people, a failing that has landed me in my fair share of inconveniences. Bambleby would have known exactly what to make of this bear of a man, would probably already have him laughing at some charmingly self-effacing joke.
Bloody Bambleby, I thought. I haven’t much of a sense of humour myself, something I dearly wish I could call upon in such situations.
“Quite a journey you’ve had,” Egilson said, staring at me disconcertingly. “All the way from London. Get seasick?”
“Cambridge, actually. The ship was quite—”
“Villagers stared as you came up the road, I bet? ‘Who’s that little mouse of a thing, coming up the road?’ they were thinking. ‘She can’t be that fancy scholar we’ve been hearing about, come all the way from London. Looks like she’d never survive the journey.’？”
“I wouldn’t know what they were thinking about me,” I said, wondering how on earth to turn the conversation to more pressing matters.
“Well, they told me,” he said.
“I see.”
“Ran into old Sam and his wife, Hilde, on the way up. We’re all very curious about your research. Tell me, how is it that you plan on catching the Folk? Butterfly net?”
Even I could tell this was meant to be mocking, so I replied coolly, “Rest assured that I have no intention of catching one of your faerie folk. My goal is simply to study them. This is the first investigation of its kind in Ljosland. I’m afraid that, until recently, the rest of the world saw your Hidden Ones as little more than myth, unlike the various species of Folk inhabiting the British Isles and the continent, ninety percent of which have been substantively documented.”
“Probably best it stays that way, for all concerned.”
Not an encouraging statement, that. “I understand that you have several species of faerie in Ljosland, many of which can be found in this part of the Su?erfjoll Mountains. I have stories of Folk ranging from brownie type to courtly fae to investigate.”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” he said in a flat voice. “But you’d be best confining your investigations to the wee ones. No good will come of your provoking the others, for yourself or for us.”
I was immediately intrigued by this, though I’d of course heard hints of the fearsome nature of the courtly fae of Ljosland—that is, those faeries who assume near-human form. But my questions were forestalled by the wind, which blew open the door and spat a great breath of snowflakes into the cottage. Egilson shouldered it closed again.
“It’s snowing,” I said, an uncharacteristic inanity. I’m sorry to say that the sight of snow drifting into the fireplace had me edging once again towards morbid despair.
“It does that on occasion,” replied Egilson with a touch of black humour that I found preferable to false friendliness, which is not the same as saying I appreciated it. “Not to worry, though. Winter isn’t here yet, it’s just clearing its throat. These clouds will open up momentarily.”
“And when will winter arrive?” I enquired grimly.
“You’ll know it when it does,” he said, a sideways sort of answer that I would soon grow accustomed to, for Krystjan is a sideways sort of man. “You’re young to be a professor.”
“In a sense,” I said, hoping to discourage this line of questioning with vagueness. I am not really young for a professor now, at thirty, or at least not young enough to astonish anyone; though eight years ago I had indeed been the youngest professor Cambridge ever hired.
He gave an amused grunt. “I’ve got to be getting on with the farm. Can I help you with anything?”
He said it perfunctorily, and looked to be on the verge of slipping away sideways through the door even as I replied quickly, “Tea would be lovely. And firewood—where would that be kept?”
“In the wood box,” he said, puzzled. “Next to the fireplace.”
I turned, and saw the aforementioned box immediately—I had taken it for some sort of rudimentary armoire.
“There’s more in the woodshed out back,” he said.
“The woodshed,” I breathed with relief. My fantasies of freezing to death had been premature.
He must have noticed the way I said it, which unfortunately had the distinct cadence of a word never spoken before, for he remarked, “You’re more the indoors type, are you? I’m afraid such folk are rather thin on the ground around here. I’ll have Finn bring the tea. That’s my son. And before you ask, the matches are in the matchbox.”
“Naturally,” I said, as if I had noticed the matchbox already. Damn my pride, but I couldn’t bring myself to enquire as to its whereabouts after the wood box humbling. “Thank you, Mr. Egilson.”
He gave me a slow-blinking look, then drew a little box from his pocket and set it upon the table. He was gone in a swirl of icy air.
20th October—evening
After Krystjan left, I barred the door with the plank that must have been set against the wall for that purpose, and which, like the damned wood box, I had failed to note before. Then I spent an entirely unproductive twenty minutes scrabbling about with the wood and the matches, until there came another knock.
I opened the door, praying that this visitor’s relative politeness boded well for my survival.
“Professor Wilde,” said the young man on the threshold in that faintly awed tone I have encountered before in rural villages, and I nearly melted with relief. Finn Krystjanson was a near–mirror image of his father, though narrower of midsection and with a pleasant set to his mouth.
He shook my hand eagerly and tiptoed into the cottage, starting a little at the sight of Shadow. “What a handsome beast,” Finn said. His English was more heavily accented than that of his father, though still perfectly fluent. “He’ll give the wolves something to think about.”
“Mm,” I said. Shadow takes little interest in wolves, seeming to place them in the same category as cats. I can’t imagine what he’d do if a wolf ever challenged him, other than yawn and give it a swat with one of his dinnerplate paws.
Finn eyed the cold fireplace and debitage of snapped matches without surprise, and I suspected that his father had already warned him of my capabilities. Indoors type still smarted.
In a few short moments, he had a hearty fire crackling and a pot of water set upon the stove to boil. He chattered as he worked, directing me to the stream behind the cottage, which I understood to be my only source of water, the cottage not being plumbed; the outdoor privy; and a shop in town where I could purchase supplies. My host would provide my breakfast, and dinner could be had at the local tavern. I was on my own for the midday meal only, which suited me well, as I am accustomed to spending my days in the field when conducting research and would pack my own light repast.