He surprised me, though, when he informed me after breakfast that he intended to go for a stroll.
“I thought you had given up hope of finding your door here,” I said. For so I had assumed, given that he had made only the most cursory of efforts.
“Did I say anything about a door?” he said over his shoulder as he pulled his cloak on.
I groaned. “What is the point in being mysterious now? Are there any secrets of yours I don’t know?”
“Oh, I’d say there are a few outstanding.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to my notes. I couldn’t be bothered with him now. “Well, don’t go harassing poor Poe again. You’re not likely to find such a door in the Karr?ars–kogur. The courtly fae of Ljosland move their realm about, yes? But only spatially; they dwell forever in winter. The door you seek must be fixed, given that your own realm is fixed—I say must, though I am speaking in theoretical terms, of course, as I have never encountered such a phenomenon myself, and can only extrapolate from the literature—so it stands to reason that if it is anywhere, it will be in a place of permanent winter. Namely, a glacier or high peak that never loses its snowpack. I should note here, of course, that I think it highly unlikely that a door such as the one you seek is in this country; there is too little affinity between your realm and that of the Hidden Ones. It is most likely to be found in a similar woodland landscape, green and wet with plenty of oak groves to drink in the small magics of the common fae and create spaces for such portals to manifest—if indeed their existence is the result of mere accident or chance. These sorts of rabbit hole doors—back entrances, if you like—are often said to be accidental, in the stories. Northern Europe is the most likely location; perhaps one of the warmer forests of Russia.”
He stood unmoving with his hand on the door, staring at me.
“Yes, I know that’s a lot of conjecture,” I said, misreading the look on his face. “I’ve not had time to give it much thought.”
He smiled at me, his eyes shining a little too brightly in the way they sometimes did. “We are going to make a very good team, Em.”
I snorted to cover the heat rising in my face. “So far, our teamwork seems rather unevenly distributed.”
“I may be of use to you yet, my dear dragon.” He left me, pulling the door shut softly behind him.
23rd November
After paying a visit to Poe this morning, I returned to find Bambleby vanished yet again. Clearly, he is still looking for his door—why does he bother being so bloody secretive about it? And why not enlist me to help?
Feeling put out, I wandered about the cottage for a while, eyeing the various knickknacks he’d cluttered the space up with and wishing I could be more offended by them. I ran my finger over the mantel—not a speck of dust. I recalled how dingy the place had been when I moved in, yet I’d never observed him dusting.
Perhaps in anticipation of my displeasure, he had left several completed diagrams of basalt rock formations on the table, those which the villagers said were inhabited by the “little ones.” This section of the paper I’d assigned to him—at least he had gotten something done. I read over the summary he’d left beneath the diagrams—it was brief, but acceptable.
I sat down to work but found my mind wandering. The weather outside had a quality of softness one finds only in winter; clouds drifted in and away, dreamlike, loosing handfuls of white. The wind was from the north and carried the smell of sulphur from some invisible mountain spring.
I put my pen down and pulled on my cloak and boots. We had a healthy supply of wood, but I wanted some exertion.
The first log split eventually, though I had to take a few swings at it. The second was riddled with knots, and it went flying sideways when my axe struck it. As I went to dig it out of the snow, I heard the soft press of booted footsteps.
“Emily!” Lilja called. Margret trailed behind, both of them smiling at me. “We’ve just been giving Ulfar a hand unloading supplies at the dock, and came to see if you’d like to join us for some wine. Thora’s been complaining about the drinks again, so he thought he’d try ordering a few French bottles.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I wouldn’t wish to interrupt your chores. Also, I prefer not to imbibe so early in the day.”
Lilja’s face fell. Only once the words were out of my mouth did I realize how they sounded. “I don’t mean to say that it’s too early to drink,” I clarified. “Only that I do not drink much generally, and thus it is too early for me. But those who drink frequently would likely disagree.”
They gazed at me, brows furrowed. Oh, well done, I thought. How was it that in trying to remove my foot from my mouth, I invariably managed to shove it in even deeper?
I began to sputter something else, but fortunately Lilja spoke first. “You look like you’re improving,” she said, gesturing at the axe. “Would you like me to give you a lesson?”
I almost wept at her kindness. “Thank you,” I murmured.
Looking amused, she took the axe away from me. “I’ll show you how I do it, then you can try again.”
Margret settled on another stump to watch. Lilja arranged the piece of trunk, rotating it a little in the unthinking way of expertise, changed her stance, then brought the axe down in a swift arc. The wood split, though not quite in half.
“That’s how I like to do it,” Lilja explained as she picked up the larger half and set it back on the stump. In her callused, capable hands, the axe seemed light and small. “It’s easier to split if you strike the edge, not the centre. Now I can do this—”
She swung again, and the piece cleaved in two. “And there you have it. About right for your stove?”
I nodded. I admit I would not have thought I could be impressed by this sort of rustic skill, but Lilja made it look like an art. “You must be much in demand in the village,” I said.
“I can split a full cord in an hour,” she said, not boasting, but by way of answer. “I’ve been doing this since I was seven. I wouldn’t want any other job.”
“And do you also enjoy this form of exercise?” I asked Margret, who had been sitting quietly, swinging her feet with a little smile on her face.
Margret grimaced. “I’d rather be inside at my piano, or reading a book. Chopping wood is Lilja’s job. She keeps me warm.”
Lilja blushed at her, and then she looked at me with such warmth and gratitude that I found myself asking inanely, “And are there different categories of axe?”
Lilja was very patient with me. She showed me how to grip the axe—I’d been going about it all wrong, apparently, swinging it like a hatchet.
“See these lines?” she said, pointing to the split side of a log, where a network of cracks sliced through the grain. “That’s where you aim. I’d go for this one here, myself.” She traced it with her finger. “That way you avoid the knot. See?”
“You may be overestimating my skill if you are expecting me to aim at anything smaller than the log itself.”
She laughed. “Just do your best.”
There was something in the comfortable way she said it that made me feel easier. I split the log in only two strokes. I managed to hit one of the cracks in the next piece, and it divided with a single blow.