Finn greeted me with the same formality into which he had retreated yesterday, setting upon the table a tray of bread—still warm despite the chilly walk from the farmhouse—as well as a bowl of some form of quivering yogurt and a disturbingly large hard-boiled egg.
“Goose,” he said when I enquired. “Did you not bank the fire last night?”
I confessed that I had little idea what this signified, and he kindly demonstrated a particular method of stacking the wood and raking the coals within the fireplace that would ensure a long, continuous release of heat as well as easier re-ignition come morning. I thanked him with perhaps an overabundance of enthusiasm, and he smiled with his former warmth.
He enquired after my plans for the day, and I stated my intention to become acquainted with the surrounding terrain.
“Your father informed me in his letters that within the Karr?arskogur can be found a variety of brownies, as well as trooping faeries,” I said. “I understand from my research into the scant accounts of your Folk that the courtly fae are more apt to travel with the snows, from which I gather that sightings of their ilk will be unlikely for some days yet.”
Finn looked astonished. “Did my father use those words?”
“No. Brownies and trooping fae are the two largest subcategories of common fae invented by scholars—your people, I believe, refer to the common fae as ‘little ones’ or ‘wee Folk’ when you make the distinction at all. They are, as you know, usually quite small, child-sized or less. Brownies are solitary and are generally those faeries who involve themselves in mortal affairs—thefts, minor curses, blessings. Trooping fae travel in groups and keep mostly to their own.”
Finn gave a slow nod. “And I suppose, then, that you have a separate word for the tall ones?”
“Yes, we place all humanlike faeries into the category of courtly fae—you understand, then, that there are two main groupings of Folk, courtly and common. As far as the courtly fae are concerned, there are too many subcategories to list, and I’ve little idea whether any of them will apply to those you call the ‘tall ones.’？”
“We rarely call them anything,” Finn said. “It’s bad luck.”
“A not uncommon belief. The Maltese are much the same. Though their courtly fae are more troublesome than average, having an unfortunate habit of creeping into houses at night to feast upon slumberers’ vital organs.”
He showed little surprise at this gruesome detail, which puzzled and intrigued me. The Maltese Folk are singularly vicious—on that front, they have no known equals among the fae. What manner of Folk inhabited this forbidding country?
“I’d have thought you’d want to settle in first,” he said, casting a dubious look around the cottage. “Finish your unpacking, buy some provisions. Say hello to the neighbours. You’ll be here a while.”
The last item in this list nearly made me shudder. “Not long at all, from a scholarly perspective,” I said. “My return passage is booked on a freighter departing April the first. I shall be very busy. Some dryadologists spend years in the field.” I added, with the aim of inserting into Finn’s mind a sense of the polite distance I customarily keep between myself and the locals: “And as for the neighbours, doubtless I shall meet them at the tavern tonight.”
Finn’s face broke into a grin. “That you shall. With the harvest done, some folk rarely leave the place. I’ll let Aud know you’ll be there—and Ulfar. That’s her husband, he runs things. He’s a nice enough sort, though a bit of a cold fish. You won’t get many words from him.”
This recommended Ulfar to me far more than Aud, though I did not say so. “And I gather from your father that Aud is the…go?i, is she?” I tripped a little over the unfamiliar word, which I understood indicated a sort of village headwoman.
Finn nodded. “These days, it’s a ceremonial thing, but we like to keep the old traditions going. Aud will certainly be able to supply you with stories of the Hidden. And I know she’ll take a fancy to any stories you have of London. We likes tales of the outside world around here.”
“Yes, well, we shall see what the evening brings. My visit may be short, depending on my fatigue after today’s endeavours.”
He did not appear put off. “If you’re wearied, Ulfar’s beer will put you right. Some folk say it’s an acquired taste, but it’ll warm your belly and grease your tongue better than anything the world over.”
I forced a thin smile. I expected him to depart, but he only stood there, gazing at me. I recognized his expression, for I’ve seen it before: that of a man trying unsuccessfully to slot me into one of the categories of womanhood with which he is familiar.
“Where are you from, Professor?” he said with a hint of his former friendliness. I think he is the type who can never keep someone at a distance for long.
“I live at Cambridge.”
“Yes. But where are your folk?”
I suppressed a sigh. “I grew up in London. My brother lives there still.”
“Oh.” His expression cleared. “You’re an orphan?”
“No.” This was not the first time someone has assumed that about me. I suppose people are often looking for a way to explain me, and a childhood of neglect or deprivation is as good as any. In truth, my parents are perfectly ordinary and perfectly alive, though we are not close. They have never known what to make of me. When I read every book in my grandfather’s library—I must have been eight or so—and came to them with certain thorny passages memorized, I had expected my mother and father to offer clarity—instead, they had stared at me as if I had suddenly become very far away. I never knew my grandfather—he had no interest in children, nor anything else besides his society of amateur folklorists—but after he died, and we inherited his house and possessions, his books became my best friends. There was something about the stories bound between those covers, and the myriad species of Folk weaving in and out of them, each one a mystery begging to be solved. I suppose most children fall in love with faeries at some point, but my fascination was never about magic or the granting of wishes. The Folk were of another world, with its own rules and customs—and to a child who always felt ill-suited to her own world, the lure was irresistible.
“I have been at Cambridge since I was fifteen,” I said. “That is when I began my studies. It is home to me, more than any other.”
“I see,” he said, though I could tell that he didn’t at all.
After Finn departed, I unpacked the rest of my things, which, as I had expected, took but a moment—I brought only four dresses and some books. The familiar smell of Cambridge’s Library of Dryadology wafted out with them, and I felt a shiver of yearning for that musty, ancient place, a haven of quiet and solitude in which I have whiled away many hours.
I glanced around the little cottage, which still smelled of sheep and was a home to many a cobweb-laying spider, but I’ve little patience for housework and soon gave up the idea. A house is merely a roof over one’s head, and this one would serve me adequately as it was.
Shadow and I finished our breakfast （I gave him most of the goose egg）， and I filled my canteen with stream water and tucked it into my backpack along with the rest of the bread, my box camera, a measuring tape, and my notebook. Thus prepared for a day in the field, I turned my attention to banking the fire per Finn’s instructions.